His eyes are jelly holes The sheep his wool is fire Toppling up the slope Toward the wire. No Says the sheep’s master. He can only follow her. The sheep goes faster. In the wire they all rolled, Held, holding, all defiled. The poor girl, she foaled. My cradle. Oh my child.
Stray Fire – Vietnam, 1968 Read More »
(In memory of Michael Levine) His red beard copper in the sun, he battled patiently in the black field against the sumac, sassafras, Canadian thistle. For years his forehead burned as he looked toward the oaks’ cool shade and gouged sweat from his eyes and bent again to address his enemies. The fine needles of
The rearview mirror rose above a rabbit smashed flat. In the West, we break to our measure. A word in Viet-Nam for river is song. The rabbit is song. In Wyoming the road goes on, sand and sides. The road is the end. The road goes under me and I go on. This is my
No matter the degrees earned, the “culture” acquired My soul settles on a warm summer eve under the full moon Johnny Cash slides out of the radio into the night On a lonesome train whistle. No matter how far I roam, the roads to home are dusty Under a wild blue Colorado sky silhouetting Golden
I slip around the edges Touching briefly then slipping away. I dance around the edges Bowing to a partner or two then skipping away. I pace along the edges Sharing a fire or a meal then drifting away. I wander the edges of the world Watching just outside the fire’s light then walking away. ***
. . . the man was a walking treasure gallery. This wasn’t the work of a cheap carnival tattoo man with three colors and whiskey on his breath. This was the accomplishment of a living genius, vibrant, clear, and beautiful. – Ray Bradbury …the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. – Walt
Body Art — Is It Really? Read More »