Poet Poem

 First the poet complained

About poems that have birds in them;

His collection contained twenty or so

Such poems, but this did not bother me.

I didn’t want to like him,

But he was good,

The kind of good that cannot be denied,

Unless you’re too stupid to see it,

Which is the most common situation,

And the biggest reason

That being good doesn’t matter.

The fact that he was or is good

Is or was what bothered me.

How dare someone command words

In such a way as to drive them

Before him like a pretty cattle drive.

The pentameter of their dumb hooves.

In his picture he has a pony tail.

I’ll bet this shit came to him

Like Coleridge or Disney

In a coke dream.

I admit that he is good,

Damned good,

But he’s probably

Just another rat.

Poetry Poem

 Accounting

It was a full-fledged

Poetry tour.

We’d sell two books

And drink $100

Worth of beer.

2025 poem

 Emerald CIty

Last night I watched The Wizard of Oz
and found myself remembering
the communion wafer melting on my tongue—
that thin shield of belief
I once imagined wrapped around me,
protecting us from flying monkeys
and furious, green-skinned witches.

How that Styrofoam sliver of God,
light as a snowflake,
felt like more than a symbol—
back then,
it was all the magic
we thought we needed.

This is pretty good for the nostalgic ones of us The Source

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1hgI2WtUCM 

Outtake from AJW

 

 

Confab 

 

The Kid: Why did you do it? 

War: I thought he would get out of the way. I saw him look back at the mitt to see where it was which is a cheat thing anyway, and you heard him in the dugout. I know you did. 

Mom: Give him a break, Dwayne. He’s only twelve. 

War: Thirteen. And he wanted to get hit.  

The Kid: Doesn’t mean you had to. He baited you. And you knew they wanted to fight instead of play. 

Mom: Batters get hit all the time. 

The Kid: But look what happened. You’re already an outsider, War. The one thing I’ve learned is that people will do whatever they can get away with. 

Mom: You boys drink your sweet tea.  

The Kid: Did you see your girlfriend’s family leave? They left like heroes escaping a gangster house. 

War: I was on the ground, tussling with Hatley.  

He began to sob and Mom walked over to hug him. The door slapped shut as The Kid left the house, and there was the burbling sound of his Mustang cranking. 

 

 Half the people that I went to school with look like John Daly.

January Pome

 When My Brother’s Orders Changed

After his thirty-day leave,
after the flight from Charlotte
to San Francisco,
two days before Vietnam,
we marked his return to Tinker AFB.

His wife watched the commander’s kids.
His crew loaded mines
meant for Haiphong Harbor
and other NVA ports.

We celebrated. We thanked God,
never stopping to think
that somewhere else
another brother,
another husband,
another son
would have to go.