My very American illusion of happiness

Nothing feels good tonight.

Nothing sits well.

Nothing but myself and beer

to drown away my very American illusion

of happiness—my dear, I’m not sorry.

Please understand.

Call it a wash

People were like soap operas—

So when I could,

I’d turn them to sonnets.

And when I couldn’t,

I’d call it a wash.

Cheers with my Moose Mug. Dec 2020

Awesome—

I don’t need reassurance

to know I’m awesome—

Denial’s just too much fun

and if I actually had the drive

I’d be off a cliff by now—

inspiring admiration, apprehension, or fear.

It always hurt to admit, but what doesn’t?

Our Gestation Period

When I found her like

a set of lost keys,

it was a mystery even to her

where she’d been hiding

or who left her there—but

I knew that look, as I’d worn once—

and it wasn’t me anymore.

So I let her sleep.

And I let her eat.

Then after her strength regained,

I walked her to the wood,

and watched her twirl with the wind—

of all that remained,

and all she’d forgotten—

like a dizzy spell I’d soon be too.

Resolution

Enjoy the day.

It’s more beautiful than not.

Happy New Year 2021

My heart bleeds tonight

New Years Eve

2021

As if it would be

Any different—

Happy New Year folks!

Wind Chimes

Wind Chimes float—

With effortless ease—

It’s something we—

Could never quite be—

Two souls swirling

In the restless ear of want.

Wind Chimes, Florida, Dec 31, 2020

Huckleberry Heels

Silence falls like snowflakes

Covering the field

Where birds like statues watch

My huckleberry heels

With frost left underfoot

The hallow ground revealed

Where doe tread light as feather

And sun spill bleeds me home

for John Fante

Perhaps I’ve said too little,

perhaps I’ve said too much.

Whichever be the case Fante,

perhaps I’ll Ask The Dust.

To understand one’s suffering

To understand one’s suffering

Is to understand our own,

Knowing causes pain—

But still with hope we try

To understand one’s suffering

Is to be on their side, regardless

Of the awful many cuts

Through the tenderness of night—

Their aim is (not) to heal

But still with hope we lie,

To understand one’s suffering(…)

Like fruit picked from a vine.