It ain’t gonna rain no more, no more.
It ain’t gonna rain no more.
I don’t care what the doodlebird says
it ain’t gonna rain no more.  

Trump will shut it down.
Trump will shut it down.
They ain’t replacing White with Brown.
Trump will shut it down.  

DeSantis is the man.
DeSantis is the man.
He don’t like gay and he don’t like trans,
DeSantis is the man.  

Dixie was the best.
Dixie was the best.
A few bad apples don’t spoil the rest.
Dixie was the best.  

Young’uns, close your eyes.
Young’uns, close your eyes.
Truth’s been rated Triple X
so young’uns, close your eyes.  

Antifa’s on the run.
Antifa’s on the run
Obama and his mama can’t take our guns.
Antifa’s on the run.  

Peckerwoods don’t give up.
Peckerwoods don’t give up.
Hitler’s one they wisht had won
and peckerwoods don’t give up.  

It ain’t gonna rain no more, no more.
It ain’t gonna rain no more.
I don’t care what the doodlebird says
it ain’t gonna rain no more.            

After Oliver Sykes

You called it a House of Wolves.

blood (is) between beats
(blood) is ((first))
blood (is) working
(blood) is ((hard to push))
blood (is) inside
(blood) is ((ahead of time))

There once was a girl from Vancouver
whose French kiss was quite the maneuver. 
Although very young,
she’d grab hold of your tongue 
and then suck with the force of a Hoover!

Even the floats we ride—

turquoise, white, sunny calm.

But hidden among un-

blossomed perennials 

are frogs that bleat like sheep—

small frogs—

over-the-hill sheep.

Weekends, we would drive the dirt roads south of Tucson,
those old washed-out tracks drug dealers
and human coyotes would use to smuggle their products across the border,
down near Arivaca where it’s said people go to disappear,
picking wild sage from the hillsides for you to bring home 
and dry and bundle into smudge sticks
for your empowerment ceremonies,
burning the sage while you chanted the mantra 
that would unravel the bond tying us one to the other. 

I often wonder if you’re happier now —
I hope so, for the pain of that unweaving to have been worthwhile —
and about the strong magic you must have mastered 
that keeps me, after all these years, smoldering for you.

Today Savannah’s squares
are drizzled gray. On Drayton Street,
a man in house shoes and a raincoat 
shuffles toward the curb, waits for his dog 
to pee, and tells me 
in his thick Spanish accent, 
A good place to go is the Catholic church.
When I say that’s where we’re headed,
he nods his approval.
Take your time. Thirty,
forty minutes. You will love it.
I thank him and wonder, briefly,
as I dodge a puddle,
whether we look lost or if he is 
simply guiding us to reprieve 
from the rain. Maybe he fancies himself
some sort of evangelist to tourists — 
slightly disheveled, unassuming,
pointing us, in his way, toward God.

to a 4-year-old    sand singing
in a box      little bucket
& tiny shovel    someone to play
with past supper    sandbox morphs

to vast sahara        rapture multiplies
desert of knives       fingers
bleed      skin seared
by sunlight    hearts forget

sweet rough       sandbox
becomes memory       child’s tiny heart
seared & hemorrhaging      burgundy
waterfalls of blood       war the end

of advanced civilzation       snail
paced migration    rapture petitions
again, again     rapture’s invitation
to a 4-year-old        sand

singing        again, again

Jet engines roar high
piercing heaven and night sky –
Rolling thunder clap