The Bathroom

In the hundred

year old bathroom

with the cast iron tub

a man 

with a hard-on 

and a handlebar 

mustache 

soaks in red

tinted water

after a full day 

of slaughtering pigs 

in Magic City

he is reading

an illegal copy

of a serialized 

novel about a guy 

named Bloom

written by 

some Irish

smart-ass 

who lives

in Paris

earlier in the day 

a women

with a Polish 

accent secretly

washes out 

her blood stained 

clothing while 

planning the next 

women’s protest

for the vote down 

at the courthouse

the bathroom 

floor is now 

sagging

toward the dying 

rain forests

of the Pacific

Northwest

the water 

in the toilet

is longing for

a good

cup of joe

each night

after the little 

anarchist savior

goes down

my wife and I 

convene here

for a few brief 

minutes away 

from the rest of the 

crumbling world

we whisper to 

each other

while brushing

our teeth

and leaning 

slightly

toward the

outer banks

we whisper love

we whisper anger

we whisper sadness

we whisper fear

we whisper strategy

we laugh silently

we cry silently

we shake our heads

in disbelief

this tiny room

has swallowed 

a hundred years

of shit and blood 

and hair and skin 

how many infants

take their first bath here

in the past century

how many farts

have been birthed here

have any from the past

actually woken up the baby

in the other room

with the strength

of their utterance

I hope so

we stand

in bare feet

in this tiny place

we lean

eastward

every night

and watch 

our bodies 

slowly age

I love it almost more 

than all the other things

that I love so much

our quiet meetings

of exhaustion

in this slowly

tilting place

.

Witherward

All along 
the river
the trees 
are shaking.

The ground breaks
away in measures
and spins off into
the sky.

Now people
are turning
and walking
straight into 
the six hands
of death 
and the Error 
unfolds
its legal
response.

Nothing 
goes 
unnoticed.

Nothing lives 
or dies
that doesn’t 
alter the 
direction of 
this vegetable
universe
or its 
mother.

In the forge
once again
a fiery
world
is wrought.








































































.

Morning

This
winter
light

the deep
orange
changing
to pale
yellow
above
the frozen
canvas
of fields

What
have 
we lost?
















































.

The Map

        

On these nights

when a map 

of writhen branches

appears along 

the fire banked west

and a giant peach

moon rolls

into the black 

sea above 

our wooden houses

I watch 

my daughter’s

shining eyes

just before 

she disappears

I feel the

dark embers 

of my wife’s

exhausted body

and heart

until finally

with daughter 

fast asleep

we sit wrapped 

in our blankets 

of fatigue

holding hands

and listening to

the northern

winds retaking

the prairie.

They descend 

in their long

black coats

and run through

the empty streets

pushing on

the wavy glass

of immigrant windows

and whispering

wintry prayers

to slake our

burning hearts.

.

The Last Dance of the Trees

They only give 

us a moment 

with our churches

and our wars

holding their 

arms wide 

catching 

the sun

in each branch

a map of time

just long 

enough 

to shower us

with color

before they 

slowly retreat 

into the darker

halls of paradise.

.

Red Music

The notes come tumbling out of
the battered accordion of fall.
A dark red music
with the bodies of leaves
littering the streets.

My hands shake
thinking of my mother
as I change 
the hurricane’s diaper.

A catalogue arrives
selling the dream
of a well-manicured life.
Organized
clean
with the patina 
of nature
displayed
in clever
and artful ways.
There are no humans 
in the photos.

Ants, bats, raccoons, spiders
cats, very bold squirrels
and fleas sneaking in
on the Trojan horse
of our geriatric poodle
have been guests in our home.

The sun continues
its pilgrimage
through the yard
only a darker yellow now
and even some orange.
I cannot remember a single day
when I have not stopped 
to read the book of time
on the light flying out
from its oceans of fire.

A barely perceived
inevitability creeps
into the news.
Didn’t I hear 
these stories 
several decades ago?

The hurricane arches
and kicks
and shits
and pounds
and eats
and eats
and eats
and screams
and giggles
and farts
and cries
and destroys 
and eats
everything in her path.
The nature 
of the universe

Love is such a sweet destruction.

She watches everything
with eyes as deep as the ocean.
She is voracious 
and tyrannical 
in her need to explore.
She is ten times smarter
than previous generations.

I assume it will be
ten times harder to live
but already
her heart 
is so full.

My father sends photos
from our early years.
He works each day
sorting through them.
They have a square
white border 
with tiny dates 
like 7- 65
and a fog
is slowly blooming
across their 
shiny surfaces.
There is always 
an underlying
narrative to the ones
that he sends.
A man of few words
his actions
are poems of love.

He laughs with joy
on the phone 
when I describe
the hurricane’s escapades.

The four small rooms
of our house are 
torn asunder
each day.
The scattered debris 
of exhaustion 
love and chaos.
The violent 
energy of our days 
as we fall 
through the light. 

Hang on friend
as we fall
ever deeper
through the beautiful 
destruction.

.