Rooster Speaks/Sun Fan

Rooster Speaks



Ashes pure as light cast off                                                                                                                 at early morning’s flight

the day of my departure from                                                                                                                     the land of Midday sun where,

skies are rarely gray mostly every day where,                                                                             rest assured your health will be ok

you’ll find a Walgreen’s store every which way                                                                                                                           no matter where you look

where four corners can be found.    

If you love palm trees, slash pine, oak and                                                                                   saw palmetto you’ll

enjoy the scenery for                                                                                                                     mile upon mile upon high mileage (Double your pleasure)

on both sides of the street for such long distances!

If you love it’s unabashed sameness you’ll think you’ve died and gone

to heaven;  

“’But, not I,’” pipped up the cock eyed rooster with                                                                          strange reply

I had never heard him speak.  Still, I had to agree with what he had to say.  

Sun Fan

“I’m not a big sun fan anymore.                                                                                                             I prefer to walk on the shadowy

side of the street where I                                                                                                             belong since, basically

I’m just a shadow looking for some shade  

to lie down under and sleep

beneath a tree I know





The Tragedy: The Last Time I Saw Janey

The last time I saw Janey was at a birthday party she threw for her nephew one Saturday in late fall.
Here’s what happened that day and how it figures into the tragedy.
Picture yourself walking across that wide front porch to the front door.  The door opens so, you cross the threshold and step inside.
Immediately to the left, stairs rise up to a landing then right, ten or so steps to the second floor hall.
At the end of the hall downstairs, the kitchen looks like an modern, abstract rectangular picture with yellow walls, a red melmac table with curved chrome legs, a black and white wall clock of a cat, its tail slowly moving side to side and the shadows and sounds of moving mothers.
Halfway to the kitchen on the right would originally have been called the parlor or in today’s parlance we call the living room, where June threw the best birthday party I ever attended; one continuous strand of low level activity moving forward, always moving forward, never boring, exactly like their summer yard parties except instead of drinking booze and playing poker we were eating cake, drinking Coke while playing kids games like pin the tail on the donkey or dropping clothes pins into a milk bottle,
Janey wandered about engendering herself to every boy making the games fun by teasing us, laughing at our mistakes, encouraging us when we did something well then drawing everyone’s attention to the lucky boy receiving a prize.
By the end of the day I think every boy had fallen in love with Janey.
With candles blazing at just the right moment, Janey brought the birthday cake into our midst. We gathered around staring down at the cake, our mouths watering, the room quiet for the first time all day.
Holding the knife over the cake Janey whetted our appetites, teasing each of us one by one about the hungry looks on our faces even accusing some of us of drooling.
Skilled tease that she was, she knew how to increase our appetites poking and prodding until I could hardly wait for my first piece. I knew I could go back as many times as I wanted.
Within seconds, I was back asking for more and more and more until I was completely satisfied.
After cake, we had the freedom to do whatever we wanted. We could stay inside and play games or go outside and run around getting grass stains on our pants.
I stayed inside to explore the house starting in the kitchen with its yellow walls the square green asbestos tiles on the floor, the old fashioned faucets, above a deep galvanized sink, a window above the sink that looked down on the grassy area where they had their parties and the back door to the right where steps leading down to and up from the grassy area carried either food and drink or full bladders.
Just outside the kitchen in the hallway to the right, a short door opened into a space beneath the stairs. I opened the door and peered inside, a creepy dark place, the air stale, hard to breathe, so dark even with the door open, it seemed the entire space was devoid of light.  I couldn’t even see the wall opposite the open door.
That place gave me the creeps.  I quickly shut the door afraid to look inside any longer.
I had to pee so I asked Janey if I could use the bathroom. The one downstairs was busy so she told me to use the bathroom upstairs.  continued ….
Next:  The Air Stale With Darkness … Death

The Tragedy: Lost Tapes

The Tragedy III

The Lost Tapes

Seems obvious but important to note that, looking back I can say with great surety, kids don’t want change.  They want to stay as far away from change as possible.  They want to do what they are doing and they think they can do it forever because they don’t realize that change is inevitable.   

When real physical change creeps into the body the world becomes full of bright new ‘pursuasions’.  With new awarness we turn away from ‘kids world’ to embark along the pathways of our search for love; the missing ingredient that we think will calm the quiet despertion that grows with each disappointment faced throughout life.  

I saw the desperation in their eyes that summer long before I understood or became aware that the tragedy had occured.  It wasn’t until decades later that I understood.

Their parties were a desperate need to fill the empty spaces of their lives after those first disappointing years of marriage when shadows of the void begin showing up around the edges, when it became clear that marriage wasn’t the answer to the question or a destination the where the search for happiness would end. 

Maybe kid’s fear grows as they become more aware of the strange behavior of adults; their need to get drunk, the clinging man or woman too cowardly to resist temptation, the growling resentful wives consumed by rage, needy women lured into illicit affairs by lecherous men or … the choice to die, one more choice along the road of choices another choice along the many pathways, driven by a single aspect of life; the never ending search for love. 

Now I understand the sad, desperate looks I can still see on their faces all those years ago.  A yearning for the missing ingredient.  The spark that would ignite the engines of their lonesome souls.


He sold insurance.  He was successful.

A respected businessman and community leader. He taught me how to handle a shotgun and we often hunted and fished together.

His philosophy of life was that anything of value can only be achieved by hard work and pain.  Suffering builds character!

He had a great sense of humor and loved to laugh.  People had a hard time saying no to him. While most people liked him, he was a shyster and wouldn’t hesitate to screw any person out of five bucks if he thought he could get away with it.

Those few enemies he had hated his guts.

A U.S. Marine, radioman and sharpshooter during World War II, you could say he was a lucky man.  Not because the bus he was riding on that night was broadsided by a train trapping him in the wreckage, with a crushed foot, rather the accident prevented him from being shipped out the next day to Iwo Jima.

He spent the rest of the war recuperating in hospital near Seattle in Washington State.


He was an adventurous soul unafraid to take chances.

One Sunday morning out of nowhere, he proclaimed, “I can ski behind the car.”

A preposterous thing to do!  But he did it and despite the fact that he told me he had never made a mistake in his life, I’m sure that by the end of that day, his arm in a sling, wracked with pain from gravel imbedded road rash and debilitating contusions, you might think he’d at least consider that he made a mistake.  But, he wouldn’t admit or even consider that he had.  Only that he had no regrets.


Did Deac consider his role in the tragedy a mistake?  Did he feel guilt because of the tragedy?  Did he regret his dalliance with Janey and the tragedy that resulted?  Or, in HIS world of denial did he tell himself he had no regrets?  Did he even realize he played a role in the tragedy?  If so he never confided in me.


I was mystified by behavior that I had no reference for before that summer.  After all, I was only ten years old at the time.

I didn’t know that Deac and Janey had been seeing each other off the radar for weeks.  If I did, I wouldn’t have known what they were doing.

What I DID see were the ugly looks Donna gave him and his feigned attempts to act nonchalant.  Even I could tell he was acting strangely talking incessantly about events that happened during the day as if he were enlightening us.


Donna’s volatile temper, her insane jealousy, the bitterness she felt toward Deac roiled like an angry sea just below the surface. During tempests of fury her ocean of madness, spilled over, drawing everyone within reach into her storms of fury even those she loved the most.

We lived in troubling times never sure when her volatility would spark the flames of jealous insanity when we least expected.


Then one day I walked into the kitchen while Donna was breaking dishes on the kitchen floor, calling Deac a son of a bitch.  While he calmly stirred the spaghetti sauce,I passed by unnoticed.

By the time dinner was served the floor had been swept.  They regained their composure and were civilized toward each other while we ate.  For a while things seemed ok.

They weren’t.




The Tragedy

The Tragedy

Dragged along on their journey of repentance after the tragedy not kicking and screaming but depressed about losing life long friends to a new world, we ricocheted through time and space to the four corners then home again to where it all began before, hoping to put pieces back together that would never fit together again. 

It all started the summer Deac and Donna partied almost every weekend with three other couples on the grass along the west side of Jim and Janey’s house, one of those big two story mission style houses with three dormer windows looking down on the front sidewalk, a wide front porch five or six steps up from the sidewalk, a slender Roman column at porch level supporting the front left corner of the second floor, probably build during the 1930s it filled an entire corner lot front to back and played an important role in the tragedy from beginning to end. 

During their get togethers I roamed around on my bicycle playing with kids who lived in that neighborhood playing catch in the street or football on the grass as long as we were careful not to throw any passes into their booze bucket.     


Their parties followed a routine that never varied.  The men played poker, gathered around or hunched over a card table at the back half of the lot next to the house, red, white and blue poker chips scattered about the middle of the table, neat piles of chips stacked according to their value in front of each player while drinking Strohs or Blatz or Pabst Blue Ribbon beer from metal cans, two holes punched at the top of each can with a ‘church key’ hung from the handle of a galvanized tub full of beer and ice beneath a card table holding every type of booze and mix you could think of. 

The women gathered in the kitchen or sat on aluminum chairs in a circle on the grass smoking, drinking and laughing not far from the men who guffawed, teased each other or were serious depending on how much money was in the pot. 

Next:  Some Janey and Donna. 

Second Birth


See the angry acts of many rich
too proud to bond
with mother earth
their caskets bulge
with stolen goods,

no thought to share their riches
with generosity given freely
their greedy souls never searching
their habits deadened, never knowing

thoughts worth thinking.

Some people care within demise
their envy keeps them living
their thoughts so easily lead astray
their longing never ending.

It’s how falsehood gets passed down
from generations
onto the many seeking
sustenance over fear,

plentitude over awareness,
bitter after the war to win all wars is lost,
roles played again and again
they sing their lonely anthems.

Their search for meaning never stays
the price too high
the road too steep and winding
the streets unpaved,

muddy ruts along the way
too deeply formed
to costly to dispute

with academic kindness.

The end result?  Blindness, winds its way/along its way,
no hope of rescue from their dying]
too lost to find/the road they think/that’s never there,

Their narrow thoughts an outside force that seeks to win the day despite the loss of living.

Their fear? Death before living life.
Their regret? Unknown dreams and fantasy that never lived,

locked up crying within,
never seeing the light of day

never love finding,

a game they play with no winners.
except those few who find themselves

home at last
at journey’s end;

the place where


began …

I Was Just the Postman


A comment I wrote about the poem titled, “When I Was Born.”

This is one of my favorite pieces not just because it describes what childbirth might be like but, I think it’s beautifully written.  I like how it flows and trips along with cadence and sound.

Hey! I can comment about my own work can’t I?  It wasn’t even ‘Me’ who wrote the thing.  I remember it well.  “I felt a slight glow on the pads of my fingers a kind of pulsing and I began to stroke the keys and it felt like my digits were being guided by Aphrodite herself.”  

Not quite.  More like, my inner roulette wheel spinning words and with the luck of the draw I was able to catch a few every once in a while.

Anyway.  BIRTH!  The most significant event of our lives!  (And, at such a young age!)  After all being born into this fucked up world is no easy job.  It’s true!  Ask any new born kid!

Birth!  It’s the door we step through to gain entry into this place with its good and bad and every increment in between, evil and good and all the polar opposites that are the price we pay for living on a planet with a North and South Pole.  Shit!

Then, there’s the mistakes we make!  Think about how many concussions you’ve given yourself after slapping your self in the forehead saying, “You dumb shit!”  Or, I coulda’ had a V8 but with the can.

But that’s life!  Right?

The never ending parade that cascades before us, our journey through light with density that we are contained within and can exist in along with other beings just like us and we like them; plants and animals, trees and birds and all those finials from biology no species better or worse we think we are the high ideal but, all we’ve ever done is destroy things.

Yet, BIRTH continues.

Perhaps we judge our lives by how significantly apart we grow from the newborn child’s ultimate experience; the outside and the inside world coming face on with each other at birth, a double brightness, a kind of symbiotic relationship with light given/taken in/returned/then, given back in a never ending cycle.

Just like love and marriage.  Right?  Except, you can’t have one without the other.

Or, on the abstract level, seen in its entire and completely different and absurd light and really hard to understand level; if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it is there a noise?

THAT’S ONE FOR THE AGES ISN’T IT REXI?.  Fuck yes! There’s NOISE because there’s SOUND because the WHOLE PLACE heard the tree fall by the birds and the other trees and the lichen and the bear who was rubbing his butt when the tree fell.  Jeez.  What a ridiculous posit that, if a human being wasn’t present there MIGHT NOT be no sound.  That’s kind of pre infantile thinking isn’t it?  Oh?  It’s not important?  Good.

(That, and the angels dancing on the heads of pins discussion always gets me.  Sooooo interesting.  Someone should put THAT posit on a post it note and file it in the floor file.)

I think that every day it’s possible that at some point in time when time is the right time and the stars and all that other crap fit together just right I could find myself in the ‘real’ world behind all of the facades of daily life.  We need those facades but they can be all consuming!

To suddenly experience the revery of speechless awe at the world around us.  We all KNOW that other place is here, waiting to be experienced.  Is that desire what keeps us going?

I think that, as life moves along we judge the degrees of success with our lives by the baseline of CHILDBIRTH.  Which brings us back to the poem.

The words in that poem flowed through my fingers with such DELIGHT!

Wull … it’s ok to comment on my own work isn’t it? Actually, I don’t even know who wrote this piece remember?  I was just the postman.  Check out the post, “When I Was Born.”  I hope you like it as much as I do.  Au’revoir.



To The Writer: Consciousness Creates Reality: From the Writer ..

From the writer Consciousness Creates Reality … 


From those thoughts … 

to mine

sparked …. !

To The Writer

Separate’s disengage
from crowds of disparate
destruction … the lies
of truth
unfold …

reality creates consciousness
unseen …

of living
transposed ,,,

around …

burning without reason
unyielding … unwinding

the  winding road

toward completion


dust …


Death Chamber


There are rooms of underground form …..

Chambers where people die,
stripped bare of their integrity:
sterile places in deathly colors
cold and dead walls,
crucifixes through windows of time,
life sucked dry,
taken from the lives of innocents,
poor victims of authorities accord,
put to death in various ways;
hung high or shocked in retribution,
drugged into oblivion,
into sleep that never ends
below the ground
where they find sweet serenity,
glad that life is done,
astute within their senses,
dried blood within their veins,
dark houses behind their eyes,
silver dollars taken to rest
within their graves,
free to search through eternity,
to glide on winds of time,
happy to be free
from the unfairness
of life’s travails …

the never ending desire finally


The Last Time I Saw June

The last time I saw June was at a birthday party she threw for her nephew at their big old house one Saturday in late fall.

I’ll tell you what the inside of their house looked like because it plays a role in the tragedy.

Through the front door darkly colored stairs lead to a landing then right a few steps to the second floor.

Straight ahead on the first floor, half way to the kitchen, on the right was what we would call today, the living room where June threw the best birthday party ever; one continuous strand of low level activity, never boring, exactly like her summer yard parties except instead of booze and poker we drank Coke and played kid games.

June moved around the room cajoling, laughing at our antics, giving prizes.

With candles blazing, June brought the cake into our midst.  We gathered, around, the room quiet for the first time.

Knife poised over the cake June, master of the tease, poked and prodded each of us until we were practically drooling before giving each of us a good sized piece of her frosted cake.

It’s easy to see how she lured him into the temptation to eat a piece of her cake deliciously sweet as I’m sure he thought it would be.

Unable to resist, within seconds I was asking for more.

After cake,  we could play games inside or run around outside getting grass stains on our pants.

I explored the house.

Starting with the big yellow kitchen with its old fashioned faucets, windows looking down on the grassy area where Jim and June had their summer parties before the tragedy struck.

After looking into a scary space below the stairs so dank and dark I couldn’t see where it ended I decided to go outside but first, I had to pee.

June told me to use the bathroom upstairs.

I creaked up the stairs to the landing, turned right rising to where I found myself standing between the bathroom to my left (with its black and white tiles, green walls, pedestal sink and cast iron tub with curled feet) and a room at the end of the hall behind a closed door.

After peeing I tip toed toward the door at the other end the hall.

Half way, on the left, a well lit bedroom with high ceilings, a good sized six over six window looked down on the same sidewalk June and my dad walked on the night the tragedy began to unfold.

I opened the door and looked inside the room at the end of the hallway.

There was a ghastly darkness in the corners of the bedroom that seemed to suck light from the walls and floor creating a death like pall where later, I was to learn, June’s husband Jim had blown his head off with a shotgun.

Life In the Fast Lane


… When school started in the fall, I started riding down to Toledo Ohio a couple of times a week with a carload of guys to get drunk at a bar called the FA-BA.

The camaraderie of being part of a drinking gang was a lot better than what I felt on the football team so I didn’t feel so bad about getting thrown off the team for punching the coach after he told me that, I’d be a better blocker if I ran into telephone poles.

Little did I know that nightmares about telephone poles would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Anyway, me and my drinking buddies, we laughed at our antics; failed attempts at picking up girls, puking or peeing in the parking lot or making nasty comments to girls who wouldn’t dance with us because of our lewd behavior on the dance floor.

One time the band let me sit in on the drums. Whenever I “sat in” I always asked if we could play the song “Money” because there’s a neat little drum solo that begins the song.

The guys were pretty impressed but I heard the lead guitar say that I was, “Strictly amateur.”

One night, one of the guys named ‘Moose’ spent the night in jail after getting into a fight in the parking lot. We didn’t know he was in jail since he rode down in another car.

Next morning Moose called the guy who drove us, asking if he’d come down and pick him up at the jail.

I didn’t hesitate to say yes when asked if I wanted to ride along.

Since it was early morning and we had arrived back at school the night before around 3:00 a.m., there was still plenty of alcohol in our systems.   In fact, we were STILL drunk,  determined to BE drunk and wanted to STAY drunk for as long as possible. (Plus, I figured drinking beer would be lot more fun than the Western Civilization class I’d miss.)

The five of us piled into the Chevy Impala, powered down the convertible top and headed toward Toledo 35 miles south,  just across the Ohio state line.  We immediately started drinking the left over Pabst Blue Ribbon beer we hadn’t consumed the night before.

After picking up Moose at the jail, we headed north toward Michigan.

A mile or so before the Michigan line we stopped at a bar for a few beers and to listen to Moose’s stories about being in jail.

At the time we didn’t know that a short time later we would come within inches of violent, bloody death our broken and bloodied bodies scattered in all directions after a short flights through the air with violent landings.

A couple of us would probably have to be scraped off the surface of the earth like flattened squirrels you see on the highway.

Luckily I was riding shotgun so I would have been killed instantly,  spared of the horror of flying 15 or 20 feet in the air before watching powerlessly as the black top road rose up to grab and absorb me into a grisly death.

Thinking back, I realize how strange life can be. There we were laughing our asses off at some story Moose was telling. Seconds later we could have been dead after the car in front of us turned left while we passed forcing us onto the shoulder, missing a telephone pole by inches then down a steep embankment where we came to rest 20’ below the roadway at the bottom of the swale.

We were all pretty shaken. I can still see the telephone pole speeding past my face not two feet away.  I would have been the guy whose remains were wrapped around that pole, my gray matter having either dripped down the south side of the pole toward Ohio or 3 or 4 feet north of the pole toward Michigan after my exploding head allowed my brains to escape between the broken fragments of my skull.

I can still see the grain of wood speeding by in the nightmares that have frequented me ever since.

After our ‘near death experience’ we wandered around the car reliving the experience while telling each other how lucky we were to be alive.

We pushed the car backward to the road where the other driver had turned forcing us off the road.

Soon were back on the road silent; each of us thinking about fate or luck or fear. But mostly about death and our tenuous hold on life.

On: The Death/Liberation

… there are rooms of underground form ….. chambers where people die, stripped bare of their integrity: sterile places in deathly colors cold and dead walls, crucifixes through windows of time, life sucked dry, taken from the lives of innocents, poor victims of authorities accord, put to death in various ways; hung high or shocked in retribution, drugged into oblivion, into sleep that never ends below the ground where they find sweet serenity,  glad that life is done, astute within their senses, dried blood within their veins, dark houses behind their eyes, silver dollars taken to rest within their graves, free to search through eternity, to glide on winds of time, happy to be free from  the unfairness of life’s travails, the never ending desire finally fulfilled.

Kathy and Derek: The Possibility of Road Rage


Suddenly I realized I was alone standing in the middle of the left lane, the Mustang running with the door open.

I knew that the drivers behind Kathy and Derek were oblivious of the circumstances anxious to move past the Stop sign to continue along their well worn paths.  

Like …  even if they had seen Scooter Man trapped under his scooter they couldn’t have known about the penis on the yard sign which wouldn’t have made any difference, since the real reason traffic was being held up was, I was totally debilitated by the ridiculous absurdity of a penis on a yard sign, while Kathy and Derek were overwhelmed with laughter at the sight of me acting like an ass totally convinced that there was a penis on a yard sale sign. We were indulging ourselves with laughter. We knew that any one of us could have been playing the role I was currently playing.  

As the line of incoming traffic grew I felt their resentment  heating up.  I figured I’d have to either get the hell out of there or face the consequences of collective road rage.

I glanced at Kathy and Derek two cars behind the Mustang.

Their body language spoke volumes.

Continued … The Exciting Conclusion (once again) of The Kathy and Derek Chronicle

Be Forworned! Urine Mixed With Chlorine Is An Explosive Mixture! (did I spell that right?)

Hello! Hi!

It’s me!

I’m urinating in the pool right now.  They say it keeps you from getting athlete’s feet.  BUT, used with chlorine it can be explosive!

So, I gotta be really careful!

I don’t know the difference yet but I’m studying really hard.  Ummmmmm …

Wull … back during football the coach would draw a big L and R on the pulling guard’s butts (left side, right side) in front of me, so I’d know whether to go to the left or to the right.

But I never really caught on.

And I STILL don’t know how to convert Farenheit to Celsius!!

Imagine that!!

Please leave a message …….



The Rotting Flesh of Inevitability

That night before falling asleep I made a deal with myself. Either fix the damn washing machine or die. Wull, death can be a powerful incentive!

Next morning another beautiful day dawned clear and blue and cold, a degree or so above freezing. Icicles dripping were always a sign of good luck for me. I looked forward to the feelings of accomplishment I’d have when the washer was fixed and running.

When I opened the lid the smell of rotted flesh seemed to coat my face. The lid dropped from my hand with a bang.  I snapped my head back so violently I thought I may have aggravated an old football injury.

Feeling a stinging blow to my upper lip I realized that, in a desperate attempt to escape the stench I had stabbed myself with my thumb and index finger while attempting to pinch my nostrils shut.

Boy did that smart! But it didn’t hurt half as much as the stench wafting from the bowells that washing machine.

With nostrils pinched tightly I held my breath, turned my head to the side, slowly lifted the lid and and peered inside.

When my eyes adjusted, the body of a dead mouse lying on its side beneath six inches of water emerged from the murky depths.

“What the … ?”

I thought, could this mouse, too quick for me to see when I closed the lid last fall, have slipped and fallen doing some daredevil trick only an adolescent mouse would attempt!?

I skoffed. In a brief moment of intelligence I thought maybe this is how humans die too? (Not by falling into a washing machine you stoop!)

I needed time to figure out how to get the stinking water and the rotted body out of there. I decided to sleep on it.

Next: How Wuthering Heights Got Into the Pest Control Business

Crane’s End …

continued …  The explosion almost knocked me off the bench. At the precise moment the explosion rocked me i saw one of the most amazing things i had ever seen in my life … 


The only way to describe it .. the bird disappeared!

One moment it stood with its feathers ruffled, the next it fell to the earth with such pure gravity and force that it sunk between the time frame of my mind! That’s the only way I can describe it.

I’d never seen anything die, especially like that.

I looked down at the crane.  A mound of gray feathers had appeared where the crane stood before its life was gone.  Taken away by some do-gooder with an adult frame of mind.

I looked at the bird.  I pictured it throwing a frog into the air and catching it, watching it move down its gullet, wondering what it felt like for the frog.

Its head and beak lay in profile now against the sand.  The black iris looking cloudy and gray, covered by an opaque film.

That dead eye that had been alive now attached to a dead body covered by a mound of gray feathers lying flat against the sand waiting to be absorbed into the ground.

I made up my mind right then and there that I would … continued

The Crane: Final Moments


I followed Jake to his house.  I sat on a bench facing the bird half way between where I sat and the lake.  I hoped his neck was long enough to see the lake.

I thought back.  I wondered if the bird was aware of my presence down in  the swale when we stared into each others eyes.  I thought we had made a connection but maybe I was imagining things.

I heard Jake approach, I looked up.  The barrel of the shotgun pointed skyward.  Jake swung it down so it pointed at the ground, unlocked it,  jerked upward and cracked it open.

I looked into the black hole of the barrel waiting to be loaded with the fat, red shotgun shell.  The shell made a thunking sound when it dropped into the gun barrell.

Jake snapped the the barrel shut and locked it.

The barrel moved upward disappearing from my field of vision.

I continued to stare at the bird.  It’s head feathers ruffled in the breeze.  I remembered seeing them ruffle back in the swale.  Maybe it was waving good bye.  Things are funny that way.

The air stopped moving.  I couldn’t hear a sound.  I couldn’t move.  I held my breath.  It seemed like time had stopped.  All I heard was deadly silence.

The explosion almost knocked me off the bench!

At the precise moment the explosion rocked me I saw one of the most amazing sights I had ever seen in my life.

continued …

The Crane; The Jury Has Reached A Verdict

  Halfway to the front, I looked over my shoulder where she stood motionless, her mouth opencontinued …


The curve …

I touched the feathers behind the curve of its neck.  It opened its eyes while slowly unfurling its long neck.

I looked up, watching its head turn left, right then straight ahead while still standing  motionless.

My mom stood next to me, speechless.  She asked me if it acted like it was sick.  I told i didn’t know,  I’d never seen a sick bird before.

Smile …

Then she asked if it tried to stab me in the eye.   I stared into her eyes without moving.

She said she thought it looked very sick.

Jake Willis stood next to my mom.  They took turns talking, trying to convince me the bird was dangerous and sick.  They insisted the bird could have blinded me!   They said it was too sick to live!

I hated them for saying that.  Who were they to decide whether something should live or die? (Of course I knew better than to say it out loud.)

I looked at both of them.  I stared hard at their faces.

They didn’t have to say a word.  I knew their decision.

I turned and walked shaking my head.  I was thinking this is so typical of the screwed up way adults think.

I turned to tell them the least we could do was take it back where I found it.

But it was too late.  Jake was already half way to the curve.

I fell in behind.  continued …

The Cottage/The Crane/Her Mouth Dropped Open

continued …

I heard passing cars, horns honk,  people making stupid comments or asking questions.  I stayed focused on the black top moving toward the cottage. 


I lowered the big crane onto the sand in the open field, facing the cottage.  The instant its feet touched the ground its head dropped into the S position.

Before running around to the back of the cottage where I knew I’d find my mom, I looked into its eye.  I saw no flicker of awareness.  The same blank stare I saw when I first looked into its eye … was it less than an hour ago?

I pictured myself walking along the gravel road, minding my own business, listening to the dog hunt through cattails unaware of all I’d see and think and feel less than an hour later standing next to the crane in front of the cottage, having carried it home cradled in my arms.  So many experiences  crammed into such a short period of time.

I ran to the back of the cottage.  I told my mom about the crane.  I told her it was beautiful.  Maybe it was sick but I could feed it frogs, nurse it back to health.

I took off running around the side of the cottage, anxious to get back to the bird.  Halfway there, I looked over my shoulder.  She was standing motionless, her mouth open.

continued …


The Crane III: Revisited

… that it would … rise up and up effortlessly higher and higher flying free over clouds of air; wind clouds they can see that we earth bound beings could never even imagine.

images I moved slowly, cautiously until we stood motionless next to each other.  I sensed a strangeness about its lack of movement, as if it was in a trance.  I looked closer into its eye, the iris a thin orange/blood red ribbon surrounding the the pupil so large it nearly filled its entire eye socket, a dark black pool without a flicker of life.

I had hoped to see some sign of awareness.  Something that would tell me it wasn’t dead or dying when suddenly it broke out of its trance.

It’s pupil flickered, a spark of sunlight reflected off the black pool.  Its iris contracted, the dark pool grew smaller until it found a focal point.

Its eye tracked from place to place over my face feeling bewildered perhaps by my curious movements, the soft shapes and colors of my face, the black pool of my awareness filling his field of vision so different from its  everyday world spent gliding high, looking down at ponds and streams, wading through water searching … always searching to satisfy the hunger that gives life meaning … the desire to live.

Suddenly I knew it was alive! It had awareness! I felt a link between our searching ever curious minds.

continued …

images-2seen before extrodinaire …

The Crane

UnknownThe crane had become a living, conscious being to me.  A friend I felt I had made a connection with.  

But, it didn’t matter what I said.  They insisted the bird could have blinded me with its needle pointed beak!   Then they said it was too sick to live!  Baloney!

I hated the excuses  they tried to foist upon me to justify the theft of life from such a beautiful living creature admired and marveled at while alive.   

This was adult thinking at its worst.  The kind of overly cautious bullshit thinking that so easily proclaimed the death sentence of this the magnificent creature I brought home for them to see;

with its gorgeous, long flight or stability feathers and long powerful wings, the soft tapered miniature red feathers on the crown of its head tripping about so easily in the breeze or lying flat as its powerful wings pulled itself  through the air its long neck retracted into a tight S for aerodynamic flight, the gentle curve of its  forehead tapering a foot or more  to the sharp point between its two eyes ever searching stereoscopically to find and impale frogs and small fish tossing its next meal into the air and down its gullet.       

… into an inanimate object its head and beak in profile against the sand, the black iris I had looked into less than an hour ago sensing its awareness, now covered with an opaque film its lifeless eye and head and beak attached to an inanimate object looking like a mound gray feathers lying flat against the sand even at that moment, being absorbed into the ground.

One and A Half Hours Earlier

With bicycle between the crotch of my jeans, I stood at the end of a lime rock road looking 200 yards into the past, my clothes still damp from having fallen sideways (with bike), off a dock, into oily dark water over at Jerry’s two hundred yards north along the shore of the bay.   when

riding by, something inside the boat had captured my attention.

I stopped pedaling to look more closely, lost balance, fell off the dock sideways, my head going under, a humiliating sight!  

A downstate fisherman gave his hand pulling me to the surface dripping wet his laughing voice along the way made it seem easy with laughing face he pulled us up first my bike, then me.  I rode away so humiliated I barely thanked the man.  

And now I stand with bicycle between the crotch of my jeans, at the end of a lime rock road while Gray, a three year old weimereir my constant companion and protector sloshes and sniffs her way through two feet of water thick with cat tails at the bottom of the swale running parallel to the one lane lime rock road I’ll soon be walking.  



And do you know what? continued …


Fall Tragedy: The Lost Tapes

 …..  I didn’t want to try and fit the slapping incident or the  into my normal routines, the sense of security that all kids need.  


Kids don’t want change.  They fear change when it’s even a little close to their radar.  They depend on stability to keep the vicissitudes of life at bay none of which they know about except for some scary feeling deep inside that tells them there’s a wild beast out there, just outside the boundaries of their lives. 

Maybe the fear grows as they become more aware of the the strange behavior of adults;   the need to get drunk,  the clinging woman or man, the  growling resentful wives, needy women lured into illicit affairs by lecherous men.  The never ending search for love,  you can see it in their eyes.  A yearning for some missing ingredient.  The spark that will ignite the engines of their lonesome souls.  

continued … 

Tragedy: The Final Fall


After cake,  we had the freedom to do whatever we wanted.  We could stay inside and play games or go outside and run around getting grass stains on our pants.

I stayed inside exploring the house. The big yellow kitchen with the old fashioned faucets, the window above the sink looking out to the grassy area where they had their parties.  A dark space below the steps behind a door I thought lead to nowhere.

I had to pee before I went outside so I asked June if I could use the bathroom.  The one downstairs was busy.  She told me where the other bathroom was upstairs.

I creaked up the stairs to the landing, turned right and rose up the steps to the second floor.

I stood at the top of the steps.  I can still see clear as a bell both ends of the hallway.

To my left just past the top of the stairs the bathroom door opened to black and white tiles, green walls, a pedestal sink and an old cast iron tub with curled feet.

I crept softly to the right toward two doors next to each other along the left wall,  half way to the end.

One of the doors was open.  I looked inside.  A nice big bedroom with a high ceiling.  A good sized window looking down at the sidewalk.  The same sidewalk that June and my dad walked on around the block that night.  The night that it all began.

I continued walking to the bedroom at the end of the hall where I stared at gray light slicing through the three dormer windows.  The light seemed to anchor itself onto the wood floor casting a dreary pall throughout the room except in the corners where what light there was could not penetrate the dark gloom of that third bedroom where later I was to learn that Jim had blown his head off with a shotgun.



Fall Tragedy Jim and June


continued …

Jim was the perfect foil for June.  Her opposite in many ways he softened the antics of her sometimes over the top humor with quiet acceptance.

She often turned to him at the height of her freneticism.  Her arm around his waist, she’d tip her head back for the kiss of acceptance he always gave her when things got a little out of control.

(…  She said they had walked around the block to get some fresh air  clear their heads.  No one said a word.  It was so quiet you could hear a croquet ball drop on the grass.  

June stood next to her husband her arm wrapped around his waist her head against his rib cage.  He was so much bigger than she.  She looked up at him like she wanted to give him a kiss. He stared down at her, the corners of his mouth turned up with a sullen almost depressed look on his face. )

At times Jim couldn’t take his eyes off of her, his ever-present smile broadening even more while watching her circulate among their friends; her movements, her lively face, the witty things she said making others laugh.  I watched him look at her body with a different kind of smile.  It was pretty obvious that Jim was totally and completely in love with June.

She made me feel important.  She talked to me like an adult.  She teased me good naturally.  She shared her warm laughter with me while teaching me to laugh at my own self.

Of course my dad was attracted to her exuberance.  He loved to laugh so he was attracted to her sense of humor.  She was attracted to him because he made her laugh.  It was obvious the two of them had a connection.

My dad being the adventurous soul that he was … willing as he was,  to take a chance on skiing behind the car one winter day (which may be either adventurous or totally dumb but, that’s another story) took the chance to make a few runs on June’s slopes. Not the length of a long ski run more like a bob slide ride.  Short and fast and fun.

June didn’t mind it one bit.  True to form she was making him aware of his foibles. Their shared laughter turned out to be shared orgasms … a form of laughter within itself.

continued …

Tragedy Fall


continued …

Jim and June

June and Jim lived in one of those two story mission style houses built during the thirties, three dormer windows on the second floor facing the street seven or eight steps up to the front porch, past a tapered column supporting the wide porch ceiling another 15 feet to the front door.  A big house that filled a whole residential sized lot.

June was tiny like my mom, below five feet tall with dark auburn hair. The perfectly proportioned body of a budding school girl.  Round hips, breasts that were neither too small or too large.  The same age as my mom which would have put them both in their late twenties early thirties. Not beautiful, maybe not even pretty but cute with a constant smile on her face.  She wasn’t a giggler, she had infectious laughter that came from some place deeper in her throat.

June’s husband Jim, six feet two broad shoulders a good looking guy on the order of Rock Hudson or even George Clooney with an extra few pounds of muscle looked like he could kick the shit out of just about anyone but he didn’t impose his size on people so, when you were talking to him with the sun at his back you didn’t realize you were standing in the shadow of a small tree.

He didn’t constantly interact with people in a humorous way like June.  Most of the time he was content to watch constantly smiling, occasionally chuckling, amused at the sight of everyone’s drunken revelry especially when the action became kinetic and loud.

When he WAS funny his exaggerations or slightly sarcastic comments came as a complete surprise to everyone delivered as they always were, in a low key manner at the precisely the moment everyone else’s laughter had almost died down.   You might say he had perfect timing.

It took a moment of silence for his comments to sink in but when they did, everyone howled with amusement practically rolling on the ground with laughter while the contented smile of amusement never left his face.    continued …

Where I’ll Sleep

I want to be buried surrounded by the fields of my youth

next to other kindred souls

who decided to lie in similar peace

on that grassy knoll, sheltered by a giant oak

it’s limbs spread wide to shield us,

it’s roots embracing our boxed homes

cradling us in our sleep, distant from the hub-bub of life,

too far away for casual visitors with plastic flowers

our serenity only slightly disturbed

by the occasional car rushing by

the sound of tires rolling fast

metal barreling through thick air

rising from summer heat

when corn silk and yellow seedlings trees and grass

all join in the dance of life

thrusting higher and higher toward the sun

the same as my neighbors when they produced seed

multiplied, then passed on

leaving  tiny bits of themselves behind

to prove there’s life


In the stillness of winter’s coldest clear night

I’ll rise from within the Earth

to glide on moon’s rays

the wind my flesh,

the air my breath,

the stars my sight.

The oak tree above

my haven …

Grand Canyon Phil

Lynn started having severe headaches a year and a half after marrying Phil who considered himself a libertarian pledged to be a pain in the ass to every person he met.

One summer they were on vacation at the Grand Canyon riding donkeys down a trail along the wall of the canyon around 200 feet above the Rio Grande.

The trail widened just as Phil called the guy in front of him a fucking jack ass.

Lynn pulled up next to Phil.  ‘’The nerve of him,’’ she thought to herself. ‘’I’ve about had it with this asshole.’’  The word ‘’asshole’’ escaped from her lips.  When Phil looked at Lynn everyone in the group looked at Phil.  Lynn dug her fingernails around the top of Phil’s shoulder.

The next to the last thing Phil saw before the tumbling blend of spectacular Grand Canyon colors enhanced by an immense orange setting sun, was Lynn’s smiling face and the words, ‘’Good by asshole.’’

When they returned topside the entire group reaffirmed Lynn’s version of the story.  Phil had leaned over too far while yelling “fuck off’’ to the group leader and had fallen over the edge of the gorge.

That night Lynn drove eastward toward Las Vegas.

Phil’s body was never found.

Diary Of A Madman 2 1/2

Do you have agoraphobia sometimes? I do.  But not today.  I was in the city.  I didn’t have to be afraid of any agriculture while i was there.  Are you afraid of agriculture??

I stay inside my house for weeks at a time.  The corn field out back terrifies me.

 Jeeze, I’m so sleepy. I was up at two o’clock last night.

Thank god I got up.  One of those small tear shaped light bulbs somehow clicked on.  maybe the cat did it.  it laid against the bottom of my couch on the side where it was hard to see.

When i got up at two I saw a tiny bit of smoke rising up from the couch.  I thought it was temporary but it smelled really bad.  I bent down to look. There was a tiny orange burning spot about the size of 4 pin heads down there on the bottom edge.

Left alone it probably would have engulfed the couch and killed us all probably including the cat too.  But, I have super awareness. Things jump out at me all the time like that.

Like, one day I was listening to the radio in my car and I changed stations and the same song was playing at exactly the same spot on a different station! Weird … but that’s my life.

Wull … I’m glad I drank too much coke earlier that evening the day before before dinner when I was really thirsty after having mowed the lawn in the hot Florida sun.  If I hadn’t mowed the lawn, got thirsty and drank too much coke, I wouldn’t have had all that caffein in my body, so i wouldn’t have gotten up at two a.m.  by now i’d probably be dead and you  wouldn’t even be reading this!

But so what? My life isn’t worth anything anyway.  I’m afraid of agriculture,  I’m obsessed with hosing the back porch plus lately I’ve been unsteady on my feet.

I’ve been really depressed because nobody came to the birthday party I threw.  My mom wasn’t even there!  But I forgave her.  Being at my birth was more than enough.  Plus, she hasn’t been around for a long time.

Wull … there’s one thing I know for sure Jennifer,  where there’s smoke there’s fire!  You better believe it!

hey! Lovers of silliness!   go see little monster girl.  she’s pretty and she has nice hands and she draws scary cartoons.  she made me write all this looney plop!





















THAT’S ALL .. !!




Within the Fractures Of His Mind

after death consumed Her his needs festered and grew to phantasmagorical proportions …continued …

Desperate to satisfy his


 he stole Time

from his

landlady …


he milked it from the

telephone during her

numerous but



away …


of course she discovered his

deception …


he hid behind his deceit


it’s easy to see lies

when they stand


in the middle of a

room …


her hatred boiled

over …

it shattered his roomed

confinement …

she couldn’t stand to be

around him  any


she hated the air he

breathed … !

she gave no

succor to his

loneliness …


there came a day when

she vanquished him from


four walls she sold

him …


she banished him from her

brick Victorian space


when he turned his back


burned every vestige of his life

in the front

yard …


she watched with calm detachment while

every remnant of his history

rose up in flames and black

smoke …

lost forever to the


that awaits us

all …


another death had


him …

another relocation awaited

him …


Now, he lives within the

fire and the demons

he could not

fight …

inside the void of the


he fell into …


through windows into darkness

he seeks nothing

that can be

found …


he’s a sad and lonely little boy


lost somewhere in

time …


an old and toothless man


wanders inside


within the

fractures of his

mind …


Ex-It II

” … an exploding star repelling me outward into the nothingness of space where i would exist into eternity …. why, why, WHY, i asked myself … !!!” continued …


….  i felt the blackness leaking through the space around my eyes a roiling mixture of molecular sized particles working their way along the space between gray matter and the hard bone of my cranium …  moving closer and closer to my cortex, i felt the sharp edges of sand and grit gouging and shredding bigger and bigger chunks of my brain  …

… when i thought the experience couldn’t get any worse, the particles began seeping through each orifice of my body my nostrils, my ears even the pores of my skin …

….. i saw my life moving away … my mind deprogramming itself … bits of memories floating away, receding into a mist … the past stolen by something much bigger than my puny mind could imagine …

….. i threw my arms apart and wailed but the wind battered me even more fiercely … i felt myself pulled down and down and down … with a sense of finality, i gave myself over to this mysterious force …  and




abyss ….

continued …

Ex – It


….. at once ….. i was seized by an angry black whirlwind that battered my face with dust, dirt and shards of stone …

…. a vortex of emotions churned and spun within me … fear, panic, hopelessness, wonder, curiosity, anger …  rage, pain  ….. utter confusion … despair … !

….. what was happening … !

….. why was this happening to me ?? … WHAT IS CAUSING THIS TO HAPPEN ….. !

….. the whirlwind continued to spin me ’round and ’round …

….. naked, the clothes ripped and shredded  from my body the dirt and dust and debris peppered every square inch of my skin …

… clenched more tightly by the spinning black fist that enveloped me … the world dimmed to dark gray then disappeared and i existed trapped, within utter blackness ….

….. the only space that existed … the light of past memories dim and far away slowly replaced by the vision of a serpent unfurling itself, its sly  evil eyes, flickering tongue and all knowing smile telling me that soon my entire being would be ripped apart by that single particle of anti matter seizing control … an exploding star repelling me outward into the nothingness of space where i would exist into eternity …..

…. why, why, WHY, i asked myself … !!!

continued …

Where I’ll Sleep


I want to be buried surrounded by the fields of my youth … next to other kindred souls who decided to lie in similar peace on that grassy knoll sheltered by a giant oak,  it’s limbs spread wide to shield us … it’s roots embracing our boxed homes,

cradling us in our

sleep …

distant from the hub-bub of life … too far away for casual visitors with plastic flowers …

our serenity only slightly disturbed

by the occasional car rushing by …

the sound of tires rolling fast …

metal barreling through thick air

rising from summer heat

when corn silk and yellow seedlings …

trees and grass all join in

the dance of life …

thrusting higher and higher

towards the sun …

the same as my neighbors

when they produced seed,

multiplied, then passed on …

leaving  tiny bits of themselves behind

to prove there’s life

after …


in the stillness of winter’s coldest clear night … i’ll rise from within the Earth to

glide on moon’s rays …

the wind my flesh …

the air my breath …

the stars my sight …

the oak tree above …

my haven …

Facing the Beast Within

images-1 copy 14

He walked onto the field and 

stood alone … to face death and

tame the rage within … a sacrifice to end 

the burden of his fury and 

fear …


the death he faced was a living death 

defined within the limits of fur and teeth, claw, 

muscle and sinew … the ancient knowledge of strength,

ultimate power, the need to kill, the innate drive for blood of a 

striped cat …


the cat crouched low to the ground,

eyes narrowed ears pointed

toward him …


the surrounding air vibrated with 

the luring purr of 

death  …


the cat suddenly arched through the air a 

blur of light its hypnotic eyes 

fixed upon him they

absorbed his image they drew him into oblivion …

its single minded intent 

to capture, kill and 

absorb his 

life …


he dropped like a rag doll within its grasp 

helpless and overwhelmed the only sound a 

chorus of drumbeats coursing within his

heart, his lungs his

brain  …


the beast’s breathing measured and sure … a blend of confident superiority and 

cold calculated purpose sounded deep within its 

throat …


the world became a tumbling mixture of 

bright light, green grass, soft blue 

movement, grains of sand, white fur, yellow and black, 

small rocks floating by points of teeth slurred in slow 

motion …


beyond thought, beyond mind’s will 

he lay subservient, cowed and 

taken …


he emerged transformed  … 

driven by courage he

freed himself from the rage and fury that 

lived within … a sacrifice to Death for the 

sake of Life … the beast within finally

destroyed …


… so we got another rat …the brown one from the psych lab i told you about …the one with the huge testacles … but i can’t remember what it’s name was …


 We were eating ice cream bars inside the

screened in porch shortly after a

baseball sized clod of dirt had

exploded on my brother’s

forehead …

… roughly between his eyes …

during a dirt fight in the

field in back of our

house …


since he cried so hard ..,.


holding him down to

hose all that dirt from his


wasn’t a lot of

fun for him …

we let him sit in the

rocking chair


after that, everything was

nice and

peaceful …


the brown rat crept around

minding its own

business sniffling every object in

sight …


we talked and

laughed …

my brother rocked

contentedly …

we savored our ice cream

bars … anxious for the

rotten apple

fight we decided we’d have …

when we heard a

high pitched

squeal … !


my brother rocked over the


killing it !


while he cried we buried

the brown rat in the

field …


then we had the

rotten apple fight

in the vacant lot next

to our

house  …


when my brother threw a

rotten apple at me i


aside …


after passing through the open passenger side window of a car passing by

the impact of the apple against the curved windshield inside the car

produced an apple vinegar scented spray

of liquified apple chunks, skin, and seeds that clung not only to the father but

his four year old daughter sitting on the passenger side seat of the car ..


this wasn’t my brother’s day …


a dirt clod exploded on his

forehead …

he killed his pet rat


covered a father and his daughter with the

chunks and soured juice of a

rotten apple

which he had accidentally thrown through the open passenger side window of a car passing by …


after that day we decided not to have

any more pet rats   …

their life spans were just too

short …images-2

Within the Fractures of His Mind

after death consumed Her his needs festered and grew to phantasmagorical proportions …continued …


Desperate to satisfy his


 he stole


from his

landlady …


he milked it from the

telephone during her

numerous but



away …


of course she discovered his

deception …


he hid behind his



it’s easy to see lies when they stand


in the

middle of a

room …


her hatred boiled

over …

it shattered his roomed

confinement …


she couldn’t stand to be

around him  any



she hated the air he

breathed …


she gave no


to his

loneliness …



she vanquished him from the

four walls she sold

him …


she banished him from her


Victorian space


when he turned his



burned every vestige of his

life in the front

yard …


she watched with calm

detachment while every


of his history rose up in

flames and black

smoke …

lost forever to the


that awaits us

all …


another death had


him …


another relocation awaited

him …


Now, he lives within the

fire and the


he could not

fight …


he lives inside the


of the


he fell

into …


through windows into


he seeks


that can be

found …


he’s a sad and lonely

little boy


lost somewhere in

time …


an old and toothless man


wanders inside


within the

fractures of his

mind …



Ancient Words Lies and Broken Dreams Heaven and Hell the Bloodseed of Folly


Ancient stories tell


murder …

blind faith sacrificed …

the lie of


heaven and hell

each rung up the



broken dreams


hearts and


(if we have them) …

 trampled and ripped


troops sowing endless fields of

blood seed left behind


grow like

weeds invasive …



” …we all die

anyway … ”

then …


do we shed our

lives for

but the

the ancient

beast of

greed …


There would be no


without a

yang … 


Change cannot occur without static 

thought … 


True beauty lies opposite the ugliest      

truth …                                    



Life without death …



nothing … 


 there is meaning only within

contrast …


Great beauty lies

hidden within the darkest

night …






see …

images-1 copy 9KS

Another You Know … Death!

You Know …. Death!


Another Encounter

one winter i was a 

crossing guard along the

road way across from my 

school … 


i had time to play, one

day, all alone … 

i took a running head 

first dive into the deep freshly 

fallen snow above the drainage 

ditch … 


my neck cracked when i stopped 

falling … barely touching the 

ground  … two inches more and i’d be

dead …  


my feet stood straight up

above the 

snow … 

i couldn’t get out, standing

on my 

head … !

i finally got out …probably by 

wiggling …

The End 


You Know …. Death!


You know … DEATH … !

Death and i have brushed 

shoulders many 

times in my

Life …  

for example …


One day i found a loaded

deer rifle at 

home in the 

closet down 

stairs:  but, i didn’t know it was 

loaded … !!


i pulled the cocking 

lever back and 

forward like the Rifleman did on 

t.v. then 

pointed it … 


my brother looked down at the 

barrel pointed at his 

stomach … 


one half second before 

pulling the 

trigger i 

wheeled around to shoot a 

bad guy sneaking up on 

me  …


the force of the 

explosion drove me 

against the closet 

door …. 

 the bullet 

punched a 

hole in the third 

step,  leading 

upstairs to our 

bedroom … 


carpet on the 

steps covered the 

bullet hole … 

i put the rifle where i  found 

it …


my mind is a 

blank after 

that … i think i 

blanked it 

away … .  


it took five years to get 

caught …

(when) … 


Carpenters found a bullet in a 

wall, remodeling the 

garage into a 

kitchen … 


they scratched and 

scratched their 

heads and so did 

He (my dad) … how?  


when? …  they

asked …


perplexed, at 

dinner that 

night, He told us the 

mystery …

why?,  how?, 

when? … a 

bullet … ?!!


i broke down … told them the 

truth … ‘’i found the rifle in the 

closet … ,’’ (I feared for my 

life while  telling

them  … .)

She said, “but your brother is still 

alive!” …


i had  never 

seen them so 

happy … !!


i guess you’d call this the  

story of  ‘death and

life’ …


The End 

Winter’s Sign


I see toothless mouths desperate not to

smile or laugh, the gray faces of

COPD,  their wheezing breath alongside

tubes of air unseen their

only link to


 Their faces pale, eyes vacant, show no

gleam of hope, no sign of

Life I sense their

vacant sorrow, I feel the

morbid acceptance of their


their paths a one way

street, their beginnings long ago lost,

their dreams



 A three hundred pound woman wearing

black tights a

Tweety Bird t-shirt, a red hibiscus placed artfully

behind her ear,  her seat overflowing

aware of people’s hatred,  smiles bravely embarrassed to be the

modern day


her sickness …


addictions … worn

outside of her body for everyone

to see.


Next to me a gray faced man with

a walker and portable

oxygen whistles with each exhalation

 a muted

click with every intake, the newest model

breather that saves on O2



A man with no feet entering the room

driving a

motorized scooter says,

”How are all you good people doing today?”

The room grows


No one feels

good and they gave up “doing”

so long ago it’s a

distant memory they have to

think hard to



A gray haired woman,  staring through

sleepy eyes her

sagging face exposing broken

vessels her ankles swollen blue with


pushes her walker

away from the

treatment room into the

general population,  focused on the distant floor,

her eyes dripping with

clear fluid, slowly

shuffles  her  bedroom slippers to

the hand cleaner dispenser across the room,

rolls the pale green gel around her

fingers and palms then

sits down and weeps with

artificial tears ….


Thrown out shit, ridiculous, almost worthless works combined into one stupid, bullshit and not a LITTLE fricking  brilliant (occasionally, very occasionally) collection; poems, incomplete thoughts and ideas .. very brief stories all told in the most esoteric way.



They lived in one of those big mission style houses with the dormer windows out front.  Just inside the front door you walked up creaky steps, to the second floor where two bedrooms to the right, a short distance down a hallway,  sat next to each other … where death changed my life.  

Downstairs just inside the front door at the end of the hall, the kitchen looked like a lighted rectangular picture with yellow walls, a red melmac table with curved chrome legs and the shadows of moving mothers.  

Halfway down the hallway to the right you entered what we would call the living room where the best birthday party I ever attended, happened.  

We played a boys version of spin the bottle and we dropped clothes pins into milk bottles and we played pin the tail on the donkey and it was all boys and we were very much in tune with what boys do best which is to cavort around, while something has given it’s attention to us, for brief periods of time until whatever it was we were doing became the least bit boring (you wonder why we channel surf?) … when we dropped what we were doing and continued the search.  

On this day, we all channel surfed around the room at a pretty good pace!  

It was fun and we didn’t get bored because games and things carried us along when suddenly … the cake appeared with candles burning and we all stood around watching it get cut, every one of us hoping at the same time, that we would be lucky enough to get the corner piece.  

Within seconds cake was in my hands and I was eating it.  

That party;  one continuous strand of low level activity drawn through a crowd at a very lackadaisical pace, moving forward .. always moving forward.  

So I was familiar with the house downstairs and I may have gone upstairs to go to the bathroom so I was familiar with where it happened upstairs .. beginning to end.  

Within the Lakes and Fields of Life


All summer long and most of Fall, I mowed that big lot next door where we had room to play.  He called it the Uranium Mine because of the ridiculous amount of money paid for it.

I sang out loud while pushing the mower around cherry, apple and pear trees living on the back half of the lot, where we fought battles with half rotten apples at summer’s end or shot sour cherries at each other through the tubing of hula hoops disassembled.

The front half of the lot was flat and grassy,  reserved for playing catch or four man tackle football.

He came home one day with another epiphany.  The mowing from now on will be done in a circle starting in the middle, mowing in a circular pattern around and around.  More efficient he said, than the time lost stopping at the end of each row.  What he didn’t consider was the walking distance between all four corners that still had to be cut when everything else was finished.

I did it my way.  I accepted his yelling and toward the end, his fist curled around the chest line of my t-shirt.

It was the price I paid for the aesthetic of straight lines.

A challenge that finally broke the relationship during adolescence.  A continuing discourse for the rest of our lives.  A never ending battle for power that I never won right up until his dying breath.

Where I’ll Sleep

Where I’ll Sleep

 – Redux –

I want to be buried surrounded by the fields of my youth … next to other kindred souls who decided to lie in similar peace … on that grassy knoll sheltered by a giant oak … it’s limbs spread wide to shield us, it’s roots embracing our boxed homes …  cradling us in our sleep … distant from the hub-bub of life … too far away for casual visitors with plastic flowers … our serenity only slightly disturbed by the occasional car rushing by … the sound of tires rolling fast … metal barreling through thick air rising from summer heat … when corn silk and yellow seedlings … trees and grass all join in the dance of life, thrusting higher and higher toward the sun … the same as my neighbors when they produced seed,  multiplied, then passed on … leaving  tiny bits of themselves behind to prove there’s life after … .


In the stillness of winter’s coldest clear night … I’ll rise from within the Earth to glide on moon’s rays … the wind my flesh/the air my breath/the stars my sight …The oak tree above

my haven …