“Wreck?”
“Bad?”
“How bad?”
“Dead?”

Now,

Atop my desk,
Trapped on film
In an orange-capped pose
“Mr. Ag.” at 31
Sits brother–
So silent, so still.

Let me lift your nose and mouth
above the waters edge
where you wash away grime,
the way we wash away words
flung at each other.
And under the covers
where we collide –
ultrasonic waves of sound
in liquid silence
touch with angelic softness,
setting aside the edge
of Gabriel’s sword.
And I find you,
no tears, no cries,
no angel’s wings,
and I lift you out of the water
praying that it is not too late –
gulping in those sharp gusts of wind
that blow between us.

You are an appendage that has to be amputated,

An infection, a sickness, a Vascular disease.

With no purpose real but to eat and eat and eat.

My freewill, my mobility,

you take an arm and a leg

At the cost of me becoming

Healthy again.

A decaying envelope 

I want it. 
I must have it.
I must have what she has. 

Envy,
invasive as kudzu
blankets my brain
obscures all light
casts a putrid pea-green haze
on everything in sight. 

I want it. 
I must have it.
I must have what she has. 

Just as kudzu 
smothers the tree, 
this constant coveting
chokes all reason from me.

I want it. 
I must have it.
I must have what she has. 

Kudzu 
must be cut down,
at the crown. 

Roots 
must be scorched clean
with kerosine.

If not completely eradicated
the host cannot thrive;
this envy must be excised
so that I may survive. 

The ugly black and white billboard

on the interstate

says

“I’m a child, not a choice.”

Wasting money  on a political billboard

instead of using it to help the needy

is a choice,

an unChrist-like choice.

Being hateful

and judgmental

to the LGBTQ+ community

instead of ministering to their needs

is a choice.

Prioritizing the well being of the unborn

over that of the

born and suffering

is a choice.

Being a voice of judgment

instead of a

voice of love

is a choice.

(The people with the “not perfect, just forgiven” bumper stickers

secretly think they actually are perfect.)

Ignoring the needs

and the humanity

of the mother

is a choice.

Enjoying the free will

God gave you

but denying it to others

is a choice.

Having no compassion

for victims of

rape and incest

is a choice.

Handing down

a life sentence

for both mother

and unwanted child

is a choice.

(Who wants to be born

to a mother

who doesn’t want them?)

Choosing not to support

mother or child is a choice.

Cutting maternity leave is a choice.

Getting rid of free lunches for children

is a choice.

Abolishing programs

that benefit children

(including the arts)

is a choice.

“pro lifers”

stop caring about the baby

the moment after delivery.

Apathy begins at birth.

They would stop being

“pro life”

if they could determine

the child’s

gender,

sexual orientation,

etc

while still in the womb.

Then abortion would be fine

if the fetus

might be

gay or trans or bi.

Trying to legislate morality like the Pharisees

is a choice.

Hatred is a choice.

And so many so called christians

choose it every single day.

reminder to be gentle
     towards myself
today of all days, when I weigh my errors and find them heavy
the past, meaning the way-way back
speaks a little louder the second week of June
I’ve managed it, well, thanks
old enough to measure life in decades
there are one hundred random conclusions
     yet it boils down to, probably two which are solid
so I count my lessons learned
realize self grace does not come easy or without a few laughs
and march on, because I can
also, what else would I do?

Derby
Horses race
 Wide brimmed hats
Mint juleps, bourbon, burgoo
Kentucky national spotlight 
Two minutes
Flashed.

She wishes she never kissed him when the sun was
setting and the river was flowing in the distance. She
wishes she never kissed him back two more times 
when he asked again. What was the point of the first
kiss when it turned into the second and third? She 
wishes the moment could have stayed magical. It was,
until it wasn’t. It was a fairytale. It was the perfect
chronicle of undying love, until it wasn’t. Until the kisses
warped into constant arguments againist her dreams.
She wishes she never kissed him. She wishes she 
never decided to hear him out when the equation
of their love became his money minus her future
multiplied by outside expectations. What was the
point of loving him if it meant losing her ambitions?

Dog was a good dog.
Short-haired, brown, big, he romped
with me down dirt roads crossing open fields
but things changed when Dog learned
how to solve quadratic equations.  

Scientists coveted Dog, wanted
to learn how he did it, develop his skills.
Perhaps there were things
they could learn from him.
So, Dog went.  

Dog remains a good dog.
Sometimes he returns to play with me.
His brown eyes know I’m  lonely.
But when time comes for him to go back
I don’t fuss.  

Sometimes I visit Dog.
He’s learned to sit in a chair and wear
a white lab coat at the conference table.
Scientists slap their foreheads, amazed,
as Dog solves every equation they can imagine.    

Ultimately, I turn away.
It’s time for me to go home.
Still, I’m proud.
Dog is my dog
even though he isn’t anymore.