a fox

as my breath
rose to meet
the dawn
crossing our paths
I saw
her by the gut pile,
red over red
no hunt required
she put away
what she needed
and moved on

on an evening like this

on an evening like this

when the combination
of breeze and low sun
is just right

nothing is
bothersome
and it’s quiet enough
to catch up on
thoughts that matter

when I think
how truly lucky a man
would be that,
regardless of the form
the knife takes –
whether a look
a word
an action
a wish
whatever the form,
how lucky
he would be
to have
an angel knock
it from his grip

if luck holds out
long enough
he will learn to not
take up the knife
in the first place

test

this is a test post from the pod

candle, I

I
light the
candle the
vapor the bright
luminescence the
vanishing wax
which part of
this am
I 

robbing the mystery

I realize now
that I don’t want to know
that stars are only burning
orbs of gas, I want back 
their tiny bit
of mystery,
robbed from me
in the third grade

and truth be told, any
knowledge of my DNA
or how closely my 
ancestral line is tied to
that of the great apes,
I wouldn’t mind
disposing of either,
it’s information that’s 
done precious little in moving me
in anything that could be 
considered forward progression
 
and for that matter
let me return to believing
that snow is somehow magical
animals have the gift of language
and that all smiles are exactly
what they are meant to be

furthermore I most certainly
don’t require inside scoop concerning
the physics behind gravities pull

I simply want to believe again,
when leaping from rock
to rock while crossing a stream
that yes, even
if only for a second or two,
I can
fly

my smell hound

my smell-hound
hated guns 
he could track rabbit
and roust pheasant
as good ‘r better than most
but he sure ‘nough
hated guns
I stopped hunting
when I saw a buddy 
of my dads go down
blew his hand just ’bout off
with a mossberg over/under
his arm outstretched 
to stop his fall
both barrels
let loose
my hound took off
he could hunt just fine
but those guns…

self made man

ignoring backs
bent below you
how it was
you can never forget 
in your mighty hands
the golden wheel of your
star schooner, 
riding high on seas
of fraudulent glory
she,
scuttled by circumstance
of your making alone

made to live low now
among those in whose
breast beat a collective
heart of servile insurrection 
you wait now, 
a dweller of trenches
wait, knowing
nothing is so
addictive than revenge
wait
for that first
lunge that will
bring them pleasure

no excape from these thoughts,
formulated in tarpit existance,
your blind stance
bound tragic
realities as if
with the very
shreds of her mainsail

let it be known
your prow tore through many
on the heading you took
you paid no heed
you proclaimed to have
had ownership of the wind
you felt yourself to
be the one thing that
one can never be – a self made man

our mothers stories

as the world turns
I and all my children
search for tomorrow

for there is a secret storm
throwing dark shadows
from the edge of night

through all
the days of our lives
we seek the guiding light

for we are young
and we are restless
we are bold and
we are beautiful

whether this
or another life
we are our mothers stories

the second week of January

nights
stretched
as if racked
gears crawl
one notch after another
winters hand on the wheel

the mail

juggling drive through coffee
and plastic sacks of groceries
she tilted her head
toward the mail fanned out
on the driveway
after a fumbling,
wrong handed retrieval
from the box 
a single pale yellow envelope
stood out
among plain white utility bills
ad flyers
bank statements
other crap 
funny how
herself told herself
that this yellow 
rectangle was the letter,
sent by the boy
who lived at the corner,
lost some decades and
finding it’s way to her now,
she was sure she would
recognize his blocky script
after even this amount
of past had passed
she awkwardly stooped
and scooped the mail up
sighing away
the way it turned out
to be just an envelope
of a different color
another flicker 
of history
triggered by memories
and edited
for maximum
melancholic response