Pets not allowed
"Pets not allowed"
Said the sign at the playground.
But how will the children learn to live?
From adults that have lost
the meaning of play;
the feeling of joy;
the sensation of freedom?
"Pets not allowed"
Said the sign at the playground.
But how will the children learn to die?
From adults that have found
the shame in nakedness;
the disgust in defecation;
the damnation in fornication?
"Pets not allowed"
said the sign at the playground;
but I can read between the lines,
and this too it said:
"Even a domesticated, castrated creature,
utterly shorn of its wild nature, is too dangerous."
Our children may see
a skittish cur give up fear for a chance at love
in two wags of his curly Q tail;
the unbridled joy of the chase
that ends in failure;
A full belly, and a hole in the dirt
is all that's needed to sleep sound.
Pets not allowed.
Time Machine
Withered floorboards creak
and we crawl back through time
Weary old oaks age in reverse
on state highway 80
Chumby’s Pizzeria serves up slices
of the seventies
Turbo Bar and Grill rocks
and rolls with eighties angst
and the Sacc’o’Suds Laundromat
still has powdered detergent from the sixties
all of them call us back to another age
a lifetime ago
relics of the past,
clung to as if life depended upon them
We creep into the Czech capital of Wisconsin
and I wonder
how many more worlds are out there?
A single day on the road
shatters sacred suppositions
superstitions and sensibilities
We cleave through their city
and continue on
contemplating how small we have become
despite our dominion
our imaginations wither
amidst towering cities
of steel glass and concrete
perpetually numbed thralls
in this brave new world
encroaching ever after
We come again to a town on a river,
once, it's flowing water was
our energy, our transit, our food
our renewal
Now, mere channels in the earth
they hold more phantoms than people
more poison than potion
more perception than portent
the town so aptly named,
the City of Yesteryear,
implores us,
begs us,
remember...
All we used to need
a post office, a schoolhouse, a general store
less than a tenth of a modern city block
we power through this ghost town
and forget
We return to the road
where we find ourselves
and the waiting world
and the joy
so ruthlessly squeezed from our shining cities
returns to us
and whispers
all is not lost…
All is not lost.
Old Glory
Old Glory ripples in the stiff breeze
towering over oak, maple and elm
A constant reminder
all it costs, to be His ward
A pledge
A promise of fealty
The heart you cover with your hand
the cost of doing business
The America I used to believe in
talks a big game
He preaches so persuasively
about what He's going to do
For equality...
for humanity...
for all..
And yet
what has He given us
our mighty patriarch?
Microwave ovens, central air
shitty beer, shittier cigarettes,
movies and TV shows that offer nothing
nothing but the promise
of what's to come
The America I used to believe in
a modernized Homeric myth
cobbled together by crooks and politicians
yet propagated most proficiently
...by our educators
Our preachers and our poets
our pop stars and our pa-paws
our mothers, mentors, siblings and spouses!
We never knew Him as He truly was!
The Scientist that demands belief
The King who devours His own people
Our Father in Heaven, wielding his omnipotence
to compensate for His impotence
You may think me a bitter failure...
You're right
You may think me a fitful fool...
I am
Not because of these words,
but because I still hope!
Somehow,
Someway,
I've not given up
Hope you'll see me,
Hear me,
Feel me...
A fool's hope
A fool's chance
the genesis...
Of the America I used to believe in
Loon Island
There's a funny little thing about Loon Island...
Loons never lived here.
They never ate here,
never nested here,
never fucked here,
and never died here.
Lucky loons.
What lived here was a horde of savage beasts
so adept as anglers
they fished the lake empty.
A multitude of creatures
so unlike the loon
confusing them borders on criminal
A petty crime
against what came next
A great hunt was called for
upon those sandy beaches
below the Burr Oak and the Basswood
Shots rang out as eager men
went about their grim work
below the Burr Oak and the Basswood
the double crested cormorant
that 'funny little thing'
called Loon Island home.
This historical plaque should blush crimson
ashamed of our ignorance
Rather, it stands imperious
a memorial to the power
that renders ignorance
irrelevant
On the shores of those sandy beaches
below the burr oak and the basswood
lies a mass grave
of unlucky 'loons'
unmourned
Below the burr oak and the basswood
their maker welcomed them home
and he called them by their name
Lake Shetek Monument
The stark stone obelisk
looms over all who enter the park.
Heroes are what they call those
interred six feet below.
It is unclear what they did
to justify such a title.
The monument does not say.
Absent from this tower
the grim cause these "heroes" inspired,
the vengeance wrought upon those
that dared make open
the war, hitherto, waged covertly
Absent from this tower
the fury, that drove the rebels
across freezing tundra
to faraway wastelands
where they could not grow weeds.
Far from the rivers and lakes
they once called home,
those rebels would die.
Like the double crested cormorant,
and the fourteen corpses beneath our feet,
there was nothing heroic about it.
The Needles
Boulders jut from earth
yearning for sky.
Held fast, they stand
erect as sentinels
protecting primal power.
The hum of sacred sound
resonates in quartz crystals
that bind the sun
to the depths of the earth.
Mica shimmers at midday,
as sparkles adorn a breezy lake,
kissed by the summer sun,
beckoning, "Come. Play."
Soft and light we dance along
to the song of life.
Our hearts open wide and overflow.
The light of the world pours out.
Badlands
The Rage of Achilles
That ice cold open
every warm blooded Greek
knew by heart
Three thousand years on, that rage is spent
a sterile word in a stale world,
a dictionary definition far removed from the feeling
a flood and a flow
a contempt for life
and a revelry in death
never before
and never again
to grace fair Ilium
Badlands rise before us
abruptly jutting skyward from dusty flats
to which they suddenly return
like the gods looked with pity
upon these Great barren Plains
and built sandcastles to the sky
But the world will not suffer sandcastles to stay
each thunderstorm
a flood and a flow
carrying silt to the flatlands
Three thousand years on
they, like Achilles' rage
will be a footnote
for what will never be felt again
Three thousand years
is all it takes
to erase the rage
a place
the darkness of space
Three thousand more
and what will remain?
Only these words
that hold
no meaning
Lover’s Leap
Rarely do we find
a vision of the world
as it was before
we improved it.
Looking out at the needles
the rolling mountains
and blankets of pine between,
the resonance of quartz and calcite crystals
enveloping us,
we consider that final pact,
the lover's leap.
No better place
for a final breath.
Devil’s Tower
We have taken possession / This place of revelation,
and demand entry fees / a sanctuary of prayer
to leer with craven hearts. / and beacon of power stands alone.
A line of cars comes to worship / An unbound space
tattoos and synthetic clothing / and focal point of cosmic mystery
aviators and box hair dye. / lay defiled
Walking billboards / A sacred silence lingers
Undiminished
When I return
Will you be bone dry
bled by the burning earth?
Will what once held your name
be empty chasms
and cliffs, stone-faced?
When I return
will you have forgotten
who and what you are?
Shall I call you by your name,
recall what has been taken,
what you lack?
When I return
filled again with wonder
dwarfed in your majesty
will my lamentations echo
in your hollow crevasse?
When I return
will I be greeted by your friends
the ornery moose, reclusive goat
and curious marmot?
Will the lumbering bears,
black and grizzled be grazing,
face to face with Ranger Pat
gorging on wild huckleberries?
Will you still show your indomitable spirit,
robbed of your namesake,
your very lifeblood,
your glaciers gone dry?
When I return
Will you scorn these tears
that cannot fill you?
Or will you show me
that even when the world
takes all you hold holy,
your power remains,
Undiminished
Lake McDonald
We follow the current
crafting a spell from river to lake
Each red rock radiates
the warmth of a flickering campfire
each blue swirl whirls uniquely
and every brown and grey and white
shimmers and gleams
with the light of creation itself
here at Lake McDonald
No rock is like another
though they're all born of the same stuff.
Each stone a stich,
each stitch a world unto itself,
a world in which:
words lose meaning.
Each of these tiny worlds dazzle me
here at Lake McDonald.
Sun and shadow dance from world to world,
Seamlessly woven together
Kissed by the emerald waters
true beauty emerges
in this seamless tapestry
with boundless stitching.
A perfect harmony
here at Lake McDonald.
Creature Comforts
Creature comforts you call them,
yet nothing you call 'creature' enjoys them.
Moments of bliss you forgot to savor
in your rush to get to the next flavor.
It's not living, per se,
It's a habitual ritual.
A soft chair and a hot coffee -
aromatic steam melting your cares.
Now cold,
it goes careening down the drain
with the precious moment
you forgot to taste.
No Goal
The moment we set a goal
we rob ourselves of eternity.
Our gain from this theft?
A hit of dopamine.
A bank deposit.
A pat on the back.
Rotten loot.
The moment we set a goal
we rob ourselves of spontaneity.
Our loss from this theft?
Lollygagging, goofing off,
sleeping in, a midday pint.
Time to savor the taste of life.
Squandered treasures.
The moment we set a goal
we rob ourselves of freedom.
Our gain from this theft?
A scattering of meetings,
status updates, and reviews -
in short, a career.
Bad ROI.
The moment we set a goal
we become it.
Our loss? Life itself.
For a goal cannot remember
to breathe, or live, or feel;
it can only remember
that for which it strives.
The moment we set a goal
our life becomes
an endless blur
marked by signposts we call
goals...
Too bad its not that kind of game.
Once in a lifetime sunrise
A once in a lifetime sunrise
fills me with wonder.
Dense cloud cover
enmeshed with skylights of briny blue
sprinkled with fairy dust
dispersing and diffusing light
as the sun crested the horizon
a tapestry of myriad color emerged.
Shifting by the second, they galloped across the sky
crimson horses, azure wolves, violet stag
This pitiful pursuit of poetry pales,
no - profanes that beauty.
These words, these mere
representations of things,
generalizing, sterilizing, no-things,
taking the place of moving, breathing,
beautiful life.
In minutes, it was gone.
Alive only in memory now,
degrading every moment.
Soon, even the memory will fade
and nothing will remain but these words
that hold
no meaning.
Gorge
Nothing inspires quite like a gorge.
It makes me feel infinitesimal,
like nothing that I ever do will matter.
What a gift!
Earth, violently lifted
by supermassive geological events
It gets a chance to kiss the sky.
What a gift!
Rainwater, tumbling down the mountain
carves a deep chasm, falling far,
to find stillness.
What a gift!
The cool stream caresses
the brown trout darting
towards his morning meal.
What a gift!
Giant boulders protect
a lone ponderosa pine
whispering an ancient tune.
What a gift!
All are like the sunrise.
Just as fleeting.
Just as beautiful.
What a gift!
Arches
Another main street
shamelessly offers her wares.
Chochkies and pithy slogans
entice the purchase today
of what we discard tomorrow.
T-shirts of every color and size,
bottler openers, magnets, key rings
jewelry and Christmas ornaments
all condemned to the landfill
the moment they were made.
A thousand thousand main streets
and their refuse
pockmark these beautiful lands
with the same gridded layouts,
blocky architecture, tired gimmicks
boring restaurants and insufferable tourists
each of them taking and making
nothing but trash.
How different the world appears
just minutes away
in Arches National Park.
Rock formations expand
the borders of our imagination.
Each marvel sits silently content.
The balanced rock does not claim supremacy
for its enduring feat of stability,
nor scorn the sun that rages overhead.
For what else would they do?
Straight lines do not exist within
this sanctuary of engineering marvels
we find ourselves unable or unwilling to replicate
where all the beauty comes in waves
with no beginning or end.
Manifest Destiny
Manifest Destiny - that supreme birthright
of American exceptionalism.
America reigns unchecked
from the dropped r's of the northeast
to the Golden Gates of the west
and beyond…
We terraform the desert with mighty dams
The reservoirs they hold back supply water
for growing non-native plants
and supporting non-native people.
We dynamite our way to the top of the mountain
pave over the wreckage with tar, black as our intent,
erecting shameless monuments to ourselves
that we may enjoy the mountain view
we've so recklessly destroyed.
We recreate in the most dangerous, savage places
and demand a med-evac, straight to the nearest hospital.
All of this we do for one,
puny, worthless, immeasurably short,
human life.
Better to let them die of exposure,
or hemorrhage, or starvation, or thirst,
or any other weak, human way they choose to go.
They entered the wilderness, attempting to claim it.
Let them reap the bitter fruit of their failure.
Perhaps, if they didn't seek dominion over our wild places
or pollute their beauty with convenience,
that wretched entitlement
that grants us gift shops, pancake houses and pizzerias
in place of purple mountain's majesty,
I could consider mercy.
As it stands, let them die
alone
a conqueror's death.
The Goblin Queen
Rugged wastelands stretch to every horizon
Infernal flies rage unchecked,
buzzing and biting all who trespass
The goblins are immune to their insolence
These precocious creatures
that must have come from another dimension
The magic that brought them here,
fortress and all,
left them frozen
and lingers upon them
charming those who get too close.
These stony creatures hold no ideal,
cleave to no forms,
each a living work of art unto itself
Living in stillness, each reflects
the moment that brought them here
A magical current draws us
to the center of the pit
A throne lay empty
A young woman ascends and reigns
for a moment
All present hail,
The Goblin Queen!
Palo Duro Massacre
A swarm of moths rise,
reaching for sunlight
unaware of their peril,
their imminent doom,
they float, and flit, and dance
as sun and sky embrace them
they live.
Dozens of dragonflies hover
calculate intercept vectors
greedily fall upon them
with voracious appetites
droneing, buzzing, clapping
they kill.
Though the moths were many
and full of life
they were all of them -
devoured
Though the dragons feasted,
drenched in gore,
they were all of them -
famished
The most popular religion in America
They rise like ancient coliseums
The glare of burning white lights
Illuminates every blade of grass
on this hallowed ground
where sacred rites are held
every Friday night.
As the gladiatorial competition rages
faces contort in anguish
as the enemy invades our sacred space,
showing no restraint nor mercy.
From the moment they could walk
they have practiced this religion,
taught to fight, punish, and inflict pain.
Pain reveals weakness.
Weakness can be exploited.
True intent revealed in such ruthless competition,
the most popular religion in America.
Pigskin and gridiron
Indoctrinates our strongest youths
not towards peace, but towards war;
not towards cooperation, but towards competition;
not towards love, but towards hate.
Those who bear witness from the towering stands
chant and pray, that they may conquer on this night.
Bodies erupt in an explosion of ecstasy
as one of our boys smites the opposition.
Laying on the turf in agony,
the world spins.
The glare of burning white lights
induces nausea,
waves of pain,
amnesia.
A boy forgets his hate
and cries for his mother.
It is good that he does.
She is the only one who cares
that he's been broken.
For Dave
"In three hundred words or less"
he said,
"tell me what you've learned."
I gotta go back first,
all the way back to my schoolboy days
when I learned the history of this nation.
Exploitation. Oppression. War.
We don't call it that though.
We call it,
Capitalism. Freedom. Progress.
I learned to accept these three,
to embrace them, and propagate them in perpetuity.
On the road, I learned that I could reject this life,
this cultural obsession with taking and winning.
On the road, I learned its cost.
For those who reject enlightenment still suffer
under its cruel reign.
Slavery. Deporation. Genocide.
Welcome them home.
On the road, I learned
America is - a drifter.
We have no home, no native land,
no scared tree, nowhere to go back to,
to remember where we came from.
We've got no life of our own.
Everything we have is stolen from another,
transformed beyond recognition, and called
________ - American. You know, like
Italian-American, African-American, Native-American.
What it really means is that we destroyed the first thing
attempted to reassemble the shattered pieces
and bring it back to life,
all the while claiming
we made it better than ever.
We're Dr. Frankenstein
consumed by twisted experiments
creating monstrous abominations
in our quest to become gods.
On the road, I learned
it is my destiny,
my heritage
my birthright
to reign, a god,
lonely, vicious and vagrant
fleeing the monsters I made
from lifeless words
their callous vengeance
ever upon my heels
until I die...
less than a god...
less than a man....
less than a monster...
An American
Black Hills
This is the last poem
a conclusion to this collection.
I wrote this poem many times,
always missing the mark, shirking my duty
afraid to feel again, what I felt that day
we surveyed the Black Hills.
This will be my last attempt, for the grief is too great
and all my tears are spent.
This poem deserves tears, but I've none left to give.
We killed them for gold.
We killed them for land.
We killed them for gems.
We killed them for money.
We killed them because we could.
We killed them.
We liked it.
We.
Never.
Stopped.
Our iPhone charge, another lump of coal
Our wedding band, more gold from sacred land.
Formerly...Sacred land.
"They didn't live there, like, full-time right?"
Our Amazon package another limb
oak, maple, elm...does it even matter?
We can't stop taking cause it's all we know
There can be no atonement for these atrocities,
just another emptiness we long to fill.
Graven idols leer down at me
imperiously etched
defacing the mountainside
with their smug smirking faces
"We can do anything, and no one can stop us."
Surrounded by their desolation,
I believed them.
Tears spring anew and stream down my face
falling upon this final poem
showing me what I was missing.
Tears do not fall from the eyes of the hopeless
This living and breathing poem,
the Black Hills, are not bereft of hope,
and neither am I.
The power to change the world
lying dormant in this still-beating heart
is ready to be unleashed.
I abandon my birthright.
I abandon my destiny.
I abandon my heritage.
I live...
more than a monster...
more than a man...
more than a god...
An American
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Endymion’s Journal 
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