My father served in WWII
Enlisted in the Navy
An officer of men

My uncle served as well
Early in the war
B-17 pilot, with a crew to protect

They had no protection
Down over France
No one survived

We were fighting imperialists
Power hungry men seeking control
To rule the world

There is a statement
From the rooms of recovery
Lending sanity, reason:

Lest problems of money, property and prestige
divert us from our primary purpose

To be at peace
Experiencing joy, understanding
Goodwill for all

I am waiting at the cosmic DMV
for God to call my number
and over the intercom decide
that it is now my turn.

Documents in hand I approach
the counter and am turned away
for an inexplicable reason,
to the back of the line.

The pastor uses the joke to talk
about the end times. Wait patiently.
Deliberately. But from the pew
I cannot help but scoff

as my friends have weddings
and children while the world
explodes in bombings and
loneliness. When is it our

turn to be happy?

I can barely breathe
The the rising feeling
Sorrow and rage like lava
Churning, burning, rising
Up my chest
My lungs on fire as I
Attempt to inhale
The tightness worsens
And I am overcome
The tears flow down my cheeks
As I wail
My body thrusts forward
And heavy sobs escape
In catharsis
This will not be the end

the walls that contain this world
smooth, expressionless
stark
cliff faces voices of water
pour from the shells of your throats

sounds find me
on the inside
decanting incantations
from the solitude
of my beatless heart
crafting meaning
from the noises you make

in my murky den
colors don’t exist until invented
and my shattered legs can’t ache
until I let them
every crack and hinge
caked in fronds and moss
to trap the outside sun

figment; fragment 

i could not tell you what a fig tree looks like,

tho i imagine i once sat beneath one

sometime, within the field of granny’s blackberry bushes

as she often spoke of figs

and how her mother loved them 

whilst doctor oz rambled on from the kitchen television 

set atop the fridge 

i do not know what flavor they liken

or quite how you cook them 

maybe as a fill to a pie or a tart, 

possibly sweet— probably soured 

granny didn’t bake much;  she cooked 

chicken and ham and green beans with the fatty bits of bacon 

i no longer eat meat, didn’t want to then either 

but if i know anything, you don’t say no to offers from granny nor papaw 

even when he asks you to church 

and you’ve no longer anything proper to wear

nor patience to spare for that withered wooden pew 

‘cause they won’t be here forever, and their god may forsake you too

No judgment

Truth-teller

Let me cut her hair

With kid scissors

When I was 4-ish and she was 1-ish

We share a voice,

Laughter, sarcasm

When I day drink, it’s with her

We engineered a friendship between our dogs,

Leading to  sister/dog playdates

She’s been a fixture my world,

Either beside me,

Or declaring “this is your deal, not mine”

And opting out,

But always present at the end

With a quip, a hug

And the truth.  

stand helplessly at bay 

over and over
I was the one you were looking for
someone to clean up the mess you made
hopelessely devoted
to the idea of what we had
but the dream ran dry
and while it could all be so easy
crawling back to you
the dream has faded
barely remembered
never in the same light

my brain already
feels totally fried. what’s one
more piece of bad news?

Courage has the hunter run with purpose;
Hunger has the forager search the surface.

A timeless marriage, the hunter & forager—
Acts of service, and a collector of character.

Their bronze hearts and metallic stones hold 
The weight of history, love, & the unknown.