didgman1

“a stroll in autumn”

being not a hunter

i tromp through leaves

with purpose and thunder

savoring each crunch and crunkle

the way some do berlioz and mahler

🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂

11.27.21

i hear the first five notes

of blue train…

crack the seal

on a 5th of bacardi anejo quatro…

glimpse a raven

silhouetted against a sinking sun…

watch her panties fall to the floor…

¡ay dios mio!

¡que la noche sea larga!

she walked in and asked,

“where’s the pie?”

“in the oven,” i replied.

she smiled and took off her skirt.

and that

was the single most poetic thing i’ve said

all week.

when staring down the barrel

of pistol, pussy, or opium pipe,

i take my ball and go home.

i gathered a handful of fallen leaves,

held it close to my face,

and breathed.

it smelled like purity.

green is never so transparent.

perspective -

subtle art of

parallel convergence

on a spatial plane -

miscarried and askew

on a cornerstone

mortared with blood.

i’m at a loss.

i don’t know what to do.

blinders fully secured,

the yahoos and yokels have taken flight -

bombs, beers, and bibles in hand…

only a shit storm can follow.

perspective -

wobbly at best due to drink and jazz,

i...
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“drinkin’ @ 50”

witches and hell spawn

be dammed!

3-4 am

is hereby baptized

the whizzing hour!

because drinkin’ at 50

is harder than it was

at 49.

cheers, fucknuts!

4.19.21

“eucharist”

here i am

on my knees

at the altar

with 3-fingers of havana c

and a box of white-cheddar cheezits.

i don’t think this is what

the preachers had in mind,

but 1/2 my prayers

have done been answered.

so lord, how ‘bout jennifer lawrence

and that world peace?

amen.

4.19.21

“laureate”

i believe

a ghost to be hiding

in the chinese lantern

folded and cold in my hall closet.

i hear it laughing,now and again,

when i walk by.

it happens, more often than not,

when the moon has been drinking

and i’m full & unencumbered by clouds.

i wonder if he’s a poet.

this place could really use one.

4.19.21

over coffee, she asked,

“what are your plans for today?”

i’m gonna try not to bleed.

it happens more often than you think.

not always of the flesh,

or out in the open,

but it gets messy

and hard to clean up.

i’m not ashamed,

nor proud.

it’s just who i am now.

five years and counting.

“not sure. just gonna wing it,”

i reply,...
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a concerto,

staccato and abstruse,

punctuated

with moments of upheaval,

quilted the evening sky.

rain was coming,

but you’d never know;

their voices were just

too damn happy.

i stood there

listening, spellbound, transfixed -

a leper fingering his scabs -

until one decided he had

better things to do...

and then another, and another,

and then silence, a car horn, a neglected dog.

dinner...
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among the trees

bristling with murder,

i stand, like nimrod,

ineffectual and thick.

but that’s where comparisons

end.

i have no want for heaven,

no use for temperamental cranks.

like whitman, i worship the spread

of the great...me!

and them, nattering

in the branches

about my big feet and smelly hat.

that’s all the liturgy i need.

2.22.21