Tuesday, August 30, 2011


the grandkids sat in the van.
their fingers moved quickly
over some electronic device.
their eyes were constantly glued to a screen.
their grandpa noticed these things.
it had been like this for days.
the kids never saw the badlands.
they didn't want to sample buffalo meat
they only wanted to eat at McDonald's.
they chose not to meet the Lakota...
the Navajo, or the Pueblo.
they were bored by the museums.
gameboys and cell phones were more important.
sunrises and sunsets were ignored.
but old grandpa watched nature in its glory.
he felt like smacking those kids...
yes, smacking them into reality.
he wondered, "where had their minds gone?"
his wife told him to leave them alone.
grandpa was too demanding.
he was called an old curmudgeon.
he was told to "get with it".
as he stood silent, taking in the majesty of the Grand Canyon,
it all came back to him...
the simple things:
like finches on a thistle sock on early mornings,
or the sounds of a babbling brook,
or the first fish he had caught as a boy,
he cherished these simple things.
so now he felt compassion for the grandkids.
he felt sorry for them.
he tried to make them happy, but he failed.
he figured he'd just let them be as they were.
he gained a new acceptance.
it was simple for him.

Friday, August 26, 2011


i fight their war
inside of my head
i dodge their bullets
i am not dead
my reflexes quick
i move godspeed
to enemies quarters
where i feed
my bloodlust is now everywhere
to fight with me
most will not dare
i'm the universal soldier
a mindful thug
i fight for concepts
i do not love
my human body
is offered or bought
by richer men
who know naught
of wars and things
in the physical sense
they fight their wars
with a rich man's sense
with other mens blood
in board rooms they fight
with money they spawn
and spread their blight
so onward they send me
off to my grave
this is moral to them
for i'm a "mindless" knave
they buy their way out
they don't pay a tax
in gated communities
they smile and relax
but if i survive
and i'm counting the days
i vow i'll come get them
put an end to their ways.....(postscript---

Only 2% of Congress have a son or daughter serving in the US military. (USA Today, January 3rd, 2007). The great majority of people bearing arms for this country in Iraq or Afghanistan are from the poorer communities in our inner cities and rural areas. The incentive for these young adults are enlistment bonuses and educational benefits.

Sunday, August 21, 2011


i remain an old warrior
close to the sea
close to my viking fate
cast off to the sun
i remain an old warrior
dog at my feet
sword in my cold hands
i have a smile
on my frozen lips
to last eternity
in my valhalla
my fate is sealed
i am an old warrior
and as the flames engulf me
the maidens cry salty tears
and my comrades drink to me
and my fears dissipate
and rise up to Odin
with my ashes
this old warrior
this viking prince
finding peace

Thursday, August 11, 2011


nothing is certain.
of this I am certain.
but everything is relative,
and these ideas are absolute.
so, is relativity a lie?
if it is, absolutes must exist as truth.
but what of the "gray" areas?
can God exist and not exist at the same time?
probably not...
absolutely speaking.
but...relatively speaking...maybe so.
I have a relative in Wisconsin.
does he exist, even though I don't see him?
maybe he's still there.
he's gotta exist!
if a tree falls in the forest,
and no one is there to hear it,
does it still make noise?
I dunno.
my wife tells me not to think so much.
she says, "it gets you in trouble".
I gotta admit that I agree with her,

Monday, August 8, 2011


plaintive cries
of these blues fill my room
fears creep up
the ageless drone
seems more contemporary
yes, now
is the definitive word
is now being cursed
seems armaggedon is at hand
as diseased polities
lift cancerous heads
to the sky
denying illness
like alcoholics
who deny their disease
the blues are here
for many folk
whose plaintive cries
are not heard
in the now
the definitive word.

Saturday, August 6, 2011


i'm fine
i did my time
now it's your turn
to get burned
listen to the lies
it don't apply
to me no more
i shut the door
on the fools
with their rules
they promised me things
fancy gold rings
"just work for me"...
they said
they got in my head
and now it's too late
i cannot escape
the webs that they weaved
i was deceived
by political games
and backbreaking lanes
on the highways to hell
i built them as well
with the sweat of my brow
the capitalist cow
is now actually dead
enough now is said
i go to my bed
no dreams in my head
but i'm fine.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


I sit on a raggedy strait chair,
as I gaze out through old pane glass,
which loosely exists in an over-painted window frame.
I breathe in heavy, acrid air.
The humidity here is stiffling.
My cigarette smoke hangs in the air,
like tendrils of Spanish moss.
It's as if it's afraid to go anywhere.
It proliferates, adding to the blue/gray haze of my room.

I wheeze and inhale.
The smells of fungus, moldy carpeting, and decay envelope me.
I sip whiskey, and notice that Bourbon Street is deserted this morning.
I look out my window to the north.
Chicago is so far away, and I am in a dream.

I pen poetry.
I have no money for paints or canvas.
This is enough to sustain me, for now.
I have to find a construction crew,
to save enough "git" to get away.

I'll get on that train...
The City Of New Orleans, Illinois Central,
ramblin' back to Chicago.
I'll have my battered suitcase in hand,
where the streets are just as mean.
I'll be filled with the same pain,
no difference from whence I came.

Alone, I walk in the madness of men.
I forge ahead, again and again.
I have the blood of youthful adventure in my veins.
So I write my life in my memory book.
I try to recapture it once again.
But it's never the same.

Monday, August 1, 2011


Although the heat and humidity is offensive to me today...
my air conditioner purrs.
I don't know how I survived without it.
But I was a strong lad in those days.
I took a cold bath at night,
and slept in my jockey shorts.
I lay next to the open screen door.
I smelled the acrid stink of the Chicago Stockyards.
I heard the blare of locomotive train horns.
The "clickity-clack" over ribbons of track lulled me to sleep.
I walked for miles in the summertime.
I was too poor to afford a bicycle,
but there were other sources of entertainment for me.
I played fast pitching in the school yard.
All my friends and I needed was a bat, a rubber ball,
and a strike zone, chalked on the brick wall.
Foul tips sometimes ended up on the old school's roof.
I was strong enough to shinny my way up the drain pipe.
Once I reached the top, I breathed the hot fumes of asphalt.
It was covered with gravel, but I always had tar on my PF flyers,
after one of these ball retrieving missions.
I usually found five-or-ten rubber balls.
My pals smiled widely as I threw the bounty down to them.
I was a hero to them on days like this.
After we got hot and tired from the game,
I'd mooch a ride on the handlebars of a bike owned by one of my pals.
I never had any money, but one of them always treated me to an Old Dutch, rootbeer.
Those were the days!
I learned that respect and reward came from hard work.