The Groomsman

Brushes her hair with a practiced gentleness

A hand firm enough to pull out the tangles

But skilled enough to not damage the hair


In his life there are children

And a sink that is always slow to drain

A toilet that leaks from the tank


But in the moment of his everyday

There is only her, and her beauty

His eye, his mind, his hand attend


Her master loves her for her beauty

The beauty he creates and accentuates

Yet her master loves him not, cares not


For his life, his children, his sink

The groomsman knows this

And loves her, for she is a dog.


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How Miss O Petunia Became the God of Mesopotamia

Miss O Petunia

planted a

mess o’ petunias

in Mesopotamia

and called it

the Garden of Eden.


She looked at what

she had done and said,

“This is good.”


And everybody said,

“Oh my God!”

and she said,

“If you say so.”

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How We Die

“We need to change
sides of the river”,
he said to me
as he died
at that hospital
in a Boynton
Beach strip mall.

While his neighbors
looked for bargains
on either side
at Publix and
the One Price Cleaners
next door.

“We need to chain
sides the river”,
then he let
go my hand
and let go
the chains
as well.

– just now in boynton

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I Meditate

with rice,
a non-believer carnivore,
I meditate with thick onion and almond based sauced
laced with cardomom and curry
or simply thin dark brown
roast beef gravy.

I do not journey inward,
no destination there.

I journey back,
to knee pants and creeks and ditches
and crawdads, and tadpoles
and daddy and fishing
off abandoned bridges
with holes you could fall through
in swift muddy waters of springtime
and never be seen again.

We fished in the hot-sluggish-watered summertimes,
but the story of warning pulled in the spring rain.

I journey back to cotton fields and pecan trees,
little and grand.

Mama and okra, in the field, in the truck,
going to market, or in the kitchen ,
cooked in the magic way nobody ever seems to remember how to do.

The sound of locusts in the trees
now stays permanently in my ears,
but at age eight was a secret message from god.

If I meditate with rice or without
soon I have written a poem.

Though you should not read it,
it will break your spirit of beingness
and send you
spiraling back down the staircase
into the rooms of your childhood.

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Entrepreneur’s Log

Slick slick wheels,
A rusty gearbox
And God’s own very first
Blowin’ oil
And unleaded
Into a cloud of dreams,
For which I borrowed all
I could on enthusiasm.

This here load
Is the beginning
Of my vast, far flung
Empire of the Sun.

Distributions centers
In Dallas and Des Moines,
Semi crisscrossing
These forty-eight,
And freighters loaded,
Lord knows I’ll ship
‘Round the world.

I have to get
My load of dreams
Off the shoulder
And down to New Orleans,
Those fools in Memphis
Don’t know a thing.

I just wonder how
The world made it
So long without
My perception and understanding
Of the wants and needs
Of the ordinary man.

Yes sir, i got no more money
But for a tow and to get
This rig arunnin’,
I’ll give ten percent.

That’s like a piece
Of a gold mine!

Yes sir, this is
your lucky day.
Ok, twenty-five, no more,
Now be reasonable
I’m giving you half of an empire.

For a half a day’s work.

Yes sir, and Empire of the Sun.

Well, then drive on,
You’re just as dumb
As them fools in Memphis,
I’ll get there somehow.

Yes sir, officer,
I’ll be moving this thing
Right along any minute,
Seems to be a slight problem
For my Empire of the Sun,
temporarily, it won’t run.

Anthony Watkins

written a long time ago

(to every dream and dreamer,
for every time the world laughed at us,
remember, as long as we have the dream,
they are the fools!
But this poem is most especially to my father,
who taught me how to dream)

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You May Think

because you read the book,
or because you heard someone mention it
sometime in an English class
or at a cocktail party
(is there really any difference?)
the answer to the universe
and everything in it is 42,
but that is just one man’s opinion.

A pineapple is equal to everything,
as is the square root of a coconut.
not a little brown scabby looking thing
you might find in a white people’s grocery store,
but the big green one
still filled with coconut water,

to be chilled and the end chopped off
with a machete and then with a straw,
you drink think magic coco frio,
and return the hull to the man
with the machete.
(a white man cannot be trusted with a machete, he will want to start a war or something)

and he will chop it in half
so, you can scrap the coconut meat,
the consistency of an under cooked egg white,
out of the shell
with the chip chopped off top
(you should know to save that piece when it is cut off}
yes, the square root of all that.

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Own Happiness

Some happiness defended
by oak leaves is an assault
on peach blossoms.

Lily pads have their own happiness.

unlike most of my poems, this one “means something”

Inspired by a Joseph Massey post on Facebook, of a Cid Corman translation of a

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