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Tuesday, October 20, 2015


Poetry is just scribbles,
in a mass of words,

Hairs lodged in the throat,
undigested fragments,
beg to be transcribed.

Lift into light
take off the cloak!

Heavy wool, remove thick layers,
naked white shoots pushing up.
Whoever thought life existed beneath
     all those rotten leaves?

I keep waiting, for the shakedown
When everything will unravel,
     and become less complicated.

In the center of all, huge bites are taken out,
The body is injured.

There are holes in the fabric of time,


a rush . . .
as if all that was tall straight and stable
were now bending.

a sleepy amazement
about all that men built

from the window of a late cab
speeding home
I no longer care enough
of what will or can or might happen.

the tide of events
spins irreverent, a sacrilege
toward a private ending.
my own?
how lonely that would seem.
my children my children,
the die is cast
they need me or not at all
at times my wife is a person I cannot talk to

Before her I was unfocused
I had principles I was naive
in love with strangers
eyes to the heavens.
now I focus on the earth ahead.

Yet know I lie buried somewhere
gnawing to find purpose
the source of drive
what is it?
it wakes each cursed day
setting me on a journey
through a disconnected world
listening to a story I cannot hear.


My son’s clear honest eye 
sees to the heart of me
I am humbled

My daughter’s feet climb my legs and chest
I am humbled

We are all made humble
By our less humble nature

But as nature humbles us
We rebel against humbleness
We strive to be
something else.

By my un-humble nature
So my nature
Rails against my humbleness

Were I less humble
I might lift my head
And drop my pride.

How that humbleness burns!

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