Pulled Apart

So many days are lost

like poems that erase

on an old computer

and we all have different programing




to things

outside of us

All I want is for my life to matter

to be connected to something

that won’t be severed

There is a computer graveyard

where our faces are unscrewed

our wires are pulled out

and our parts get used

If computers have feelings

and I don’t think they do

I still like to spend time on them

to feed some nostalgic need

that can’t be bought

in a store

The world wants

a fast


artificial intelligence



and new

Maybe we are just mounds of plastic

chemically molded

into something obscene

We attach our love to things

and I don’t know why

and in the end,

we’ll understand

or be pulled apart.


In the Imagination of the Story-Tellers

Take comfort

Nobody knows the outcome

You could be lying in your bed today

and dead in your grave tomorrow

We can do things with purpose and passion

and all we’ve done is worked ourselves up

Our visions

may become black holes

And this is the really interesting part

Who we are today,

is never who we are tomorrow

We usually can’t see it

Antique dealers collect dust from the past

and people don’t have time for it

I feel a kinship there

like being reacquainted with an old friend

Modernness is clean and efficient

and the past takes time

to breath

it lives among the centuries

becoming mysterious

lost warriors

are isolated

from the world

unaware of the war that ended

I see them today,

reunited like best friends

even though they tried to kill each other

not so long ago

It takes too much energy

to tell a story

nobody else can hear

Your narrative is challenged,

and if you keep telling it,

to stop would be suicide

You are a story-teller

who everyone laughs at

until the legends become true.

Maybe I long for that

a time that never existed

or perhaps it did

in the imagination

of the storytellers.

My Joyful Bird Inside

It doesn’t help to think about what I don’t love

and most of the time

I am reminded of it

like an alarm clock that goes off

when I want to sleep

or a car that honks

when I was supposed to go

It isn’t distance

from hateful things

that I long for

it is the absence of hate

My mind reacts

when poked

And now it knows

not to poke back

But even still, it tries to sift

through the lingering resentment

like sand that might blow away

into nothing

And there is always someone or something

who sees my happiness

and tries to poke it

to see if it is real

You have to bury it

deep inside

like a cheerful bird

you say to be silent

it sings in the spring

flys in the summer

nests in the fall

and gives you eggs in the winter

Even though you put on a serious face

Some hear your song


and smile

Our birds sing

in unison

a silent chorus of hidden joy

from the empty aviaries of misery

long ago abandoned

just feathers

and droppings

and silent noise

Never lose your bird

feed it wonderful worms of wisdom

and keep listening to your song


Supernatural Sowing Season

Ordinary Confidence

is not enough

and when I make things bigger

I can’t ride the wave

Everybody wants some

until the fall

So, we must believe

there is an angel inside

walking through fields

under the weary sun

until the devil comes out at night

blowing our seeds away

Maybe we planted them

like lost dandelions

that are appreciated for half-a-thought

Is it time that counts?

A rise and fall

Still ponds reflect those who look at them

and wild waves crush those with ordinary confidence

So, we hope for something extraordinary

out of the deep

an angel or devil

turning our ground to mud

so our seeds

can take hold.

The Way

The manner in which

you walk through “problems”

categorize the world

see things that exist or don’t

respond to criticisms or complaining

All are tests

of your way

Some are driven mad by the road of visions

that never materialize

just mirages in their rearview

We are all carried by something

or perhaps I just have a government job

but there is a way

that works

If you can find it

all things will help you

it is the wind on a hot day

or giving money to the bum who needs it.

The Fish Nobody Can Catch

I dream lofty dreams

between the fringes of the secret

seldom spoke about

It has always been calling

like an echo that grows feint

and then screams like a megaphone

jolted to attention

with no one but my own company

fitting for me

and frightening for anyone else

It dares to take me

if I let it

and the temptation

has already sunken

too far within

unraveling energy

what I was meant to be

On my death bed

where society says

I shouldn’t be

Drinking disapproval

like a floundering fish


into a pool of separation

and laughing

at my own name

not hearing

the laughter or silence

of everybody else

I’m the fish

nobody can catch

swimming up stream

jumping into forbidden pools

finding a deeper meaning


in the depths

where the darkness

cannot be understood

by the light.


Gregson was thinking about life and death; his own. “Will you take me to the hospital?”

“Are you kiddin? Let’s go!”

With the top down, Gregson sucked in the cool breeze.

At the hospital entrance, a wheelchair was waiting for him. Dr. Graves stood there, tall and dour. “I guess you’re wondering how you made it to the top of the list? There’s been a string of murders in the area and they all have AB- blood. Five people got hearts today and five people died. Somebody’s playing God.”

“How do you know the murders are connected?” Gregson asked.

“Their organs were removed. Earlier, the hospital received five coolers on its doorstep. All of them contained a human heart, AB-.”

“Do you have reservations about performing the surgery Doc?”

“Hell no, a heart is a heart. When you recover, you can catch the murderer.”

“Why don’t we take care of that now.”


Gregson slapped the cuffs on Fred’s hands like a magician.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Fred stammered.

“Your fish bait; I’ve spent enough time around blood to know your chum was human.”

“But I saved your life.”

“No, you didn’t; it was some poor bastard who didn’t mean to.”

“Well, can I at least watch the surgery?” Fred asked.

“You’re not next of kin,” Dr. Graves said.

“But I’m his number one fan.”


Personal Philosophy

Who can tell us

if our personal philosophy


Maybe it’s a sophisticated way

of deluding ourselves

It should keep us alive, so we can live.

Wisdom is whispering inside

So, all we need

is a quiet room

to type

That is what I want

a quiet place

It takes time to really know who you are

You think you know, but there is wisdom in waiting

Time must be killed

but not totally

What hasn’t died

belongs to us.


the paths of several dreams will be covered

and we will be

left alone

standing in the woods

near the river.

Just Like Old Times

The summer is 72 degrees with an occasional gust of wind. The air is perfect. I drive my 20-year-old pickup down the quiet streets in the middle of the day. Everybody is at work. My friend lives with his mother. I’ve been doing school and the career for 10 years. Somehow, my progress isn’t important. I listen to the hum of my engine as I slow down to park. He’s there. It’s been a year, but it seems like yesterday. Sometimes, we have to endure a grind, a horrible monotonous thing, to enjoy pure delight.

“Man, it’s been too long. We need to hang out more often.”

“Put your clubs in the back and let’s go.”

“What’s new with you?” I ask.

“Just workin out. You still in school?”


“When are you goin to stop?”

“When I finish my Doctorate.”


“I must go all the way. There might be something there, although I’m doubtful.”

“We need to play more golf.”

“No arguing with that.”

When the streets are empty, you can really breathe. You expect to be able to do this in wide-open spaces, but in the city, it takes you off guard. It’s like a fresh snow has fallen, but it’s sunshine instead and nobody wants you.

“What are your goals in 2019?” I ask.

“Just work out and stay healthy. No stress,” my friend says.

He’s smart, in his own way. People ignore him, just like they ignore me. It’s hard to be completely alone, but if you have one or two really good friends, you can beat the system. Friends are fickle; they compare and compete and pretty soon you don’t want to be around them. But some have an understanding and the time is better together.

We get to the pro shop and nobody is there.

“I guess the golf course is closed today.”

“Not for us,” my friend says. We play the fairways and get into our natural rhythm. Miracles happen without any witnesses. He holes out from 72 yards and I sink a 30-foot putt. The sun sinks in the sky and the air gets cooler.

“You want to get some food after this?”

“Yeah man; this is just like old times.”

If we don’t get richer

and we fail a thousand times

If women don’t want us

and this life walks away

If we can’t see the future

and time is misunderstood

We hope for the poet’s word


from some unknown, mystical source

after our muscles have left.