Friday, June 23, 2017


Silent Queen
trapped in a moment
she cannot change,
nor break,
or even know she is having.
Caught in a snit, a snare,
a flounce of royal petulance
and scent of fear
no thought outside this moment’s
pique.  Never to speak, or hear.
Berserkish rammers
road ragers, suicidal shrews,
roaring expression of human
imperative, collective unconscious
will to destroy 
The Second Sunset of Summer
Jeweled sparkle through
emblazoned green
stages of darkening
becomes a screen
to cast a scene from memory
or what ought have been.
I see a field of play,
of poets and Pans gaily a’song
while playmates take a laugh,
a dance,
a merry evening’s holiday.
On roads of old (a half-century or so)
firefly pipers inspire
hopeful wild ones to be.
Free flight like in infant dreams
before boundaries.
Summer melt of sun and mud;
heat mellows, liquifies icy
tensions.  Beat down, swallowed in
sweat, too hot for questions
to make sense.
Sunset soothes.  Withered
inhibitions lubricated, removed as
peeled skin reveals raw resurrection.
Inexorable romp we claim
to desire, defined by starlight.

Friday, June 16, 2017


hubris of responsibility
bereft of gifts
lacking energy to respond
Poor, shallow thinkers abound
yet we insist on mollifying their
shouts of equality, absorbing into
their sloppy, squishy discourse
Make America States Again!
Gave it all away for love
never received
Let  my life be paved by fictionhs
I believed
Nothing left to give (never expected
an end like this)
No bright blessings call
Empty space absorbed as pain
because I gave it all
Nothing but empty days, drugged out nights
Condemned to oozing rights, rites that
never quell the pain
Not punishment for shame – no blame
our run replaced, fit to this crumbling cage.
Don’t You Feel Sick Too?


Saturday, May 20, 2017


I know nothing of these grand debates
that may bring sway upon my fate
writ large on braying wind
Not my decision; not my place.
Far from majesty of Center Stage,
my only power:
Hope to breathe again with every wave.
Not tribalism --
dichotomy is our enemy
forced to choose:  either/or
denying complexity of reality.
Tie us up in duel formality.
Watch freedom die, collaterally.
And, of course, humanity.
For what?  Some “bottom line”?
Remind us why you decide
what choice must die.
Rulers are meant to promote values
move forward within the value system
of the group forming the rules.
Rumination deserves to serve artistic projects
Government funded through royalty payments on
profitable outcomes of government funded research
I tried to hurt myself more than I anticipated from others,
to inoculate against their power.
The problem with We, the People is that we are not
a people, but random individuals and interest groups
fighting amongst ourselves.

Friday, March 3, 2017


Hate, hate, hate
We hate, denigrate, as we choose
Blacks, Browns, Jews
and all of youse who
ain’t fools that waste our lives
on hate.
Journey inward
to see what
stories appear
Attend to voiceless whispers,
haunting calls to play, to
drift away, become
a conduit for musics,
magicks, passions
sonorously surging
Never a promise.
Lies, fantasy
no genealogy, identity
to cleave, to hide among,
to belong
Stories I must drag bleeding
sacrifice to experience
angst of mutating age,
archetypal choice.
Dependent on destiny of
pain’s transcendence, stories,
fantasies I create
desperate for a world
where I am allowed to matter.
Thank you, dear friend,
for being
as this new found year aspires
Goddess queens
exquisite scenes
let’s play!
It’s not the tribes, but elite rulers who
obstruct tribes from having equal voice
that thwarts democracy.
Democracy is not a homogeneous group
agreeing, but diverse tribes negotiating
for common rule that works well enough
for everyone.
The tribes are breaking down --
that, not “tribalism” is the social destructor.
People become insecure, frightened outsiders,
cling beyond all reason or sane self-interest
to the remnants, the faux tribes, the demagoguery
to conjure that strong story of belonging.
Just a hunk of stone
No control over where I stand,
where I go
Falling from place
until I land
to remain or be taken
by chance or agency
not my own
Pilgrim’s progress
White Anglo Ethos
Petulant brats demand obeisance
to our code of conquest, of dominance,
of hard-assed outcast of deviance
Rule over Earth and her issue
break them to work for our wishes.
Honor, respect,these are authorities’ own
the war lords we place on our thrones to command.
Progress is forward motion on opening roads.
Marching, no conscience nor care for what may explode.
Let our Great Destroyer sort it.
Why would a woman risk
death or other bodily terrors,
social exposure to all the slings and arrows
of frenzied hate,
to end her unborn’s fate?
She is protecting her child, like a good mother does,
despite her own suffering,
protecting her innocent from this horrid world,
from people like you.
Do not ignite your enemies
Ensnare them in better fantasies
Caught, barbed, mired
in private dramas, traumas.
Sunk, gasping, up just enough to see
nothing to cling to,
grasping at phantoms, wisps of mirage.
How proceed?  No landmark empirically real,
how find relief, belief that’s meaning applies?
How define “wise” as solution to needs;
everyone bleeds, but who decides why,
or how?
No time for such now --
too much to do
to try to break through,
to breathe.
Whatever they say, so far away
from my plight
I assume must be right --
I know nothing of these grand debates
that may be sway to my fate
writ large on the wind.
No my decision nor place.
Far from luxury life at Center Stage
my only power:  hoping to breathe again
with every wave.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

opening view

Monk Hill stands smiling in the morning sun.  Early Spring, well-tracked snow still covers frozen ground.
Coffee-stained observations through my kitchen window.
Tom moved me here to heal, to figure out who I need to be and how.  I don’t think he was so much scared as awed by my profound collapse
into frenzied inertia.  He had helped to organize this place, this art-based enclave, to enjoy as occasional recreational refuge as well as
to give free range to special friends that he might be blessed in their blooming.  He seems quiet and controlled, a useful cover for his
beauty obsessed soul.  So fortunate that he has all that inherited wealth to indulge with.  I mean that sincerely.  So many highborn brats
indulge in nasty, even cruel, habits because they can.  Or then there are those obsessed with out-earning daddy or expanding their
empire no matter the cost to collateral lives.  See, I can record a logical progression of thought, sitting calmly, drinking coffee for the
luxurious warmth, smiling at the hill, the valley, the stone and brick buildings, the tracks in crusty snow, maybe a human or critter
intent on their own projects.  This is comfort.  This is breathing deeply, stretching gently, opening slowly toward the warmth of
activity, to explore in search of empowering questions.

Sounds like Eat Yer Pudding is open below.  Guess I’ll take this party public, check out the scene over breakfast bread pudding.