I was
two sided mintage;
sculptured perfection;
both stranger and pilgrim,
passing through.

But I lived as if I forever
belonged to this land.

And, within the violence of
forgotten illusion
where past and future
merge as today,

the coin has lost the emboss;

has become scratched metal,
unable to grasp
the truth of the now.
.

On top of the world
touching the sky
only birds and rich folks
can fly
and all know why

Poetry’s soul,
must
give life to words....
creating immortality

Deep within!

Poetry once posted
becomes
public property

so do snaps
if you share
so
take care
all poetic friends....
and snapsters

The stirring and fluttering of the heart
beeping and seeking
an echo from afar
as if the stars gently caressed
strings of a mandolin
to create ripples shore to shore

The returning tide
abounding in orgasmic crescendo
of love joy bubbles
swelling her heart in the knowing
of two hearts beating as one
in profound longing

Amidst the splattered sea shells
is a gift from the shore afar
a beautiful pearl for her pendant
gleaming with his love
to rest close to her heart

When life kicks our ass
my love, we know it's time to
circle the wagons.

Oh summer days of youth, those days of grace --
sun ripened fruits, red cherry-plums and figs,
sweet wines from vines of interwoven lace,
all grown, as magic, out of winter's twigs.

The jaunt through autumn gives the chance to flaunt
the cougar's prime as, gently, life enthralls.
Until begins the search for kindly warmth,
as whiskers turn to snow and fig leaves fall.

I guess I’m my own hero,
my life's explained this way --
I always say just what I mean;
mean seldom what I say.

Philosophy for living?
Stated piously --
life is simply far too short
to take it seriously.

If I'm down,
and not down for the count;
If I'm on the ground,
and come to my weak
knocking knees,
then unsteadily to my feet
don't count me out
or disqualify me
just yet.

If life,
or circumstance,
or the Devil himself
should knock me to the canvas,
to where my body is broken
and my face is bruised
and my lip is split and bloody,
even so
don't count me down
if I so much as get up
on my two wobbly legs.

I brake my sudden spring of step, to still
and slow, so I can take in precious things,
windows that hang like jewels, shine dark
to one confined inside this world.

Within a prism arc of colour that
adorns each corner of the speechless
sepulchre, touching with brilliant rainbow
lustre, landing, leaping on gilded saints.

In bronze tribunes, I trace the outline
of things past, I cannot tell meaning, yet
the mystery holds me here
in this great cavernous swell

On the road.

Imagine the seconds that title was scribbled
Sal would jump from truck to bus to box car and
Somewhere down the road would be Dean
In a pool hall, smoking like a faster Paul Newman
I read it in another world, another time
I built pictures, imagined America, its vastness
Endless cornfields, small towns, fast cars Tucson nightmares
Jazz, bars, New York, debauchery, Bebop sanity
Bull Hubbard nursing a baby syringe, before his party routine would
Take jean forever

427 "Bisquick"
slap er through the gears
no clutch
took forever
and a clutch later
to master the trick

total factory
foam seats
not race buckets like today

sleeper radials
Polyglass
something to move
the beast
in a leap
when you stamp the gas

glass packs announce
my arrival
winning the drags
is the pink slip
survival