Space Case


I drive this vehicle

on two legs,

down all the paths of my life.

Down the road to the store

and to where the bus stops

and all the places I’ve never been.

Stepping every step,

seeing all the things

caught in the headlights

and thinking all thought it thinks,

speaking and listening,

eating and farting,

and sitting in the shade

on hot afternoons with cool drinks.

All the things these vehicles

are capable of.

This heart, these lungs, these arms and legs,

this imagination, this haughty ego,

all on temporary loan

from our universal mother

for traversing this stoney realm

with all its roaring traffic and perilous pitfalls,

over the hill and ’round the bend.

Burning the stars

and blowing the wind.

To know the joy and pain

of love within,

riding this space case as long as it lasts,

beyond the end of all that’s been,

all the way home.


The Last Drop


Just in from the cold

on a sweltering, derelict afternoon

in the summer of sixteen,

with sad eyes, red as rusty pipes,

glistening with recent tears

brought on by eons of prideful regret,

smelling of bus station bathrooms

and the smoke of a billion fires

spewing toxic fumes

from curling multi-colored plastic bags

a particularly grimey set of rags

with no one left within,

walked into a bar.

How could you possibly forgive me?

the nothingness within asked.

The words rattled around,

yes, they rattled around those filthy clothes

like dead cockroaches on a fling.

before flipping onto their backs

on the bar top, dead to the world.

The bartender poured a beer

and set it before the smoldering pile.

Here, have one more on the house.

The customers all left ages ago.

He was a kind and generous bartender.

He wasn’t picky about who he served.

A few remaining gases awoke rumbled

as they escaped the free standing

clump of discards on the stool.

I’m here for you to abuse, to accuse,

blame and misuse, the reeking discards slurred,

I was once someone or someone was me,

I no longer remember which, or care.

but I was finally beaten down.

go ahead, give me a kick.

It’s ok.

I no longer have a mind to mind.

A swig was mysteriously swilled

and dribbled onto the floor,

The bartender looked around

to see if anyone was watching

and seeing no one,

came around the bar

and took a swing with his left foot

but connected with nothing.

He felt a lot better though

as he carried the smelly rags

out the back door

and threw them in the bin.

Then he heard another dribble

hit the floor inside the empty bar.

It fell without judgement,

without blame, or shame

and would require

neither mop.

nor word of thanks,

so he went back inside

and poured another glassful,

which was his job of course,

and offered a nervous toast

to nothing at all,

sitting unadorned across from him,

then swallowed

the last drop


The Drama of Soil


There is drama in the soil.

In the garden

tendrils of roots

climbing from tiny seeds

pushing and shoving aside

hard pressed granules of earth

packed by centuries of weight and water

seeking that last drop of moisture

left from last month’s spring shower.

Insects, worms, bacteria, fungi and more,

all vying for the next morsel,

the enzymes of decay

devouring the fallen leaves

in the creation of food for food.

The violent expansions and contractions

that results from changes in temperature

in the passage of days and nights,

summers and winters,

the karmic shifting of tectonic plates,

played out on sunny afternoons beneath our feet,

blurred by our lofty and distant visions,

compressed by our minds into single words,

scrubbed away in the shower,

caught in the push and pull

of life in motion,

in the endless chain

of beginnings, climaxes and endings,

running down the drain.

spinning in space,

just as we are.