Blasting Away

in the dark,

dashing off responses

to sleeping recipients,

today it’s electronic,

a hundred years ago

I would be lighting a candle

and dipping my ink

in darkness,


on flickering yellow pages.


Blasting away,

yet I don’t

I know where I am going

a hundred lines,

a hundred letters,

a hundred first class stamps,

this is my life.


When I’m gone

the stillness of morning

will belong to someone else

who will likely, more wisely than me,

stay sleeping

in a comfy bed.

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Everyday We Paint the House

a different color

when we wake

we stir about the cans

in the shed,


until we find

what we are looking for

or mix two or more

to make anew


You and I

just painters

and our house

our only canvas

two colors,


the one we paint,

and the one

the paint makes

when it dries


twenty years

and seven thousand coats

and seven thousand more

we hope to paint


everyday, we clean the rollers

and put away the cans,

arising to a fresh start

on the morning

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Cane Town


Two miles from the cane fires

across the junction

of Sugar House

and Ice Plant Roads

where the new cane breathes

the smoke of the old cane,

soon to be chopped down

and squeezed into sugar.


I sit at a red light on Fourth St

between the boot store

and We-Me Music,

it’s a sad piece of a town

where two African men

sit on milk crates

and smile to

the old white man.


I wonder if they

have kind thoughts.


The blue-green bridge

crosses the canal

running on an angle

cutting through the heart

of town but gators

on the banks hardly

never eat no one.


In the fields the trucks

and cutting machines

follow the fire so closely,

they take care to not get burned.


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The lines are down,

the fog rolls in like a noise

covering the brown deadness

in a creeping whiteness,

neither dead nor alive


and gone with the sun rise,

leaving the withered dead,

waiting on the erection

of green tips through

the death of the season


(inspired by some recent work of Joseph Massey)

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Better Abstract Ideas

I am always thinking

untrained and undisciplined

I specialize in thinking

about things

I know nothing about.


Long ago,

I thought it would be

a great idea

to bottle fresh water.


Then I thought of oval valves

to let more air into a motor,

when an engineer explained

why this was a bad idea,

I spent 5 years

designing rotary valves,

there seals were a problem.


Overlapping this time,

I designed

a Mid-Engine Front Wheel Drive

derivative of the Chevette,


until I managed

to get the ear

of a GM engineer

who explained

you need the weight

in front of the drive wheels,

I just liked

the low hood line.







Every few months,

I send my son

A new product idea

For the company

He works for


And then there is

the crypto-currency I designed

Which I am sure would be

bigger than bitcoin,

except I can’t write code.


Tonight, I thought

of “reverse Oreo’s”,

an extra salty Ritz cracker

with a creamy chocolate filling.


I would prefer dark chocolate

and more than

a hint of habanero, call it

“Hot Chocolate Sandwich”


I am so good at this,

never had any takers


but boy, if I did!

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Bulldog for Jesus


Won’t you be
a bulldog for Jesus?
Be a bulldog
for Jesus sake,
bite them all on the butt
and tell them Jesus
made you do it

cause If you don’t
have a little light
you can’t let it shine

but you can
be a bulldog for Jesus
and bite them
on the behind
any ole time.

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Spirit Airlines


Little old ladies
Who insist they
have our seats
Even when we have
boarding passes
seats assigned

Poor people fly too
And bring their
crying babies.

I was a crying baby once

But two hours at
thirty thousand feet
body parts touching
strangers ala sardines

Good spirits from
a pleasant interlude
with my son’s family
And the promise
of a safe arrival
makes it almost bearable

Pleasant underpaid staff
Do their best
With smiles and kind words
And still the babies cry

No head phones
No tv no internet
But in two hours release
Sooner if we crash
And still the babies scream


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