ˈfekənd, ˈfē-

blue door in ft mill

We shared a fondness for the word fecund,

She taught me the definition of the word creel

And the proper pronunciation of detritus;

And now I can barely remember her eyes.


Colorful as the days can be

They always end

In black & white

And I’ve taken


To documenting them,

Mostly mornings,

In a journal named after

A pharmaceutical.


Then I sit by the flowing world,

My rod whipped out,

Closing the holes in my net

Until it’s a basket


Into which I stuff them.



super g 112814a

I’m a slithering contradiction, a blithering conundrum,

a temperate gun-toting member of the grammer police

who bathes in jägermeister. I have a wooden eye and a

glass leg looking for same. I’m a member of the John B

irch Society and a Communist because I was born under

the sign of Gemini. Save the threesome jokes- I’ve heard

them all and even penned a few…you have a pretty mouth

and significant lung capacity and can poach an egg or pelt

or tusk should we feel randy. You keep waiting for me to be

myself and I keep trying to do the same for you. PS… I don’t

date outside the human race, no offense, just my preference.

Sent from my Sprint phone


asheville alley

The rooster crowed. He woke up to an empty bed and the sound of rain sluicing down the gutter.  For a split-second he thought the thought he had tried to exile forever to the furthest reaches of his mind: no matter how much we share with, show to or care for someone else, another person, another soul of flesh and blood, we are always ultimately and forever alone with our thoughts and ourselves. Then he realized the rain was just the sound of her making water in the little common bathroom off the hallway outside his room. He chided himself and resolved to see the good in people especially himself. 

She was tall and full of woman as a friend of his once said, what with that hair, a sharply profiled nose and green eyes flecked with variegated opalescent shards of gold. Her chin drew into a soft point below a thin but full smirk always adorned with a magenta lipstick. She had nice, small breasts, a taut stomach and a sweetness below that when he cupped her supple cheeks in his hands and kissed her down there reminded him of a church aglow in the candlelight playing all around them in the small room in the North Carolina mountains. When they’d make love it was love beyond who they were as a man and a woman.

He was living in a rented room above the Old Europe Café on Haywood St in Asheville when they met. She worked behind the counter at the Woolworth’s around the corner and was always late for her shift. He’d time when he got there to see her rush in in a whirlwind tying her apron behind her and fixing her waitress’s tiara atop a swirl of deep henna red hair. He looked at her thin naked wrist as she handed him the grease-splattered menu he knew by heart and answered her Sorry what can I getcha with Beautiful women can afford to be late and the minute the words came out of his mouth he knew what he was going to do. Save up and buy her a watch. Now that he was working he could do lawaway down at Kresge’s. A ring was too much too soon. They both went in circles anyway. He had already written the story in his mind. Beginnings were always easy. It was the endings that were tough.

He slid into his britches and put on his flannel shirt then stepped into his railroad shoes. The Southern line bellowed into town and he knew it was too late for breakfast. He’d lost his copy of Death in the Woods and Gaddison never said crap if he had a mouthful and they’d been pulling that route for three months now. Hungry and lonely all the way down to Charleston. Rain started tapping on the window like the fingernails of a haughty, impatient woman on a linoleum counter. He wondered why a rooster crowed at a sunless dawn. Grabbing his brakeman’s jacket he fished in the breast pocket for his timepiece to no avail. Goddamn Gaddison he mumbled to himself alone.

Apartment Living Example #73


We are not alone in this world you or I.

You know how I know?

Every morning

The man downstairs

Smokes his cigarette

and its acrid plume rises up

through the cracks in the deck

and wafts through my open window

opened to let in fresh morning air

And disturbs my morning reverie

Like an Incorrigible setting fire

To a dry-docked houseboat.

For awhile

I mistook his smoke-garbled talk for Spanish

Until the other evening

When having not learned my lesson

From earlier in the day

And hoping to “freshen up”

For your visit

I opened my window again

Against the faintest of early 21st century hope

To draw in fresh evening air.

His tobacco-stained voice chased

His unwelcomed exhalations

Up the flight into my place.

We both stopped eating dinner,

Forks paused in mid-shovel,

Hungry mouths in rictuses of distracted concentration,

Nostrils flaring,

Heads tilted towards the foreign emanations from below.

“I’m sorry,” apologizing as I am wont to do

For things that have nothing to do with me.

“That’s Portuguese,” you said assuredly.

And for once, once again,

I was glad not to be alone in the world.

Idles Hands in Black Mountain


How to express speechlessness

Akin to teaching the land-locked how to drown:

Assume a cloud-mantle,

Fall in love.


Exult! Exult

Into the teeth of day.

Enunciate curses

That you are alive.


Perfect a brogue

And walk in your shoes.

Drink deep the rising tide

Adumbrating it with tears


For those who gamboled,

Slithered, cajoled, prevaricated,

Formicated and caroused before you.

Smile, they’ll know what you mean.


Running Yellows



I sat next to a man

On the train this morning

And when the bus stopped at a red light

I looked at his monkey face and he said to me


Life’s a gambol that gets easier with perdition


I doffed my hard-hat and cleaned my safety goggles

Then tied my scarf around a spoke on the rear-wheel

Of my 1964 Triumph T100 and waited

For the light to turn green.