A PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR
11
20
12
A pagan killed a Jew
A pagan killed a Christian
A Jew killed a Christian
A Christian killed a Jew
A Muslim killed a Christian
A Jew killed a Muslim
A Muslim killed a Jew
A Christian killed a Muslim
They all bowed to pray
to the same ignorant God
with deaf ears
and a passion for killing.
Dear God forgive them.
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LOVE ROAD
11
20
12
They are tearing up that old road again.
The road we built.
with sweat and blood
and paved in dreams of love.
Old man Grady died there.
Fell off the steepest of the ridge cliffs
into a mad white torrent of river
clutching his pick axe firmly.
For three dark days
we stopped work.
His wife still visits every year.
Throwing fresh colored flowers
grown in her lonely summer garden.
Back then we all worked the mules.
And at the end of every day
the men would all gather
with full whiskey bottles and rye.
Women would bring the cheese and bread.
We laughed and proudly praised the road.
God would smile upon us.
Before the labors
we never could cross
when the hard rains of spring came.
And when the heavy snows of winter fell
we became an isolated island.
No one would ever dare the mountain.
But every six months
when the summer sun cleared the pass
we would haul our goods to town.
Selling animal skins and crops
we kept the children happy.
I hear the roar of the bulldozers coming now.
Our love will soon be paved and covered over.
The women and children are crying.
They’ve hit a silver vein.
And the mining company
brought their bankers and lawyers.
Our love has been bought and sold.
They are tearing up the road again.
The road we paved
with our dreams of love.
——————————————
December 13, 2001
WOODS END
11
18
12
I followed her nightly into the forest
her pain was azure blue
stems of her legs
thin saplings
trunks of stone
between the leaves
and the autumn moon
she would whisper her secrets
unfolding in the darkest brush.
One night of the new spring
our eyes met
we had no one road to travel
only empty pastures
of drunken light.
————————————
IN THE HOLLOW MOSQUE
11
18
12
It’s an empty hole now
where the religious wise once preached hate
the mosque they teach peace in
survived.
It’s flowering back to heaven
from where it came
and rose again
this holy land that does not lose
it’s holy history.
Deep below the buried mounds
of bones and dunes and battles
where in the hallowed mosque
tales are told
of peace and love and sorrow.
Is it not the will of men
to teach the will of peace
to love tomorrow?
So the wisdom of the mosque
is not in men
but in the hollow.
_____________________________
(2003)
I heard your poem on the radio today.
Little children were crying and bleeding
bowing to your mighty power.
I pulled my glass eye out
and rolled it down a bubble-gum sidewalk.
Three flies were mystically immersed in conversation.
They were talking about you, of course.
How you fought off all the angry slaves
so we could all drink milk and hug when
the cheerios were no longer crunchy.
I stepped on a pile of you today.
But my new no-stick nuclear shoes
kept me balanced and poised
for your next question.
I had to answer honestly
as all the satellites were
joyously listening
and the quiet drone
of your newly found synthetic existence
filtered the last ounce of sincerity
in the world.
Now everything is happy blue
and darkness hides inside a solar flare.
My chain keeps rattling loudly
inside this cold locked chamber.
And all of our hammers and shovels
were worn down to splintered oak.
But I forgot what trees looked like.
And when I pulled your plastic vagina
from underneath the dusty glass dome
it wouldn’t talk to me anymore.
It dried out and shriveled away.
Now all I have left is a rusty nail
and two holes in my blood soaked hands.
—————————————————
THE CIRCUS . . . . . . . . . AND THE ZOO 
Written
on 11/24/2012