Yea, come on down to the Sunshine State. Bring your money,
check out the place.
Chances are you’ll decide to stay.
Hell, everybody else does.
There’s a thousand new residents coming down every day, all moving in and buying up the place.
They’re filling in the swamps to
make some more space, and man we’re starting to need it.
We got snake farms and alligator wrestlers, more state executions
than anywhere but Texas, plus shuffleboard and wet T-shirt contestants.
Man, you gotta see it to believe it.
Yea, come on down to the Sunshine State. Bring your money,
check out the place.
Chances are you’ll decide to stay.
Hell, everybody else does.
We’re number one in lightning strikes, snake bites, alligator and
shark attacks.
We got a million illegal aliens to sack our trash, clean toilets, wash dishes and cut the grass. I’m telling you it’s heaven.
We feature one golf course for every man woman and child.
We cut down all the tree so you can see for miles. Don’t it seem like a place
you could kick back a while?
Man, you gotta see it to believe it.
Yea, come on down to the Sunshine State. Bring your money,
check out the place.
Chances are you’ll decide to stay.
Hell, everybody else does.
There’s federally subsidized sugar plantations, that’re bigger and
richer than most European nations.
They own our politicians and
hire all the Hatians.
It’s what you call a sweet deal.
Well everybody thought it was some kinda joke when we SAID it ain’t over
till you brother counts the votes,
then twenty years later
we elected Ron DeSantis.
That was what you call a state steal.
Yea, come on down to the Sunshine State. Bring your money,
check out the place.
Chances are you’ll decide to stay.
Hell, everybody else does.
Our School system rates higher than Mississippi and Louisiana and
though we’re not up there with Arkansas and Alabama,
sixteen percent of our kids wind up in the slammer, and that’s gotta count
for something.
You see we ain’t got no state income tax, cause we stick it to all the
Yankee tourists to make up for that.
It’s a service-based economy
keeping us fat,
yeah that and a lotta fried mullet.
Yea, come on down to the Sunshine State. Bring your money,
check out the place.
Chances are you’ll decide to stay.
Hell, everybody else does.
(grant peeples, LeftNeck Music, 2007)

I found a photo yesterday in the bottom of a drawer
It was you years ago on Little Island
In a short, flowered dress and a little floppy hat
Couldn’t tell but maybe you were smiling
In the photo you were standing on a cliff above the ocean
You were pointing t’ward a ship on the horizon
And the message there-in was your ship was coming in
I think that’s what you thought on Little Island.
I went back to Little Island at the end of last year
The people there, they asked me all about you
I lied and said that we were still friends
I’d rather told the truth but didn’t know how to
Went up to the hotel and I stared into the very well
I dug back in 1998
I could see your reflection in the water at the bottom
For a minute there I almost said your name
Yes, I almost called out your name
Sandino vive, la lucha sigue. No me conviene lo que paso
But this is no apology, I just been thinking bout the days
Those days long ago on Little Island.
There were no Indians sleeping on catboats in the harbor
No lobster being hauled up from the sea
No turtles being slaughtered, no cocaine being bartered
Just tourists in the new shops and cafes
I tell you it was strange, the whole damn scene
Like I’s living in some kinda dream
Ghosts were everywhere, that same mystery in the air
In some ways little’s changed on Little Island
Some things have stayed the same on Little Island
Sandino vive, la lucha sigue. No me conviene lo que paso
But this is no apology, I just been thinking bout the days
Those days long ago on Little Island.
I recalled that day we took a freight boat to the Main
On the aft deck in a hammock in the shade
A little bird flew in, ate breadcrumbs from your hand
And the passengers, they were all so amazed
But me, I guess I knew that your spirit through and through
Was more connected to that bird than men like me
When the bird flew away tears were streaming down your face
I watched as they fell into the sea, yeah, your tears returned to
the sea
Sandino vive, la lucha sigue. No me conviene lo que paso
But this is no apology, I just been thinking bout the days
Those days long ago on Little Island.
That little house we built, had fallen into ruin
Whatever treasures we buried there are lost
Forgotten but familiar, understood but still peculiar
All the pieces, they add up to naught
I walked among the graves where we’d buried our dogs
‘Neath the trees where the hammocks had swung
I’m only writing to you now to make sense of this somehow
Trying to figure out what went down on Little Island
Can’t explain what took place on Little Island
Sandino vive, la lucha sigue. No me conviene lo que paso
But this is no apology, I just been thinking bout the days
Those days long ago on Little Island.
On Little Island….
(grant peeples, LeftNeck Music, 2025)

You don’t need to live under Vladamir Putin to recognize the stink
of tyranny wafting out the Oval Office.
You don’t need a PhD in
kleptocracy to know what looting with an American flag pin on a suit lapel looks like. And you don’t need to be a Kremlinologist to know that our entire government is now operating like a mafia syndicate—no, just follow the boots, the bans, the buzzwords, the book burnings and the body bags.
What we’re watching isn’t chaos.
It’s choreography.
A state-sponsored smash-and-grab with a patriotism decal slapped on the
window.
This regime isn’t some dumb accident—it’s a reprint of the Russian repression playbook, with the serial numbers filed off
and a Bible quote taped to the cover.
And the cruelty? That’s not the
malfunction. That’s the feature.
It doesn’t just silence the victims—it
stuns the audience.
Every immigration raid, every courtroom farce, every fascist cosplay speech is meant to freeze you right where you
are…while they empty the vault.
You think these goons care about America? They care about the spectacle.
They care about the scam. Their leader stumbles with power like a raccoon loose in a pawn shop—clumsy, hungry, and
shiny-thing obsessed—and he dragged-in every grifter, bully, and bootlicker he could find to fleece the country while it was still
warm.
They aren’t building anything. They’re stripping our republic for its parts.
And the mask? The mask is nationalism. It’s “law and order.” It’s unidentified men in jackboots dragging mothers into vans, not to solve a crisis—but to create one. Because when you’re scared, you’re
silent. When you’re grieving, you’re not organizing. And when you’re too busy just surviving, you stop dreaming of justice. That is the point.
That’s always been the point.
This is not about immigration. It’s about domination.
It’s about them making sure you
know your place in their America.
They want you afraid, obedient,
impotent, disillusioned and alone.
But history ultimately laughs at cowards like these.
The shock will fade. And fear will calcify. And that’s when rage sharpens into
action.
These bastards want silence? Give um hell. They want surrender? Give them solidarity. They want your despair? Give them
defiance.
Say what’s wrong, point to it, name it. Stand in front of the bus.
Don’t let them launder oppression with euphemism.
They’re not “enforcing the law.”
They’re disappearing neighbors.
They’re not “protecting borders.”
They’re carving up the soul of our democracy and selling the scraps to the highest bidder.
And through it all—through every lie and betrayal, every flashbang,
every condescending news anchor telling us to “calm down”—we must remember why it is we fight.
We fight for every person that’s
been brutalized or erased during this nation’s history.
We fight for the freedom riders, the fire-hosed and the lynched, those who bled
on bridges, the dispossessed and disenfranchised, those stuffed into
prisons without due process.
And we fight because the ghosts of
those who stood against fascism the first time are watching us now
to see if we learned anything from their struggle.
We don’t fight because we’re optimists;
we fight because we are alive, goddamnit.
Because history is right here, right now. And this time it is our names that are on the ledger.
And each of us needs to make sure
OUR name is carved on the correct side of it.
( Built from a Jared Sexton post on Substack)

Look out people, now it won’t be long
A hurricane’ll be blowing strong
The chance to rise will have come and gone
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
What kinda beast comes slouching,
What kinda beast comes slouching
What kinda beast coms slouching
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
He’s coming in the name of hunger
Putting all the poor folks under
Who is behind him, I wonder
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
What kinda beast comes slouching
What kinda beast comes slouching
What kinda beast comes slouching
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
He’s coming in the name of finance
Corporations religion and violence
He’s counting on collusion and silence
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
What kinda beast comes slouching
What kinda beast comes slouching
What kinda beast comes slouching
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
Better lay your shoulder to the wheel
Rise up high on top of the hill
Better blow your horn even louder still
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
What kinda beast comes slouching
What kinda beast comes slouching
What kinda beast comes slouching
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
Slouching t’ward Bethlehem
(Eliza Gilkyson, 2011, Red House Records)

I worked the Orange Blossom Special ‘48 to ‘54
Manhattan to Miami, I was in the dining car
Til Eisenhower built the interstates, and jet liners sailed the skies
Luxury trains were shuttered and the railroads up and died
Some times, some times, I have seen some times
Some times, some times, I have seen some times
They shot JFK and Bobby, and Martin Luther King
These days guns are everywhere, Lord they’re shooting everything
I saw my first black president, made me so proud I cried
I saw the insurrection, can’t say I was surprised
Some times, some times, I have seen some times
Some times, some times, I have seen some times
I am an old man now, my life is almost done
In my heart I do believe that we shall overcome
I pray for this world of sorrow, for a better tomorrow
That we might get there, without a loaded gun
My wife of sixty years died seven years ago
When I dream about her, in my dreams we are not old
If you see a locomotive rolling down the line
Won’t you stop and think about us if you hear her whistle whine?
Some times, some times, I have seen some times
Some times, some times, I have seen some times
( Mary Gauthier, Truth or Dare Publishing, BMI, 2023. And Vince Gill,
Jody Williams Songs/Warner Chappell Music BMI, 2023)

Sins of the Fathers
Sack cloth and ashes, underneath the thigh: the hand
That’s 150 lashes, way more than any man can stand
And if you keep silent, in a time such as this
Accept the ways of gain by violence
You are taking, you’re accepting the risk.
Sins of the fathers fall upon the sons and daughters
I can hear King David calling, “Oh Absalom!”
Sins of the fathers fall upon the sons and daughters
Here we are 3000 years later with the worst yet to come
A day of darkness, black clouds across the land
The nation up and plays the harlot; the waters don’t flow on the
desert sand
Turn back the pages, to the times you hold so dear
You will see down through the Ages:
The message written; the lesson given is clear
Sins of the fathers fall upon the sons and daughters
I can hear King David calling, “Oh Absalom!”
Sins of the fathers fall upon the sons and daughters
Here we are 3000 years later with the worst yet to come
Strike the tent, slaughter the lamb
Cross the river to another land
It’s Holy ground but there’s blood all on it
And killing’s killing no matter what you call it
Sins of the fathers fall upon the sons and daughters
I can hear King David calling, “Oh Absalom!”
Sins of the fathers fall upon the sons and daughters
Here we are 3000 years later with the worst yet to come
So if you keep silent, in a time such as this
Accept the ways of gain by violence
You are taking, you’re accepting the risk
(grant peeples, LeftNeck Music 2025)

I didn’t dream that it would ever come to this.
From now on maybe keep your fantasies unto yourself.
For a moment there, it seemed we were both convinced.
Were you afraid that I’d conflate you with somebody else?
I said her name; your eyes cut toward the door.
I did not take this as a sign to just walk away.
No, I felt no shame: we had cleared that road before,
And I remembered all those tender things I’d heard you say.
Are you waiting for a ripe apology?
Or is there something else you believe I should now give to you?
You changed your mind, or maybe you just lost your nerve:
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, no she was just a thought.
But to cross that line, you must think the line’s absurd,
And now you want the misalignment to be all my fault.
Are you equating what you feel with what you see?
Is there something else you need for me to prove to you?
Sure, talk is cheap, yeah but poetry…it’s cheaper.
I’m so over alliteration and metaphor.
No, all I’m saying is: the only painful thing
is to miss seeing her extend her lovely hand to you.
I never dreamed that the ledge would be so close.
Let the currents of our histories just sail us through.
All that’s left to say, are these words stuck in my throat.
I’m still needing you to know how much I love you.
I’m not saying nothing’s missing, but it’s gone.
So, if there something else you think I should now sing to you….
(grant peeples, LeftNeck Music 2025)

This place ain’t lucky, and there’s a fire
Better keep our distance, better take our time
Restless souls, rest your souls
Because they can’t see us
Out in the light
If we’re gonna burn this town, what are we waiting for?
We gotta shed this dream and roll.
We’ll get it right this time
We’ll get it right this time.
When morning comes, and lightning strikes
If I don’t see you, my love, I won’t think twice
I’m not here waiting for you to save me
They call us crazy, they called it right
If we’re gonna burn this town, what are we waiting for?
We gotta shed this dream and roll.
We’ll get it right this time
We’ll get it right this time
Bless your heart, bless your soul
When shots ring out, shots you’ll know
Bless this town, they say there is no way out
But I won’t be staying here long
You won’t be staying here long
We’re gonna get it right this time
Gonna get it right this time
We’ll get it right
(Danny Goddard, BMI 2025)

Hey Jimmy, you told me you’re living in your “bonus years”
And you’re finally convinced you gonna die just like everyone else
You say all of that paint that you’ve spilled
Well, it would “cover the walls of a church”
But it dripped from your heart like a light from the dark
And you’ve learned nothing else really works
You say the Bible says a man should “live three score and ten”
But you’re thinking you might just hold out
Yes, you wanna believe, but the closer the day
The deeper the mystery and doubt
So much for time when art’s just a grind
And nobody’s buying a thing
But if you’d turn back the clock it’s more likely than not
That the path that you’d take be the same
Jim, what you taught me will forever daunt me
But I’m carrying on still regardless
To not be afraid of what my critics say
Nor “create any art that is harmless”
So, if I really mean it, old friend, I shall sing it
Like a line from the palm of my hand
Yes, I’ll carry our tune like a busted balloon
Or a song from a bird on a branch
Yeah, you and me brother, we see one another
In the mirror of a cracker landscape
For now and forever let’s keep that together
Hell, let’s do whatever it takes
We need not feel shame nor lay any blame
We were toast once we had us a taste
Using brushes and pens, it’s been our biggest sin
Killing trees with the paper we waste
So much for time when art’s just a grind
And nobody’s buying a thing
But if you’d turn back the clock it’s more likely than not
That the path that we’d take be the same
(grant peeples, LeftNeck Music 2025)

I’ve been thinking lately bout getting into a different line of trouble
Maybe put down my pencil and pick me up a sword
Why fool with poetry if people have lost the will and courage to
read?
Could be the time has come for me to cut that cord.
Yeah, I’ve got a mind to break some laws
Throw fire into the gasoline that fuels the other side
Besides, I think I’d look pretty cool with a beret and bandolier
I could grab a gun and JUST say “fuck a buncha rhymes.”
See, if I toss a rock or launch a rocket
Or set a wimpy South Carolina senator’s ass on fire
I’m operating inside the boundaries of my own reason, and in my
opinion
(Which is something entirely different), there’s no standard any
higher
This is just a kind of code I live by
He says he’s got a code, a code he’s trying to live by.
No, the code’s not written down, so I can’t recite you any verse
But there’s cool alliteration in all its themes
It’s a sensibility, not a handbook, damn it, each situation’s different
And the code functions inside the gray areas of my complicated
brain
To you a code might imply some strict and rigid interpretation
Of a pissed off God with no humor and a lot of rules
But in my case, at least, I think I’d feel exonerated
Were I to grind my fist in the face of some inbred racist MAGA
fool.
It sounds harsh, I know, and yes: history’s proved
Rage and violence will breed yet more rage and violence
But history has proved all kinds of things
Like if you feed a poor man, a capitalist will invariably say that
you’re a Marxist
And that’s why I have this code, this code that I live by
Yes, he’s got a code, a code he’s trying to live by.
A code, a code, a code he’s trying to live by.
It’s like I’m a little “L” liberal with a pistol and a bad temper
I’m rational but, well they’re limits to my cool
Though I can talk Spanish, Plato, Bob Dylan and Shakespeare
Sometimes even I mistake me for a fool
See, if you’re a Leftneck son of a Leftneck man
Who can skin a deer, swing a hammer, run a chainsaw and fish
But who’s also the woke result of a Vietnam War-era liberal arts
education
Then, well…I’m afraid this here is the man you gonna get
A man with a code he’s trying to live by

Yes, he says he’s got a code, a code he’s trying to live by.
A code he’s trying to live by.
He says he’s got a code, a code he’s trying to live by.
A code, a code, a code he’s trying to live by.
(grant peeples, LeftNeck Music 2025)

The Difference
The philosopher tells you
What is right
And what is wrong,
But the poet tells you
Not to throw stones
if you live in a glass house.
January 30, 2025
True Love
We had talked all week
About the weekend:
A night off,
How we’d dress up a bit
And go to that Vietnamese place we like
And eat Pho.
But when that Saturday night rolled around
We ended up just staying home
and fucking and eating cereal.
March 27, 2025
The Bully
If you see a bully bullying someone
And you take action against them,
You will not change who they are.
But if you don’t take any action
it will change who you are.
March 2, 2025

Things Do Not Happen for a Reason
It is not the price of the booze
But rather the accompanying cost of bad decision-making
That ultimately raises the curtain on one’s life.
When she wrapped the car around the power pole,
A cascade of beautiful sparks
Had floated down from the dancing wires above.
From the radio a midnight station played on
While a rear wheel continued to spin
round and round on the bent axle
as if it were a child’s toy.
Several cars slowed to survey the violent scene
And then drove off.
But he…he stopped
And trained his headlights on the crash.
Her car was on its side.
Through the glare of the cracked windshield
She watched him approach, circumspect,
Tucking in his shirt:
a man with a job to do.
A sharp pain emanated from her left shoulder to her fingertips.
She could taste blood in her mouth.
But she knew at that very moment she was safe.
He knelt beside the car and peered in.
“You okay in there?”
“Oh, I’m great.”
She spit blood.
“Can you get me out of here? Please.”
He kicked in the windshield with his boot,
Crawled in, turned off the radio, unbuckled her
And carefully removed her from the cocoon of airbags.
He sailed the bottle he had found on the floorboard into the woods.
Carried her purse.
Steadied her as they walked to his truck.
“Thank-you so much,” she said “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.”
They were married within a year,
And she got sober for the first time since college.
“Things happen for a reason,” her best friend told her over coffee.
“That’s total bullshit,” she said. “Sometimes you just crash lucky.”
2019

August Poem
I am a man
Forged by poetry, delusions and personal ambitions.
Since boyhood I’ve craved speed and other dangers.
Ideas of women have been on continuous spin in my mind,
That vault of consciousness where fires have burned
For destinations fraught by defects of my character.
I embraced religion once; it was a weaker moment.
But I spit it out like the rotten meat it is.
I curse it now—ironic, I know.
I blame it for blinding humanity,
Never mind the horrors and cruelties and
Immoralities it has branded on history’s back.
Still, I have set no church afire
As of yet.
I have come close to killing men who were due it
Yet refrained.
This could be one of my few regrets,
Since it’s cowardice rather than ethics
That has intervened.
But there are many men whom the world
Would be better off without,
And it is folly to pretend otherwise.
I’m in the final quarter of my life,
And I’m like a sailor staring aft at the fan wake
To track his ship’s direction;
Yes, I’ve begun to sense
where all of this is going.
August 2025

Dear John:
With his curated lie that the election had been stolen,
He incited a mob to attack the institution
That steered our fragile Republic.
And you?
You did not for a moment
Truly believe the Lie.
But you went along with it,
In the same way a coward will abide
The assult of an innocent by a playground bully.
And these last few years
I have watched your character rotting,
Slow, like meat left out.
Your self ’s become an empty vessel,
Save for bile and a repulsive nationalism.
Racism is at the core, of course,
Though you cloak it halfheartedly
With varieties of euphemism.
As a man…you are no more.
Because no matter what he does now,
Whatever horror or immorality or indecency
Or crime he commits…
You have sunk too deep
To ever lift yourself from his viper pit.
He is what you see now in your mirror.
He has become you.
And you are
dead to me.
August 2025

Millenium
Those still living will remember where they were
The minute the Age of the New Millenium dawned.
Dire prophecies of apocalyptic chaos had been issued.
And what with the unknown being what the unknown is,
There was much doomsday trembling and existential handwringing.
Many were convinced some sort of reckoning was coming:
A harsh atonement for the mess man had made of the world
was nigh.
On the same remote speck of Caribbean island
To which he had retreated some years before,
He passed this occasion of the millennium
In a kind of private and personal secular ceremony.
In the days prior to the much-anticipated event
He gathered from along the shore
Ancient gnarls of seaborn, wormholed wood,
And piled it mountain high just above the wrackline.
Coconut husks soaked with old boat gasoline
Were placed at the floor of the pyre,
And at the stroke of midnight on the 31st of December 1999
He lit a match
and tossed it in.
There was a detonating whoosh of creation fire.
The flames flag-flapping in the rocketing blaze
Shot a whirl of sparks toward his vast audience of stars.
He stood alone there on the beach with his face to the heat.
He sat down upon his heels
And began to stare alternately between those burning stars above
And the reddened, pulsing glow of his big fire’s furnace of coals—
And saw in both the same source of the same past,
the same future.
October 22, 2025

The True Cross
He was born according to scriptures
As ancient but less compelling than Homer,
Then lived-on and taught among his little tribe
Lessons void of reason but chock full of parabolic morals.
Just another iconoclast who could draw a crowd.
But the nature of his death
—horrific, humiliating, public, and state sponsored—
Rode contrarily roughshod with the old prophecy:
What kind of messianic warrior-king-savior
dies like that?
The narrative, though, would ultimately become him.
It was through him, it was told,
That the blind saw, the weak became strong,
And the mighty got felled
By the axe of his humble, gentle Word.
Moreover, this poverty-struck God
Had had a peon for a mama.
So he was man, too—flesh like you and me,
But a spirit, still:
A ghost superior to any other in the firmament.
And his ghost? His ghost, you see,
was his own daddy:
The concept was duly confusing to the reasonable,
And to the feeble minded, as well.
To the latter it was sold
With heaven’s carrot on a stick,
By priests claiming to serve unto them
His sacred blood from their golden goblet.
And so it came to be
That an implement of torture,
An instrument of death,
A symbol of dominion
now hangs around your neck.
August 21, 2025

The Singer
I watched and listened to him sing on the old stage
In the old bar in the newly wrought part of town.
A gleam of glib commerce had grown up around the ragged building.
Its storied legend was now its only life support—
Just a crumbling mythological bulwark
Pressing against the ambitions
of bulldozer developers.
Inside, a scatter of listeners were hunched up in ancient chairs;
The singer himself was seated on the scruff and dim-lit stage.
His standing-to-sing days were behind him now,
As were patter and preamble issued between his songs.
He would finish with one to a smattering of applause
And then rest his guitar in his lap;
He’d lift his beer glass from the stage floor,
Take a swig and then study the crowd with a disregard
Honed by years of working at this profession.
Then he’d cough and wipe the beer suds from his grey beard,
Tune the guitar and sing another.
The words of the songs originated, as they always had, from the heart,
But by way now of the corroded liver and scorched lungs,
Rising through his ragged throat to be bitten off by the yellow teeth.
And I heard
every word.
He hadn’t much time left; this seemed obvious,
Though his audience was oblivious and he knew it.
Those he’d sung for back in the day
—when songs had genuine currency—
Were already mostly gone.
But he sang on
As if their ghosts had come there this night
to listen.
October 8, 2025

Land Developer
At diesel idle
He parked the big shiny truck with the big wheels
At the entrance of the development
Where a fountain’s water
Blue as Windex
Gurgled among the hedges of sculpted flower beds.
High Ridge
Was now the name of this place,
And he had it branded in defiant font
There on the prominence of the entrance wall.
He got out and shut the door and hitched his britches
Below a swan swoop of hanging belly.
Then he looked out across the vista of his achievement.
A visionary of these Times,
He had stood right there some years before
And seen the old live oaks on the sentry hills,
—living things whose branch arms
held the true memories of the place—
And he had dreamed them
gone.
He had dreamed the span of pastures below
Reconfigured with bulldozer artistry,
Checker-boarded with asphalt lanes
And named in homage to the species
Vanquished by his enterprise.
Along the lanes there were to be little square boxes
In which a newly configured humanity
—squishy-soft and sugar-dependent—
Could breed in this captivity.
He leaned now against the wheelwell of the truck,
Checked his watch, farted, smiled and waited there
For his sales appointment to arrive.
October 19, 2025

Due Course
The Titanic republic,
That great forge of individual freedom,
A nation, a City on the Hill,
The last great hope for man
has hit the iceberg
and you…..
are aboard.
How will this calamitous moment define you?
Will you rearrange the deck chairs
in a semicircle of denial?
Surrender your coat to a shivering child?
Try to buy or connive your way
into a lifeboat?
Will you bemoan the tragedy as it unfolds
or just play on with the band?
Sure, it’s a desperate sinking feeling.
But you have never been so free
as this.
June 2025

Fisher Man
Slowly he eased along the grass edge
Knee deep in the womb-warm Gulf water,
The still black night closed tight about him,
The stars as close as he had ever felt them.
From his belt a mesh sack trailed in float
Two fish with broken necks.
Across his arms and in his fists his net dripped,
It’s lead line in a bite between his teeth.
The luminescence of living things
Too small for the eye to behold
Glowed about his creeping feet and
From the dash and skitter of small fry.
The sweet rank bloom of the estuary,
Fetid and ripely fecund,
Hung in the breezeless fathom of darkness
And filled his mind with the tide of the moment.
There were pages of songs he had yet sung
Living there on the tip of his tongue.
He had, too, vast memories of things,
And ideas still lived inside him like machines.
But right then
there was no other world
but this
to him.
October 16, 2025

This Will Happen to You
If you’re an artist,
And back in the day you lowered your head
And lifted it only for air and light
And maybe to hear the birds occasionally,
But otherwise you just plowed and grinded and grit your teeth
And scratched out your poems or splashed your paint
Or constructed your songs
From the time you crawled out of bed
Till you crawled back in it,
And like a junkie you were consumed by all this
And you sacrificed everything
To the pursuit of this all-encompassing end…
then one day
it will happen to you:
Your drive train will slip or jump into neutral,
Your freight train momentum will come to a stop
And there will be a din of silence
And you will look up and see something on the horizon
That is stunningly fresh and radiant.
And at that moment what you are going to want
—more than anything else—
Is to be able to renounce or otherwise destroy
Every damn thing you ever created.
You will want to obliterate it all from the record.
You will long to start anew,
As if everything you had ever wrought
Was just some preliminary draft or a sketch of that
One True Thing
you see there on the horizon.
Yes, if you are really an artist,
And not just some punk,
This will happen to you.
April 16, 2024

Last Night’s Song (a text at midnight)
Thanks for sharing with me tonight
Your index of ideas about sex and death.
They are comedies all!
I suppose you sensed
That I’m done with all the tragic themes.
I have seen men die;
They look ridiculous when they do.
And as for the dramatic orgasm of consciousness,
Can a cum stain on a silk sheet really be a metaphor?
I recall an ancient adage from the Sahara
That I heard in a cafe in Morocco:
“Tears of laughter
And tears of pain
Taste the same
In a parched mouth.”
Now, isn’t that our kind of fatalism?
In any case, call me in the morning
When you wake up, ok?
I want to see if you can sing
Last Night’s Song to me,
But this time….
without the wine.
February 2, 2024

The Wilderness
Spring is here
With all its irony,
And in our flower gardens
The caterpillar cocoons, chrysalides,
Emerges Christ-like but verily winged,
Indiscriminately beautiful, sky-bound,
Renewed, transformed, forged by circumstance.
The Baptism itself
Is this ritual of Nature re-enacted:
Jesus in the Wilderness,
Jews running loose in Sinai,
The bar mitzvah, bootcamp on Paris Island,
The Buddha beneath the banyan tree,
The quinceanera, the puberty rites of savage tribes,
The hair-shirted, sequestered monk,
Muhammad in his mountain cave.
All these myths of transformation,
With their dash of flame-and-ash magic,
Implore us to rise courageously from our selves.
And in no other time but the present,
And in no other Age but this,
our own.
April 2021

Lockdown
She got strange during Covid.
In her virtual presence I could see
Her desperately grasping and grappling,
Mining for reasons and explanations
And cures.
Thus she wandered into the arms
Of waiting charlatans
Who fried her senses with their schemes.
As it is with certain boats,She fared better at anchor;
Her better self was built for fairer weather.
She called me once
During the middle of the pandemic,
Ostensibly to see how I was doing,
But quickly she began to rail
About the microbe and it origins,
The diabolic vaccine
And the nefarious powers operating
Behind the curtains.
She so badly needed to be right about
Something.
I did my best to let her “have her head,”
As the horse trainers say.
She soon fell gravely ill, of course.
Had it bad.
But survived to be afraid another day.
I saw her recently at one of the protests
Holding a benign sign of some kind.
We had once circled in the same solar system,
But now there was no gravity about us.
We deflected each other’s smile
With a drifting smile.
It was clear to me she was never coming back
to earth.
October 23, 2025

Cretin
Having never stood
far enough away
from the world
to have a grasp
of what it is,
he mouths on about it
like a worm tracking
through a buzzard’s gut.
No superlative
can rank his ignorance—
It’s the polish
across his arrogance,
a wax shine
on an insipid apple.
August 2025

Artists!!!
When
creativity
sparks,
throw
every
fucking
log
you
have
on the fire.
May 5, 2022