I Haven't Seen You Since They Killed Me

Dreams

A half-feral cat writing poetry

A wolf of the steppes in old jeans

Hope you won’t judge without knowing me

A head stuffed with old hobo’s dreams.

Not

I should have gotten some cookies

He said, dejected.

I might cry.

I can make cookies, babe.

She responded

Around the

Corner

Of the

Kitchen.

I might cry

Anyway.

Then it’s not

About the

Cookies.

Bitter

Despair—

Black. Bitter.

Long-cold coffee

Left to sit within

A stained and

Dented pot.

Honor

On the fence

A rusted

Honor box.

Inside a

Dried up

Hornet’s nest.

Furrowed Brows

Everyone had a headache and

Walked around with furrowed brows

The sun beat down upon their somber crowns.

They were on their way to toil

They were on their way to gold

They didn’t see the sky was falling down.

Everyone had a headache and

Walked around with furrowed brows

Too busy for the things that make them smile.

They were on their way to ashes

They were riding crimson crows

They will dream the sleepless dream after a while.

Everyone had a headache and

Walked around with furrowed brows

Not knowing what to think of what’s to come.

Old West

A plastic shopping bag tumbles by

Propelled by sunny day autumn breezes

Modern-day tumbleweed carrying on

The traditions of the Old West in

Discarded

Petroleum

Splendor.

Street Lamps

Standing on a corner

Streetlamps in her eyes

She screams into the dark and

Foggy night.

Fox Hollow

Fox in the hollow of the alley,

Pigeon leaves two wings upon the ground

Lo, though I walk through dark and lonesome valleys

Fear commands the stoutest heart to pound.

You may build your house upon the prairie

You may build a city on the plain

The fox will find its supper in the alley

Streetlights may not keep the wolf at bay.

Out of the Alley

Find my way out of the alley

Push my way through all the pain

Search ancient tomes to find wisdom

To come on in out of the rain.

The cat in the cradle’s gone feral

The silver spoon’s burned and stained black

From flames of the days ‘fore this warrior

Found his new plan of attack.

Arjuna stood armored for battle

Arrows stood frozen in flight

With his Lordship he counseled of peace

Till the long day it folded to night.

Slow Burn

Youth reeks of

Kentucky bourbon

Self-loathing and lust.

The acrid bite of week-old sweat

Dried in salty circles

Faded olive-drab Army surplus

Pilfered from Flea Market

Tables of Time’s

Slow burn.

Sold your soul

Ah, but here it is again!

Half-priced hatred

Housed on the

Clearance rack.

Third-rate

Second-hand store.

Pink paper tag

$1.11.

Right hip pocket a

Faded

Five.

Quick (glance about)

Slip it off the

Rack &

Into

Your

Breast

Pocket.

need that Five for

coffee.

Country Song

Got a new guitar

Got a new Stetson

Got a new lease on life

And I got new things to say.

Got an old Ford truck

Got a few greenbacks

Gotta good woman

Gimme shit for the things

I shouldn’t say.

Got an old bum leg

From the old road life

Gonna limp my way

To the grace I need to see

Got an old cracked heart

Chasin’ love ‘cross the causeway

Then I found it on the lot

Like a ticket to a show

I was meant to see.

Sing a new sad song

Spillin’ over like a cold mug

Funny how a thing like joy

Can bring you to your knees

Scraped by on blind faith

Can’t find my home

Wasted on the roadside

Searchin’ for a

Place to be.

By the Water

I’ll be down by the water,

Come and find me if you can.

I’ll be so deeply lost within the blue.

Walking on the water

Silhouetted in the sun

Or finding ground for fertile thoughts to bloom.

Once more I’d like to see those,

Somber spectral eyes.

Staring through the tales I like to tell.

To keep away the darkness,

Blown up on the wind

Of deepest winter’s cold entrancing spell.

I’ll be joyful if you find me,

Indifferent if you don’t.

The sun and water company enough.

To keep away the lonesome,

That creeps up like the night

Though often falling even more abrupt.

Than nightfall in the winter

Shadows on the snow

The Moon herself feels fire’s warming glow.

The light upon her visage

Casting pallid gleam

On fields awaiting springtime to regrow.

Borne on the Wind

Heard a voice borne on the wind

Time-worn folk song known by heart…

It seems this heart has yet to mend.

Lyrics penned by hand, now dust

Shivering with the shakes of need

Sung by a voice borne on the wind.

Shook from bones to poet’s pen

A tear? No, morning dew!

Suffer now this heart to rend.

Of anguish, ardor, rapture, ruin!

Of war and setting suns…

Croons this voice borne on the wind.

Mem’ries cut and polished gems

In tarnished silver set.

Perchance this heart has still to mend?

Now new-wrought rhyme, by muses veiled

In somber melody

Is sung by a voice borne on the wind…

It’s time this heart did choose to mend.

Eye of Mine

The sun of aging summer.

Bright, crisp.

Newly-minted gold

Against the

High-rise

Towers

Of Shining

Rocky Mountain

Morn.

Coming autumn’s chill

Implied upon the breeze of

Sparkling

Blooming

Daybreak.

Captured silver photograph.

Yellowed-ancient,

Time-worn

Print of groggy

Morning

Mind’s

Sleep-stained

Eye of

Mine.

Rose of Dawn

Brewed hot coffee

In the darkness

Black as midnight.

To brighten up the day

Still yet to break.

Bitter like the

Bite of aging

Heartbreak.

Stronger than my love

Who’s yet to wake.

She wakes just barely

Long enough

To tell her.

I’ll see her when the day

Comes to an end.

Through dreams she mutters

Whispered words

Of parting.

Black night melts to

Morning once again.

Winter Reign

Lament not

The summer’s end

For Autumn’s bounty comes

Swift upon the heels of heat

Cups shall overrun.

Wine of springtime grapes with care

Set away in jars

And songs of times

Now past and gone

Strummed on cracked guitars.

Hounds upon

The savage hunt

Chase away the sun

Bringing on the moontime’s reign

Hallowed Evening comes

A goddess rests as legend speaks

The Hunter wakes and runs

‘Cross frost-kissed plains

In spectral light

His winter reign begun.

Salted Shore

I recall

The grit of sand,

Hot between

My summer-day

Child’s toes,

The waves

Splash

Thunder

Crash

Upon the

Blue-water

Dream-haze

Shore.

The beating sun

Reflecting

Blinding

Off the pale,

Yellowed

Strip of sand

Retreating

In the distance

To meet the

Heat-haze

Horizon.

Bronze-skinned

Beauties

Laid out on

Strips of cloth,

Oiled to a

Shimmering

Sheen.

Dark glasses cover

Reading eyes.

Sunscreen scents of

Coconut carried

On the wind

When she

Took off

Her top

To better

Take in

The sun’s

Warming rays.

Gull painted

Stock-still

Hanging

Frozen

Astride the wind,

Her caw

Piercing

To my

Youthful ears.

The stinging kiss of

Sunshine upon my

Tender shoulders,

Ultraviolet painting rose

Upon my child’s

Freckled,

Rounded

Cheeks.

The music of

My sister’s laughter,

Muffled by the

Rolling-thunder

Tumble

Foaming

Surf

Reclaiming

Sand-castle

Babylon

Towers

Of sand-mason

Child

Design.

Fear, a Fog

The Amazon, she’s burning,

Crumbling ash and dust.

Cattle wander endless fields

To sate our lurid lust,

For blood upon the pallet

Pain upon the plate—

Fear, a fog

Leads to the skies

Searing cindered fate

Of those who have been branded

Calves? They’re more like swine.

Make beds of soft and steaming waste

On which they may recline.

The Amazon, she’s burning,

Waters rise as glaciers flee.

Self-appointed chosen

Wring their hands in foolish glee.

Gold of blackest midnight,

Gleaming sunlight trapped in ore.

Glitter, gleaming greedy eyes—

Yukon days of yore.

Seeking fortune even to

A ‘49’ers doom,

They leave the world in which we walk

In coal-choked

Dusky gloom.

Thin

Spilled my coffee off the counter

Washed my words right off

The page.

Words I had

Been scribbling

Out for you.

We’d been fighting

Through the mourning

The tears were flowing free

I tried to make

a plan

To get us through.

Coffee carried ink

Like acid in the rain

To stain the ground

Which sat beneath

My shoes.

Soles feel near as thin

As still-wet ink upon the page

Soul worn thin from stumbling

Home to you.

1986

Swamped

Overpowered

Overwhelmed

Feel like I might choke

On this piece I bit off—

Wash it down with coffee.

Numbers jumble & twist off of the

Page—

Data flips and tumbles.

The word is my savior

My rock

My friend.

If I didn’t have the word—

Hate to finish the thought. Thought.

Thoughts flow onto the snow-blank page—

Butter melting on

Fresh

Baked

Bread.

Warm

Soft

Comfort

The scent of my mother’s kitchen

1986.

Mutiny

She leans over

Her black-bound

hardcover notebook

scribbling furiously,

pen darting across the page.

Sentences flowing out

in rapid

succession

one

after

the other.

Sunlight through the

shop windows

plays

shadows

‘cross

delicate

features

framed in

chestnut locks and

painted with a

thoughtful,

intelligent

scowl.

Pausing,

She touches her

broad-brimmed

black hat,

silently

reading back

what she

has just

written.

She touches

the back of

her pen

to her lip,

thinking intently,

then once again

returns

to the

page.

A few more lines

dash out

of

Her

black

Pilot

G-2.

The

pattern

continues.

Writing,

touching her hat with her

delicate fingertips,

the base of her pen

tracing the

line of

pale lips

painted

red.

Standing out

in stark

contrast

to

Her

cream-

pale

skin.

The stylish

black and white

plaid

jacket

She wears

balances the

dark stain of

the whicker-

backed chair

She inhabits

like a

throne.

For the briefest

moment

She

regards

me

sitting,

scribbling

in a chair

across

the room

My own G-2

darting across

the pages of

my own

hardcover

notebook.

Her dark

brown eyes

meet mine

cool and

expressionless,

She returns to

Her writing,

and I to mine.

“Are

you

sure?”

a voice is carried

in through the

open bookshop

doorway and

quickly

fades

to nothing,

replaced

by the soft

whoosh of

passing

traffic.

A woman in

white lace,

hair dyed a

brilliant

pink

paces

past

on the

sidewalk

outside,

Thoroughly

engaged in

conversation

on a sparkling

pink

tele-

phone.

“I was down

On South

Broadway…”

an older man tells the

story

of his

day

to the barista as he

pays for his

coffee.

The rest of the

Conversation is

Lost

as the

Espresso machine

Awakens with a

loud

Hiss.

The barista

prepares a latte,

filling the air with the

fatty aroma of

steaming

milk.

The sound is soon

replace by a

raucous

rockabilly-

punk

track

playing on the

tinny

speakers

of the house

stereo system.

The cash register

opens with a

jangling crash.

“Have a

nice

day,”

exclaims

the young,

brown-bearded

barista,

followed close behind

by the unmistakable

musical chime of

coins falling into

the old

man’s

palm.

Nearby,

a young

Asian

man

in a

blue-and-

white

trucker’s

-style

ballcap

sips iced-coffee

while studying an

aging volume of

music theory,

small white

earbuds

tucked

tight

into both

ears.

In the background,

Paul McCartney

Sings

Band on the Run

as a man with a

crew-cut in a

faded blue

t-shirt

peruses the racks of

aging

vinyl

records.

A Hawkwind album

rests on a rack

marked

Rarities.

The sun is

beginning to

sink now,

shadows

painted

‘cross the

dusty

hardwood

floor

growing

ever

longer.

Here and there,

s

c

a

t

t

e

r

e

d

amongst the

wicker chairs and

wooden

table legs.

Dry leaves of autumn sit

in the growing shadows.

The shadow of my

stooped,

scribbling

form is

stretched

out

across the

scarred wood,

larger-than-life

beard and glasses

played out in shade.

across the

shop floor.

The shadow of a pen

darting across the

shadow

of a page.

She has now begun

to pack

Her thin

silver laptop

and black-

bound

notebook

into a tan

canvas-and-

leather

back-

pack.

Without a word

or smile

She tucks

Her pen

behind

Her ear

and

slips out

into the street,

Her black

broad-

brimmed

hat

silhouetted

In the late

Afternoon

Sun.

The World

The World is an

Insomniac

Trying to

Get some sleep.

Eyes closed,

Breath coming

Careful

Slow

Rhythmic.

The world knows

How many sheep

Jump behind

The eyes

Of those in

Want of

Sleep.

Having counted,

Time and again

Taking careful

Inventory of

Each and

Every

Ewe.

The world is

An expert

In the brewing

Of Chamomile tea.

Of exercise

Of meditation

Of the perfect

Time and

Temperature

To serve

Warm milk.

The world has her

Favorite blanket

Her perfect pillow

Her well-worn

Stuffed

Toy.

The world

Just wants

to get

some

sleep.

And that will make all the difference.

There to Hear

Dropped a log onto the fire

Spoke your name into the gloom

Wondering whether you could hear

My voice.

A voice time-scarred

Whiskey-stained

Cracked from lifetimes

Pleading with the Muse.

The fire near scalds

Cold flurries kiss

A globe of campfire light it

Paints the wood.

“Where’d you

Hide the bottle?”

Asked your Ghost,

Digging through

The pile of packs

Stacked in the

Shadowed corner

Of the camp.

“I don’t have one,”

I replied,

Pouring coffee.

“I quit drinking.”

“Well why’d you go and

Do a thing like that?”

I answered to the darkness

But you weren’t there to hear.

Bed Down Upon

Bed down upon

The soft pine straw

And let your worries go

No need to keep your

Work boots close at hand.

Mumble at the bumbles

Buzzing, stumble on the wing

Drunk on summer’s

Dandelion wine.

Keep your flask in your hip pocket, son

For we have finer things

Grown with love to keep

The ails at bay.

Your toil in summer sun

Has finally come into its own

Spring sown seed

Keeps bellies still

Through winter’s icy sway.

Take up your old fiddle, boy

When you feel called to sing

Tell me what you know of Uncle Pen

Sing me songs of railroad days

Of love more lost than found

Of how your door is where the road begins.

Sing of that old home place

And workin’ in the mill

Of how your heart it tore to see it end

She

She loved you her whole life

You made her your good wife

With dry eyes you broke her in two.

The force of cold anger—

Through dry lips she sang her

Sad songs she wrote just for you.

Thought you a good man

Till leather-clad strong hands

Closed ‘round the throat of her song.

You cut off her heart’s breath

Pushed her passions near cold death

For your love her scarred soul it still longs.

She’ll walk down the road

When her children have grown

Songs of cold heartbreak she’ll croon.

With a voice strong and loud

Touch the heart of the clouds

And bring tears to the eyes of the moon.

Oklahoma

I stole a

Fifth of

Small-

Batch

Bourbon.

I can

Hardly

Fathom

Why.

I’d all but

Given up

The fog

of drink.

It was there

In the dark of

The shadows

Of the night

Tasted and forgotten

Like the smiling truck-stop waitress

That foggy Oklahoma night

When we were young.

Wild Horses (Can Go to Hell)

Never wanna play Wild Horses again—

Tryna croon like a Brit who’s

Tryna croon like a Texan

Rolling like mossless stones

‘Cross the planet on

Second-hand hearts,

Thrift-store livers.

The Stones wrote more than Horses,

Miss Angie, and I’d rather play

A B-side off Exile anyway—

Wild Horses can go

Straight to Hell

My friend.

Sacramental Night

I watched the moonrise

From the city bus window

Looming over barren-bone

Skeletal fossil-form

Silhouettes of snow-dusted

Autumn arboreal

Urban

Automatons.

Marching

Left-right, left-right

To crimson-stained

Fields of Greasy Grass

Where cannonballs dwell

‘longside broken-

Tipped flint-

Knapped

Arrowheads.

Lance-tipped

Dreams of fallen

Families butchered

In fur-warm beds on

Frosty-crackle

Mountain

Morning

In Old West

Yawning

Youth.

I don’t know but

I’ve been told

The bison fell

On fields grown cold

Crimson-stained

Frost-kissed

Ancestor’s

Medicine

Bag

Sweet-grass and

Sage visions of

Mescalito on

High-desert

Wind-worn plains

In Joyful Journey

Pools ‘neath

Brilliant

Spinning

Stars.

Milky Way mantle

Casts shadows long ‘cross

Sangre de Cristos’

Sacred shivering

Silhouetted

Sacramental

Night.

Instead (For Jack)

Coulda gone into business and ranted

Instead I chased Jack down the coal-black Track

of Lost American Dreams

Combing the cliffs of California’s

Pacific Coast Highway from Malibu to Coos Bay where I knocked

Up a beautiful, brilliant madwoman

Half-broken over a jug of Carlo Rossi

Burgundy on a sheer-drop cliffside

‘neath Silmaril starlight.

Coulda gone into business and ranted

Instead I chased Neal down stolen-car

Highways of Break-neck Buick

Bourbon and blotter-black nights

Blurred and blasted bodhisattva

Bookworm nose-buried bane of

Librarians from Key West to Puget

Sound where I supped on discarded

Folk songs and cheap red wine.

Coulda gone into business and ranted

Instead I copped Kesey in red-dirt

Parking lots from Palm Beach to Portland

Pristine paper poet-scratched road-worn-

Wisdom hard-earned ‘neath

Star-pierced, time-worn tapestries

Hand-stiched histories of heroes

Long-passed made immortal in

Eternal rhyme and refrain.

Freight Train West (For Jack)

Civilization has good intentions Authority is like a friend

5

years ago – new anger further losses –

The World’s

trying to control the indomitable Jungle fires, Depravity

The

Fundamental grin In the essential slumber Of the young Of the requisite consciousness

I’m

All thru playing the proletariat

Now I’m striving to live the blessed peaceful life

The

Earth should be crafted for hitchhikers

—Carhartt train riders

Choked, drought dwindled

rivers Of rocky Colorady

I

am Rucksack

Black

Write like Jack

The

bison is not charmed Vision of his

handsome splendor

in the earth Its satin

snout

did loath

Pussies

ain’t kind Cherubs ain’t sweet

Springtime

In The Rockies – Exploring Ghastly Ghost towns Where the cavalry

On plains

Of grass

Aimed over cattle At Greasy Grass

In wild warpaint Pouring thru

the gap

In Rocky Mountain canyon

To push the pilgrim to

Sup on desert sand more than sand

was devoured In the Holy Land from the river Jordan Where caravans made up To abominable

Wastelands

Of transcendence.

Salty, sultry

settlers

Anxious to pleasure The Great Salt Lake (I’m too tired in Taos – No sleep on the freight in 4 nights now, & 2 to go)

The Game

Stole your c- offee cup

For I’d

Smash-

ed mine

Year-

s before

One

Hun-

dred

Thou-

sand

Pi-

ec-

es

Of my

anger

On the

floor.

I kno-

w not

Why

We fought

And to-

day I

Feel ash-

amed

A t-

oddler broke

His favo-

rite toy

Be-

cause he

Lost the

Game.

Penelope

I haven’t seen you since they killed me,

she said gravely, looking me in the eye as

she spoke.

Who killed you? I asked, alarmed.

Mom and Dad, she said matter-of-factly.

She spoke as if she was giving a history lesson,

as if this knowledge was written in stone.

They cut me up in little pieces and

buried me in the backyard by the

compost pile. You’ll find me if you

look.

I begin to tear up as she speaks,

my vision blurring to reveal a twisted

caricature of the golden-haired little

girl I remembered from so long

ago. The playful child with the

sun-kissed cheeks who I had chased

across blistering-hot dunes of pale

sand. The child who had been my

inseparable companion as well as my

blood-kin.

I’m Penelope now, which is who I’ve

Always been. They’re not my real parents

Anyway. I’m the heir to the kingdom

of Austria. They kept me captive because

they wanted my inheritance. They’re

not your parents either. They stole

us away from the throne and kept us

captive. You’ll see. I’ll get my inher-

itance someday and we’ll show them.

We’ll sit on the throne of Austria as

brother-and-sister and be the

best king and queen there ever was.

We’ll show them. They really screwed up

when they killed me.

I missed you.

End