iPod muse

Song Title poem





Babe, I’m gonna leave you

Black

Blown wide open

Crash! Boom! Bang!

Everybody knows

Blues in the midnight hour

Feels like rain

Kiss the rain

Fall like rain

Give me one reason

Good loving gone bad

Hell at home

Hey, hey, what can I do?

I’ve got to go now

I don’t wanna

I want to walk with you

Love is a stranger

Nowhere to go

Side of the road

Smoke and ashes

Tenderness

Thank you

Unsent

Unchained melody

Wish you were here

SAILOR BOY

On a hotel roof
in San Diego, California,
caterwaul of sirens
and hookers muted,
I read my horoscope
and fed my appetite
for loneliness
and chemicals.
The minutes crept past
slow as thunder.
Smog lit by night lights glowed
like a translucent shower curtain,
and I wept,
thinking of home,
of Ophelia's head
resting over my heart.

I live for the rush.

Words a friend told me.
Riding through newly-awakened
fields and swamps,
critters everywhere,
birds on every branch.
Deep from the hearts of trees
in the stands and copses
green leaked like life-blood,
burning the air with possibility.
I wasn't driving, so my rush did not
come from speed or
the need to remain alert.
Feeling the blues slip from me,
a coat I stripped off
and hung out the car window
leaving a trail of dust, worry,
and the scent of the sickroom.
Between the two Mallards in the creek
and the riders doubled up on big cycles
hunting the long easy curves of these
old roads, there was a space I felt so human
I can never go back to where I was.

BUT HE WAS A FINE POET





Sure, he liked the tattoos he got

when he ran with the 1%’s



and he liked burning a bowl before

the stockholders meeting, the presenter



puzzled by the sudden chuckles

floating above the sea of Parker Brothers



suits, silk ties, nightmares of the world

crashing silently among the others



He drank a little wine

some say a little too much



but by damn it was good wine

And it wasn’t so much his touch



with the cue stick that made his name

but the beauty of his bank shots



as the balls danced their gavotte

and whether he made the shot or not



his opponent bought the drinks regardless

Ok, maybe he chased the ladies



and his indiscretions were as dramatic

and fatal like some STD malaises’



Money was not his friend

he went through it like shit goes through birds



and he was depressed and mal-adjusted

and treated people like smelly turds



But he was a fine poet, he ran deep

He brought us all on his journey



So what if he couldn’t sleep

‘till laid out on a steel gurney

THE SUMMER OF 2008


Where were you when the river rose?
I was running for higher ground.
Where were you when the river rose?
Was bagging sand with other men.
Where were you when the river rose?
I was crying on the shore.
Where were you when the river rose?
Was packing my baby’s things.
Where were you when the river rose?
I was dancing like a fool.
Where were you when the river rose?
On my knees praying No, No, No.
Where were you when the river rose?

Wheeling

How to explain to someone who has never driven out of state.
When I have driven more miles in a year than most people
drive in their life, what can I say about the drive they would believe?
A lot of bad poetry, and a lot of good has been written about the road.
Johnny Winter sings of Highway 61, bleachers on the shoulder,
Abraham with a knife to his son’s throat, the shadowed profile
of a mother’s seventh son, telephones that will not ring.
The Boss cruising mansions of glory on suicide machines.
The rumble of iron thunder, the thunder of iron steeds,
Steppenwolf providing the soundtrack to a bat out of hell.
The road has my heart.
I have spent more time behind the wheel than any other place.
At rest my hands sit curled, fingers around a steering wheel’s rim.
I always notice the hawks in the trees.
I always drive with the windows down.
Want to find out what kind of a person you are?
Drive from Appleton to Dallas and back in forty eight hours.
Want to find out where your soul is?
Watch a thunder storm roar through the Badlands late afternoon.
Turn a curve and see clouds beneath you.
How could I do other than I do?
Plenty time for one place when I’m dead.
And when I die, don’t plant me in the ground.
Throw my ashes to the wind
and let me go where I will.

What a Man Leaves


On my last day let it be known that I danced.

I drank some good wine with a meal I cooked.

I read my favorite poem to a lovely lady.

Let it be known I left my rooms clean,

the dishes racked and dry, the lights off.

I love my family, forgive my enemies,

clear my heart of hurt or grief.

I love my cat, the sunshine,

the hard north wind.

Let it be remembered by someone

that a hawk graced my sky today,

that juncos chittered in the cedar

outside my front window.