We’re All Crazy (most of us)


Intrigued by thought
Unsure of our bodies
We make love
By the length of an idea
The hollow of a pillow
Where his scent still sleeps
Under white terry cloth
Where her naked shoulder emanates
These are the miles reified
The abstract made concrete
The inevitable synthesis of change
Occurring at the edge of a touch
In the deepest imagining
Unencumbered and surfacing
What pleasant inhalations and exhalations
Untied tongues do make.

Reverend Nick and The Roadside Church of the 123 By-Pass


Now I’m of a mind that it isn’t a sign of weakness to not know where you’re going, to think you’re going somewhere and not get there, to be lost. Not a like a wandering lamb or anything. Somedays it’s like your compass is jittery. Like you’re a drunk gyroscope with the bed spins. But just the same that doesn’t mean you won’t get somewhere. Even a jittery compass points to a true direction even if only for a few nervous split-seconds. And where I wound up afterwards was right enough. And there’s no way I would have traded it for anything.

Sonofabitch though if I almost didn’t get my soul saved by Reverend Nick right out there on 123 this past Sunday. Going to a birthday party on one of them hot humid upstate days when the sun hides roiling behind the anonymous, amorphous clouds like it’s too lazy to shine but throws down all its heat nonetheless. We’d had pulled into a strip mall that hung real close to the road and had one of those signs out front. You know the ones. This one said “Jesus’s Grace Is Not A License To Sin, But A Liberty To Live A Holy Life” so my girl decides to hop out and start taking pictures. Because she’s like that.

And I talked to him and I don’t know why. Not out of bullshit but out of talk. And it felt good for a little bit. I mean the conversation wasn’t all that long. That kind of a little bit.

He looked like a character actor in a movie by John Cassavetes. His hair was like a monk’s tonsure gone a little too full of the Holy Spirit. His tie was a loose, heavy triangle the color of artificially flavored red raspberry. His smile, well he didn’t really have one but his lips were turned up as if to emphasize his enthusiasm for meeting and greeting us. His fingers were pudgy and distended, the nails cracked and yellowed from too much tobacco or work that wasn’t right for them from an early age. His car-lot tan. Enough said.

He was from Boston, went to Florida, and ended up here. Everyone started out somewhere else ended up here, he said. Except his wife who was from here, a little town just west of a small southern city. Pointing to that sign and asked me if I agree. The he put the touch on me. I was thankful and would have been disappointed if he hadn’t. It showed me at least someone thought my soul worth saving. There might be something worthwhile in everyone and everything. Now maybe that’s not where Reverend Nick was going with it but I’ve never claimed to be able to look inside a man’s mind or motivations.

The Right Reverend Nick of The Roadside Church of the 123 By-Pass sandwiched his pudgy digits in prayer as if with divine inspiration. We’re all going down the road to grab lunch and we’d love for you and your wife to join us. We can talk about Jesus if you’d like or need to. I’ll pay.

We appreciate that sir, reverend, we do. But me and the missus are on the way to a party. A birthday party.  We’re bringing the ice I said We don’t swing by here much but you never know…you never know.

Undaunted like any good salesman he just shook my hand and finally smiled and said like he was giving me his business card, Well, I’ll remember you both whenever you stop by again. God bless you.

Then, feeling full of myself as I was it suddenly  went out of me like that time long ago when my 5th grade teacher stepped out of the room and I started acting the fool healing my classmates’ illnesses and infirmities like some 10-year-old Ernest Angley until Miss McCutcheon came back into the classroom dragging her bad leg and thought I was making fun of her which I wasn’t. Just trying to get the kids to laugh. Swear.

I saw her a few years after that down at the Electric City mall but couldn’t even talk to her. She had a twin sister and I thought maybe it was her twin, was hoping it was but then I saw the limp down the Adult Contemporary aisle and had to get out of there fast. Cost me my job at the Record Rack but I was always coming in last at the upsell of blank cassettes at check out so it was just a matter of time anyway.

Then a fat girl in a clingy print dress, who had been biding her time all this while kind of off to the side walking in lazy circles and flapping her arms every now and again like she was trying to either calm her nerves or take flight or both, came up to him. The two had a brief conversation the only clearly audible parts of which were Reverend Nick saying It’s Ok and Lord willing and her sobbing. Then she led him over to her car where a baby was wailing in the front passenger seat of a brown late-model Corolla. She had locked the keys in the car. That’s why I hadn’t heard the baby until then.

Fellowship and lunch. I rarely refuse a free meal especially down the road towards town at 3 Little Pigs whose pork platter is passing but hush puppies keep me coming back. They’re real good. Little round ones. Not perfect shapes like rings or oval ones look like mozzarella sticks. Cooked just right. And they give you this honey butter to dip them in. Honey butter. But my soul, or should I say Soul, wasn’t hungry. Least not today. With all due respect to Reverend Nick guess I’m not ready to give up this world just yet. I got in the car and turned to my girl, who was already sitting there in the full blast of A/C because she’s like that, her arms out in front of her palms up and shaking her hands a little, her arms sheened in sweat and kind of sexy and said Sorry, babe, I know, I know, we’re gonna be late.

That’s ok, she said then picking up two plastic bags of water like she had been conned at a carnival game, but now we need more ice.



It’s not the first day of spring but it may as well be.
The sun is shining and people are gathering about the streets of a small Southern city to look at arts and crafts and drink beer and wine and eat.
You can’t begrudge them although you no longer drink and wouldn’t risk eating something like BBQ which could only cause trouble dribbling off the fork and down your shirt.
Even though your shirt isn’t pressed and you feel comfortable you don’t want that to happen.
And you want to seem interested. Attuned to all that’s going on around you. Casually.
But your mind is going a mile a minute with wonder how you are there. Not just there but how it was you were brought there. Not in any negative, fearful or regretful way, just wondering on the pieces of your life and how they fit together to convey you to this now so felicitously.
Then she takes your hand.



I am presently
In discussion, negotiations and parlay
With major service providers
And minor conspiracy theorists

On the presumptive launch
Of a new revenue stream
That may not lift all boats
But should pay the notes down on a few

I share this with you
Because you are an idea man,
A suggestion box, a blank slate
And I, I am white as chalk

Speaking of which
We can repurpose tears
To hydrate the next hot bullet moment
With a simple call or text

But I digress so much so
I bump into my business end
Cresting the horizon.
Each dawn is a new day

And what we let go of
We seize with Latin fervor
And temporal disdain.
You see where I’m going?

Let’s broadcast funerals!
Narratives, back-stories,
Pain, empathy, compassion,
Not to mention product tie-ins

Such as but not limited to
The clothes, the hair,
Plus-size coffins, satin pillows
Pray the rosary, downloadable

To each and every hand held device
Devised to drive that wedge
Like a ball-peen hammer lobotomy.
What do we care if we don’t feel?

Have you? Felt before?
It’s worrisome
So pluck the tension
And ameliorate the misgivings.

The thing itself contains
The kernel of its own demise
So get while the getting’s good
And before you get gone.

Target demographics
Are truly many-splendored things.
We’ll never run out of ideas, contestants or corpses,
The only limit will be our imaginations.

Ruminations on Being a Pest


Let’s be in the same room
Radius or world.
Your same room,
Radius or world
Is not mine.
Nor is it yours.
It is ours
And ours only
Until another comes along
After the other
And then it is always ours.
And if you want to sit
In the corner, look out the window
Or read a book , say something like
The Collected Poems of Mark Strand
Go right ahead.
I’ll be in the kitchen
Chopping an onion
Or composing small verse.
Over there, always.

Naked and Warbling


I’ve stolen a name

Now what do I do?

I’d rummage through clotheslines

But those folks’ lives aren’t worth stealing


And they’ve got dogs sleep outside

Or rusted broken fences

With snarls of twisted metal

And I don’t need lockjaw now


What with this bird

Beating its wings in my chest

About to burst

Into some kind of song


Preening and new with late spring

I’ll let the sun light my feathers

Warm up my throat

And  maybe warble at least