No Mas

Tonight, the Latino grill man sings Kumbaya while he slops together another hamburger, as though his singing will rouse God from his day off and come rescue him… His faith doesn't care for history of field hand strung to trees of the past. Especially in this town, where the locals look at him with contempt because all the plant workers names end in Gonzales or Hernandez. And he can't help it if he knows Spanish because Mama wanted him to remember where he came from. Mama who knew America for its HMO's and not for homeboys who'd sit on their porches and watch her pull Read more [...]

In Search Of Dog (an Eclectic Journal: Long)

May 9, 2002--Springfield, MO On the 157, 643, 241, 708th day Dog created me--and he thought it might have been a waste of his time. 11:49 pm Dropped CM off at his place about 20 mins ago. Beginning to wonder how many people think I'm homosexual. I tend to have more guy friends I hang out with, and more female friends I consult with, but I am really good in bed…(I am an egotist!)…or does that mean something else. Sign says: watch for backing cars I went to punch it on Grand at the Jefferson intersection, and the auto-clutch stalled. Upset. Still loaded on caffeine from the Mud House, no sleep tonight, acute insomnia. Read more [...]

Beauty Of Simple Things

(The Poem of Our Lives) If we were to walk down a deserted road in autumn, I would not point out the foliage, nor mention the clouds or how the breeze meanders along. Instead, I would find a felled tree and count the concentric rings encompassing the stump; remarking on how a year's growth had been by the width of the band. Then I would look up and ask: why don't we recycle the paper we use to draft the poems of our lives? or burn all of our money and move to Tibet? After this thinking had exhausted us, we would lay down and not speak. Imagine how the other Read more [...]

Cacophony Of Voices

My room is an abyss windows blackened with construction paper. I lie alone, awaiting enlightenment, incense burning sickly sweet. Apparitions of people appear, examine me with physician eyes, determine the dimensions of my dementia. I do not see them. Instead, they chatter while they work their of voices blistering my brain. The process is slow, but eventually I will tear the covering from my windows, flood the room with light, and become invisible. Read more [...]

Four Views Of Allen Lake

This is no hallow place it is pasture land and that is all. Why do I find myself at it in times of trial? And have since November ‘97 10:00 pm--20 degrees steam rising in phantom sheets off the hood of my car. Even when I am nowhere near I still find myself drawn here, always with the same question… **** I walk the gravel trail adjacent to the water's edge noticing the broken beer bottles and charred remains of a previous night's exuberance. A five-leafed marijuana plant spotlighted in the moonlight makes me laugh. It is no weed. More likely the remnants of someone's cheap bag-- Read more [...]