WARNING: something I should have mentioned earlier

If you’re going to read me

Don’t read me with a grain of salt

Read me with the whole damn salt shaker—

Trust me, it’s for the best.

The Vatican with Friends, Rome 2012

Chaos Theory

If we can accept ourselves

in life, and that in this life

we’re living, the right way

and the wrong way, mostly

aren’t ever in alignment

with our true nature of self,

rather it’s often

sideways we must go, sideways

like the pebble in the stream

knows only one direction,

and that chaos when reversed

reveals itself as precisely

the way it ought to be.

Hot and Wild

I don’t need a fan

or a fawn, I need a fire—

Hot and Wild—black as coal,

as clean as a diamond

dazzling

in the mud of my soul.

Self Portrait, West Haven CT, `2013

A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.

Today the time ran out

just as it had begun—

Hot water fills the tub

you swore you’d never become—

It’s warm and shallow now

cut servings for only one—

The echo down the hall, well

that’s just yesterdays love—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

Today the moon refused

to trade place with the sun—

Sidewalks full of people

but still you know only one—

It’s an impossible force

that drags you from yourself—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

I try, you know I do, to balance

fault lines and faith, the surgeons

steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—

It’s a symphony of simple things

that will seem eclipsed by the sun—

Cause it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

California, 2020

Streams

Whatever stream it gets to you by,

it’s still a stream—leading nowhere

to some, somewhere to many, and

to others it’s—already there.

Florida Sunset, 2018

You just have to live.

Being sober’s

as overrated

as being drunk—

nobody wins.

You just have to live.

Individual Sadness.

We each have our own

individual sadness.

Like a fine wine.

I drink it down.

Some tastes better

than others.

I drink hers down.

Then open another bottle.

We much prefer red over white.

Dry over sweet.

Though there have been those who’ve poured

and those who’ve carelessly spilled.

But none like this.

None so direct.

Covered in a deep, warm red

I much prefer her careful aim

as she throws the Cab into my face –

Betty Davis style.