Green Hole


Step…I see a meadow.
Green bellow
Green as far as the eye can seen.
Taste is green
Smell is green
All is green

They said ozone was green
Hole in the ozone
Hole we must close
Hole we did as told

My nose its filled
With just ozone
Green all is green
It’s crunchy Yes!

I like it. Crunch Crunch
I’m making a hole
And look Yes! Look
Down I see down I see!
Brown below and blue
And gold and red and…

Hole. I’ve made a hole…!

Green Hole

Bird Song


Birds don’t always sing sweet
Sometimes they cry.
Their song sung
Soft from their feathers
Moans bellowed before flight
Tears before the air.

I saw a crow once.
Squawking at an owl.
The crow loud and angry
Screeching beak bared,
His wings flared.
The owl turned and stared
His black head paused
Stunned at her glare.

Birds don’t always sing sweet.
The hoot does not always mean meat.
The wind flows with movement
Tones of emotion like
Notes on a page, words of matter;
Stone, aether, water and fire
Elemental mixes like chemical
Potions that intoxicate;
Like moxie, music, migrations;

At their finest, Eros.

Bird Song

No to You Me.ans Me

This must be it, you know, you know
Your final act
Your final word, your final cut
You, whoever you are
You beast
You cruel to be faced
No beast is too good for you
Beast is made of sinew and flesh is animal
You are worse than animal
You have no nature
You are rose then crew
You have no love for even
The wood the stone, your own skin
Nothing of Nature

My will to hold is dying
Again and you know it.

Why is this? Do you want me?
Or is it the want to watch
Me go, to fall, that is so hot?

Who are you? What are you?
How can I even reject you?
Without rejecting me?
All that I hold dear?
Dear…Fuck you!
Fuck me!
No…just no.
How can I even say no?

No to You Me.ans Me

For You, My Dear Reader Hope in Ink & Dust

I know in my bones, in my depths

For you, you who I hope reads this
When my bones are dust
That to write well means to write of hope.
I suppose, we know, that to say
You are here now is a hope
Of sorts, but what to say now?

Don’t pass them on to another dear one.
I know you think it a gift, generous loving,
Thinking their appreciation will blossom
And you’ll share the sun.
The seeds blow away and leave
You rooted under old dying
Birch trees – their bark dusting you gray.

Don’t believe a word they say,
Even if yours are true, even I
Swear as I swear this pen is mine
Because we are as rare
As this moment. And these precious times
May not be worth the chipped
Porcelain that got us here
And the hope I am unable to give you now
Without truly great poetry.
Because you should do better.

Become great by heeding my words,
Precious one.
So many will never mean what they say
Or do what they mean.
Never expect more or try to teach them
What beauty could come from it, for it.
Just keep meaning it. Mean you.
Mean your love for meaning always.
Not in seeking meaning, but knowing the meant
In meaning.

Honor meaning what you say, truth is less important
But used more often.

Seek meaningful people who find you meaningful
Despite your quirks and then find truth in them, dear one.
And let those truths become beautiful with meaningful currents.
Then great new truths, sometimes loud so that they shake
The fabric of the world.
Sometimes sans sound that they shake the very soul.

There is hope here.

Find it, my precious reader, my beautiful one.
When my bones are dust, like ink on this page, sacred scattered across time with no body to remember more.

For You, My Dear Reader Hope in Ink & Dust