Oh two oh two two oh one oh
Not just a date, but a nice little combo

And hey
Also Groundhog day!

Punxsutawney Phil
Punxsutawney Phil (from National Geographic website)

Winter poem

Why is poetry so hard to write
When the air is cold
and the sun so bright?

In the fragrant spring, it’s no big deal
And summer’s months
are easier still.

Perhaps the dark is too mundane.
The cold chills my bones
and even my brain.


a hurricane
decades ago
snapped the trunk
at roof level
now the limb-tree
at a wild angle

a ball
decades ago
snapped a finger
now the finger
still broken
at a swollen angle

soft thoughts
decades ago
disguised as hard objects
blocked vision
now the mind
in sharp angles


Wouldn’t it be nice
to write a shocker?

Grow into a beast.

Let her rip!

Gulp down
a couple glasses of
Raw Motherfuckers!

Chase it all with a shot of
ripped spinal chords!

Vomit all that
ugly slime

into a person of
the opposite sex
who eats his or her own

scoop it up
add a dash of self-mutilation

maybe add half a cup of
of warm bestiality

and blend it good!

Then gulp that.

That may give
the attention
I crave.

The Night Before Halloween

Here in the dark I cannot see
the yellow of the maple tree.
Leaves holding tight, while I awaken.
Dying leaves, crisp as bacon.

Leaves that love to beam their light
certainly must hate this night.
A night of heavy sirens, fiercely free
a scare for such a gentle tree.

In Carolina, autumn likes to preen.
Trees are yellow, red, bare, and green.
But it’s also got its sneaky side.
A loss of value.  That downward market slide.

An elder dogwood, such a lovely thing
has dropped its bark, will not bloom this spring.
And all along the sleeping street
sleepers think of loss with every beat

hoping longer nights can make the mind forget
what in the light will be dead, or living yet.


is a word
that means
(like wet in rain
or green in grass)
so little to me

(like flowers in blossom
or volcano in ash)
in every climate

is your color
(like purple in red
or brown in green)
of choice

is my food
(like juice in water
or bread in flour)
of choice

is heavy
(like a bird in feather
or a river in rock)
or light

we choose
(like happy in sad
or cry in laugh)
each moment


like touching a splinter

that’s what it was like
talking to sisters
and brothers

about her

the past
two years
and a lost second ago

nobody forgets anything

then soon
there was no choice
but to cut it out

a sharp blade
no plan
then cutting flesh

a real incision
that leaves more than
a scar

more than lost
lost memory

brain cuts
can’t work

pains radiate

they shoot through
joints, limbs, gait, families
any memory of good memory

leaves one sibling
the superstar of remembering her
all cut out
no one to remember to

Rush Limbaugh

He may act mean and bounce like jello
Rear his head — shout and bellow
Call people names — snort and blow
Act like a jerk who stubbed his toe
But maybe Rush Limbaugh is a pleasant fellow.

He may make racist rants
Hate whole groups while dancing his dance
(as if he had fire-ants in his pants)
A zealot with a stubborn stance
But let’s give Rush a second chance.

He may sound vile to you and me
Beyond the pale
Wanting Barack to fail
A guy who needs Dale Carnegie
But we all know his show ain’t free

Perhaps his listeners are rough and tough
Guys who love to eat this stuff
Rush can’t just give them fluff!
Can’t look like a cream puff!
There are ads to sell. Ratings to buff!

He could be a very nice old hack
Running a popular comedy act
I don’t listen (it’s below my station)
But perhaps it’s worthy of admiration
To give raw meat to those who need a snack

Suppose he’s sour. Talks for an hour
It’s harmless fun in his Florida sun
He doesn’t have any real power

Except — could it be morally wrong
To encourage so many
So long
So strong
Not to get along?