Wooden

A man’s success is not his own

despite his gifted hands;

a soldier needs a captain who

needs those who he commands.

He no more is his finest hour

than is his darkest turn,

and neither one can profit him

save what by each he learns.

His life is not a sum of strokes

he’s made along the way,

but hallways full of canvasses

he’s painted every day.

A man’s success is not his own

despite the heights he reaches;

all his knowledge dies with him

apart from what he teaches.

He is not the friends he knows

but friend as he is known,

not the wealth he’s harvested

but seeds that he has sown.

It is not faith on which he holds,

but faith takes hold of him,

a purpose not in depth of roots

but fruit upon the limb.

A man’s success is not his own

despite how he’s enshrined;

the measure of his life is found

in those he leaves behind.

Runt

Robbie and Bobby and Buster and Glen

climbed in the car at a quarter to ten

hoping to find something better to do

than hold down the trailer with softcore and brew

Robbie was driving and Bobby felt great

blown as the speakers in that Z-28

Buster and Glen shared a bottle of Jack

they passed back and forth sitting crammed in the back

Their mom was a mess and they moved quite a bit

living on welfare and gravel and spit;

three different daddies between the four brothers

countin’ on nothing aside from each other

Robbie and Bobby and Buster and Glen

found a good party and piled on in;

Robbie and Bobby sat down by the bong

and Buster kept both of those kegs going strong

while Glen took a walk ‘round the block with a girl

smearin’ her lipstick and mussin’ her curls

who never did mention that she had a beau

not that it mattered, but how would he know

that fool and his friends would be waiting inside

with heads full of liquor and fistfuls of pride -

words were exchanged and then somebody swung

and the whole goddamn party went mad and unstrung

Robbie and Bobby and Buster and Glen

sent that fool through a plate window and then

Robbie and Bobby knocked two down the stairs

and Buster used someone to bust up a chair

while Glen went outside, took a look at the lawn

and knew it was time for the four to get gone;

the guy had a pretty good bleed from his neck,

the girl was sobbing, the house was a wreck

The cops finally showed but a little too late

to do more than look for a Z-28,

no one had names and no one really knew,

it happened so fast that they couldn’t say who

and Robbie and Bobby and Buster and Glen

packed up and took off and weren’t heard from again;

countin’ on nothing aside from each other,

and that’s why I grew up without my big brothers.

Morgan

Had a lucky silver dollar

stamped in eighteen eighty-four

kept it with me

in my wallet

maybe fifteen years or more

It was with me when I found out

they had kicked me out of school

and the day

that I got hustled

down in Austin, shootin’ pool

On the day that I got married

and the day that I came home

to a pretty note

she left me

and some other guy’s cologne

On the night that I got cold-cocked

For a stupid smart remark

and the time

I got arrested

just for pissin’ in the park

On the day I got evicted

and the day that I got canned

and the day

the IRS said

that I owed ‘em seven grand -

So I sold that silver dollar

for a fifth of sour mash

and a pack of

Hav-A-Tampas

and a couple bucks in cash -

By the bottom of the bottle

as I drank it in my truck

couldn’t stop myself

from smilin’ -

guess I’m finally

outta luck.

Egress Largesse

Tell me that you
bought a card
and I’ll pretend you sent it.

I’ll say it was eloquent
if you pretend
you meant it.

We can tell our friends
we’re friends
to ease their apprehension,

say we didn’t hit the roof,
that it was more
ascension.

Tell me that you
bought a card
and I’ll pretend it flatters.

I’ll say that I wish you well
if you pretend
it matters.

Crossrode

Spun out at the intersection

of Mistakes

and Misdirection

pealing tires pouring smoke

as the brakes

howl through the spokes

twisted mouth of the suspension

pulled apart by

torque and tension

it’s a cold and quiet night

not another soul in sight

just a silent swirl of dust

falling back to road and rust

Closed my eyes, held on and skated

through the cyclone

I created

wheel slipping through my fist

wrenching something

in my wrist

hoped and prayed and swore and guessed

‘til it shuddered

to a rest

it’s a cold and quiet night

not another soul in sight

signal flashing overhead

dim and doubtful pools of red

Didn’t think to try the engine

left the keys

in the ignition

just collected what I could

of my shredded wits

and stood

didn’t even shut the door

tried to stagger

to Before

it’s a cold and quiet night

not another soul in sight

trying to get where I can’t go

from someplace that I don’t know

Somewhere southeast of Disgrace

when a streetlamp

lit my face

on a corner, felt a breeze

read the signs and

hit my knees;

broke down at the intersection

of Renewal

and Redemption

Corporate Compliance

Login,

click,

begin.

***

1. Code of Business Conduct:

Conduct all business

in code; a problem is

“an issue”.

To ignore an issue,

“table it” until it becomes

“an escalation.”

When your boss tells you

“let’s talk about that offline,”

stop talking.

When her boss tells her

“Let’s talk about that offline,”

start updating

your résumé.

2. Electronic Communication Awareness

Corporate email systems

are not to be used

for personal business.

There is no personal business here

because we impersonally

monitor

everything.

3. EEO and Harassment Policies

You do not have a race, color, or creed;

you are a number,

and you will be respected

as such.

Respect others

as such.

No means no

unless accompanied by a coy smile

in which case

it might also mean

“maybe, but not here”

(see also

Code of Business Conduct)

4. Ergonomics

It is not your imagination.

There is a multitude of ways

this innocuous little cube

can completely cripple you,

and if it does

it is entirely your fault.

***

Congratulations!

Please print for your records.

Expires in 12 months.

Fingerprince

Petal smooth and shifting you

reach your rolling neck

and roll your reaching arm,

a pure and perfect smile;

Your knees may scrape

your arms may bruise

someday you’ll love

something you lose

My whispers curl along

your small ear and fair-haired you

kick out and are still,

filling up canyons with

murmurs and gasps…

Your head may bump

your tummy hurt

someday two tears

will streak the dirt

Sleep with the peace of prayer,

wake with the awe of stars,

your fingers

fall open

like spring;

I never knew hope

I never knew fear

I never knew what

ferocity was

until

You will lose some

innocence

You will leave some

fingerprints

How can I say

you came from me

when you’re more than

I knew

could be?

[first posted on Flash Fiction a while back.]

Optimissed

brew the coffee hoping

that today will be

the day -

wondering if the miracle

is on its

merry way.

stare out the kitchen window

as the night begins

to fall –

wondering if the miracle

is having hope

at all.

Repose

There’s a glint of sun that glows

on a patch of grass that grows

where the earth is damp and broken

where the slug and sowbug goes

As December crashed and froze

January thumbed her nose -

March slips rings upon my fingers

and ties bells onto my toes

Somewhere lily laughs with rose

sewing jewels on their clothes

turning green eyes towards the bluebells

coyly tying on their bows

Scenes repeated, I suppose,

in spectacular tableaus

all around a world yawning

buds and birds as bright hellos

February, in her throes

spat me out upon her floes –

March’s outstretched wing descended

just before the rats and crows

Someday I’ll get there to those

valleys, mountains and plateaus

where the arc of every petal

outshines all our poems and prose

but today, I’m glad to doze

in this patch of grass that grows

smelling sweet earth, damp and broken

where a glint of sunlight glows.

Aversetising

kind of heavy

kind of short

kind of loud

you know the sort

clingy clothes

and heaps of hair

ample cleavage

some to spare

draped in baubles

sparkly heels

makes a living

makin’ deals;

nice enough

but I can’t tell -

what’s she really

tryin’ to sell?

Gravy

Praise the Lord and pass the gravy

Dave got drunk and joined the navy;

raise a glass to Aunt Louise

who passed away and pass the peas

Turkey’s cold but so’s the beer

send them sweet potatoes here

grab a plate, don’t mind the clutter

green beans and some bread and butter

Cousin Crystal brought her kids

(Lord knows who their daddy is)

Cousin Carl’s ex-wife Jan

(call her Jim now – she’s a man)

Someone go tell Uncle Teddy

time to wash up – supper’s ready;

he’s up under Ann’s corvette,

still ain’t got it started yet

Grandpa’s gripin’ ‘bout his gout

collard greens and brussels sprouts;

grandma’s mixin’ up her lunch,

that famous bowl of julep punch

Some stuffing and some dirty rice

cranberry sauce and pop on ice,

sure wish Cousin Frank was here -

hope he makes parole next year

The kids is raisin’ hell, I swear –

s’why they’re sittin’ over there,

sneakin’ more potato chips

and olives on their fingertips

But that’s the whole damn point, I guess -

the din and fights and food and mess –

sure we’re rowdy, plain and poor

but we’re what we’re all thankful for.

I’ll take pumpkin and pecan

someone turn the ballgame on -

praise the Lord, the last is first,

sweet Jesus, think I’m

gonna burst.

Knowvember

I slept ember far too long;

woke up where I don’t belong.

Gilt and gold are all I find,

some migrant Midas left behind.

I walk tober through the park;

scarlet billows, like a shark

prowls through fog and rips through limbs,

shredding hymnals into hymns.

I know vember very well;

rumors that I can’t dispel.

Cultivating our eclipse,

scent of spirits on her lips.

Luger

He brought back a Luger

from World War II;

we all need our trophies

and he had a few.

A Purple Heart medal,

a couple of scars,

a letter in German

and one silver star.

And he had his stories,

his songs and his rants,

his men in the trenches,

a young gal in France,

but he never mentioned

how he came to own

a Jerry boy’s pistol

one night near the Rhone.

Fifty years later

he left it behind

with three other guns

that his son had consigned

to buy a piano;

he hadn’t a need

for his father's weapons,

souvenirs of his deeds.

Sometimes, even now,

I can hear his son play

when the window is wide

and the breeze blows this way,

and maybe it’s crazy,

but I think somehow

those hammers are beating

a sword

to a plow.

An(d)them

We’ve labored in your grand machines,

you corner office libertines,

we built your smoke and mirror screens

while burying your go-betweens;

with avarice, with arrogance

with no regard for consequence

your words will make no difference

when you collect your recompense

we’ll build a new economy

with music, paint and poetry -

when words become our currency

we’ll learn to use them carefully

the banker and the Bedouin

will stand and sing in unison -

as sentinels, as bastions

regardless of our origin

Doesn’t matter what you tell us

you have nothing new to sell us

peddle deference as rebellious

but your hoaxes won’t propel us

engineer some new afflictions

to endorse some new addictions

blur some facts to grease the fiction

flavor helps reduce the friction

we’ll build a new democracy

with music, paint and poetry -

when harmony is liberty

we’ll play it out responsibly

the grand duke and the destitute

will shrug their station and repute

to raise their voices, resolute

united in the same pursuit

although we’re bruised and bandaged

in a world fouled and damaged

by disasters you’ve repackaged

and the faith that you mismanaged

we’ll still tear down every rubric

of each populist and maverick;

let you choke on all your rhetoric

as thick and sweet as arsenic

we’ll build a new reality

with music, paint and poetry -

when art is made invisibly

we’ll learn to live life beautifully

the children and the elderly,

the indigent and pedigreed,

will slip the chains of enmity

and close the book on history.

Vampyro

When the frost is on the fencepost

and the birch has shed its bark

there won’t be a star to guide you

when it all goes dark

just a rasp of shallow breathing

just a rustle through the leaves

and a fly that’s caught and kicking

and a spider in the eaves

peer into an empty tunnel

slip a penny on the track;

it’s a long and lonesome whistle

when it all goes black.

When the creak is on the hinges

and you find the door ajar

and it smells of something sodden,

vaguely old and cold and far

you won’t need a star to guide you -

there will be a scarlet spark

in my eyes as I enfold you

when it all goes dark.

Raked

is it brown or is it
golden;
it's not gone, only beholden
to a dark and dormant
season
grasses passing
like the reason

i once had
but can't remember
to see each leaf
as glowing ember
popping from some
phoenix roaring
'til its cinders
send it soaring

but ashy skies,
they only bring
a rush of mud and
sorrowing

might as well call falling flying;
fall's a wily word
for dying.

Summa Cum Lauder

Wasted days and wasted nights -

Freddie Fender had it right

backstops and blacktops

and Leilani’s smile,

living on Cheetos,

red licorice and guile

Bruce was dancin’ in the dark

while we were drinkin’ in the park

pink pearls and the girls

at the volleyball games,

Ronny’s Chevette with the

spray painted flames

like broken gods in local myths

don’t believe me, ask The Smiths

study hall and basketball

and freshmen stuffed in lockers,

couldn’t back it up with much

but we were first-class talkers

Joey knew just what to do -

I wanna be sedated too

filmstrips and friendships,

that row in the back,

strollin’ in tardy and

blastin’ The Knack

makin’ out when we got bored,

kiss me deadly, Lita Ford

spitballs and shortfalls

we’d never confess,

the fever that rose

with the hem of her dress

Fishbone was skankin’ to the beat

while we snuck out and down the street

wizard bongs and Zepplin songs

and all we couldn’t know back then -

like what I wouldn’t give tonight

to see Leilani

smile again.

[the poetry bus poem that wasn't - or almost wasn't - or was just really late.]

Leaving

Nothing gold

can stay, I've heard,

and poplars seem to know

all the ingots

in their arms

are for the letting go.

Leaving, then,

must be like gold,

a weight the heart must heft,

through a furnace,

through the flame,

'till leaving's all that's left.

As it's true

that nothing gold

can ever stay for long

so each note

must leave a throat

for there to be

a song.

Slidin’ Delta

It ain’t like we stopped tryin’ -
them bottlenecks still slide.
The delta just been dryin’ up
since Willie Dixon died.

R.L. Burnside - dead and gone,
him and Mississippi John.
Muddy Waters, Memphis Slim,
porkpies on magnolia limbs.

They’re sweepin’ up the barrelhouse
but Honeyboy’s still pickin’-
hangin’ notes up in the air
like Sunday’s fryin’ chicken.

The blues’ll find a stringer
with a story yet to tell
long as dust can find a crossroad
and a soul is left to sell.

Bo Diddley took the midnight train,
Memphis Minnie, Elmore James,
Blind Lemon too, and Magic Sam
fish and spoonbread, greens and jam.

They’re lockin’ up the juke joint
Pinetop Perkins still inside,
still bangin’ boogie woogie
jumpy as a blushin’ bride.

So I guess we keep on tryin’ -
it’s rainin’ hard outside.
Things just never been the same
since John Lee Hooker died.

Lost & Found

Autumn strips the branches bare
old men losing all their hair
exposing what we lost up there
things that flew too far, too high.

A rubber ball, a broken kite
snared by forking limbs and height
fading slowly, ashen white
bones of days that passed us by.

Winter keeps us looking down -
whipping rain and muddy brown -
that we might not look up and frown
at things that flew too far, too high.

We’re certain there’s too much to do
too many days that will ensue
to pine for silly things that flew -
flew like sparrows through the sky.

Spring begins, with every leaf
to shroud the spoils of the thief
and hide the objects of our grief
until we can’t imagine why

we used to miss the things we lost,
things we or the wind had tossed,
up to where the boughs are crossed
caught like dreams that went awry

Summer in its fullness comes
bearing peaches, figs and plums
to call us out with cricket hums
and maybe, someday in July

we’ll laugh beneath a canopy
the dappled shade of some great tree
forgetting, playing happily
things can fly too far, too high