Monday, July 27, 2015

To Something Else

This yellow paint,

reminds me of a bird. 

A Finch I once saw,

On a feeder in a yard of a friend. 

Why doesn't yellow smell like yellow?

Why doesn't purple smell like purple?

All paint smells the same. 

It shouldn't be this way. 

All of these scratches,

Chips off the corners,

Where someone has hit them,

With something they were carrying. 

Jack my dog is watching.

Always trying to make eye contact.

Either to hug me, or, to tell me something,

I love every animal that has been a part of our life.

Cats, dogs, horses, crows. 

Crows have always been with me.

No matter where I've traveled or lived,

They find me.  

Once while moving to Spokane,

Driving from Oxford, Mississippi,

We stopped at an eatery in the Shasta Mountains, Northern California. 

Crows recognized me. You can ask my wife. 

I want to get out of here. 

Go somewhere where the weather is a ghost. 

A place of wind and mist. 

Where the ocean can be heard pounding a rocky shore. . 

Sell it all. 


Not away from anything,

But to something else. 


July 27, 2015

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Grapefruits and Ghosts

Grapefruits and ghosts.

Radiohead and Pavarotti.

Ambulances pass by.

Ave Maria.

One day God. One day Dog.

Inside a rose bush.

Bleeding and beautiful.

Two shades of red. 

Your image is sex.

Walking, smoldering. 

Summer in Oxford.

Sweat beads on your skin, the rosary.

"Are you ok?"

She asked her husband,

Who had fallen into a ditch.

A few yards ahead.

"Prayer is a confusing idea.

So is nothingness.

So is you and me." 

"Excuse me?" she asked.

Another ambulance. 

Hail Mary...

It's hot.

Radiohead emotes.  


Saturday, July 18, 2015


Terror is losing steam.
Terror is meant to be a surprise.
Terror is meant to be unnerving. 
Now, we know everything. 

We know who kills. 
We know their thoughts. 
We know they could strike anytime.
We expect them to. 

Terror has lost this dimension, 
We are no longer freaked out by "it". 
Yes, it kills us, lames us, scares us. 
But, something else is happening to us. 

Our leaders knows terror. 
They represent us in your towns and cities.
To you, Jack destroyed your Nation.
Jane killed your children at the wedding in Bajaur.

A terrorist mimics memories.
He becomes numb over time. 
Killing is the drug that makes him feel.
But in doing so, he only spreads numbness. 

Now we are becoming numb.
Soon, will we be a people of boredom too?
Bored with the surprise of our children dying daily?
Then, will we strap on bombs to feel something?

Oh Terror, you have become a fabric we wear. 
You have become an old shoe. 
A shoe thrown at a ducking president.
A shoe thrown at a fucking president. 

At this level of theology,
A gong and cymbal never stop crashing.
Love becomes terror. 
Terror becomes love.  


Wednesday, July 15, 2015

If We Are

For something or someone,
Speak of love.

Rain pummels the fresh cut grass.
Thunder rumbles like a sleeping lion.

Hindu's believe in everything.
The oldest religion.

Atheist believe in nothing.
The oldest religion. 

Sounds of rain change from soft to hard.
My blue reading candle is the only light. 

The scent of lilacs fills the room.
I hear her making a cup of coffee in the kitchen. 

She walks into my study,
Just waking up, sitting by the window. 

I know not to speak yet. 
Wait until the second cup, maybe. 

I have nothing to say anyway.
I just want her here. 

She stares out at the rain,
She's so lovely it breaks my heart. 

If God is.
If we are. 

Thunder again. 
A waterfall pounds the deck. 

Need a new gutter. 
Need a new deck. 


Thursday, July 9, 2015

Honeysuckle Wind

The wind nearly took my hat.

The doors are off the Jeep.

I hear birds singing. 

I don't hear them as well when the doors are on.

Summer. Uncomfortable humid wind from the south. 

A large doe there by the edge of the woods

Tan fur contrasts beautifully with the lime-green thicket behind her.

She eases into the underbrush, disappearing before my eyes. 

Summer weeds grow high in the pasture.

Baked gold in the sun's constant stare.

My dogs bark, want me to follow them. 

But I want to sit here under the slumbering Oak. 

They run into the trees.

I hear fallen limbs cracking beneath the hooves of the doe. 

The dogs give up quickly. 

Honeysuckle wind comes from the forest.

The shade from the ancient oak is dense. 

Almost dark under here. 

Silky black dirt ground to powder,

Shuffled upon by a herd of docile cows.

I step out of the Jeep onto the cool ground.

Blackened smooth roots rise just above the surface. 

I sit down among strong scents of animal and earth.

A memory bursts to mind of an innocent child playing.   


Wednesday, July 8, 2015


Can you walk away the anxiety?
I'm on my one millionth mile. 

Or an eternal mile.
Walking helps most everything. 

Jim Harrison always wrote about it.
He had to walk off all the French wine and rich vittles.

I hear lawn mowers up and down the street. 
It's July in North Mississippi.

It is 3:45 in the afternoon.
In other words, it is hot. 

But walk I shall anyway damn it. 
I need to sweat and get some color.

I'm too white. 
Wish I had more Choctaw blood. 

in my forehead. 

I'm so happy I stumbled upon the picture.
It's why I found out I had some of The People' s blood. 

A humble day. 
A proud day. 

Ok, time to go walk. 
Adios, arrivederci, Ciao. Nah Duh.


Tuesday, July 7, 2015


What do we know?
Pretty red roses have thorns.

Nothing's as it seems.
Isn't it better this way?

If we knew everything,
We would know nothing.

"I have no answers for you."
He says to the cracked mirror. 

God. Other. Trinity. Mystery. Jesus. Bukowski, Yeats.
Buddha. Zen. Merton. Knausgaard. Mary. Joseph. Saints. 

One hand clapping. 
On ear hearing, one eye seeing. 

Every effort with passion, 
Crumbles as it should. 

Success is mischief. 
Greed is antichrist. 

Failure is good. 
Anger then sadness. 

Sadness then fear. 
Comes thoughts of shadow. 

Death. Meaning. Talent. 
Here it is, never buried. 

"Rewards await thee in heaven",
The parallel beatific waiting room.

Love is a mess.
"Skin and breath and hair"---Bruce Cockburn

As I tread the water of this sea. 

This ocean of boring, consistent confusion. 
My body of water. Mine!

I can walk on it, dance on it, have a tantrum on it!,
Storms are commonplace, within a single  wave of thought.  

Waves still scare me.
The surface hides a silent bewilderment and melancholy.

I would be lying,
to lead you on otherwise.