Cradle to grave, the destiny of man
is one from which there’s no escape.
Born he was without teeth in his gums
but it is the tooth of time that tears and gnaws.

Aging gracefully, oh, such fleeting dream;
man finds himself prisoner of old age.
Dogs may grow old without showing their age--
some old ones still run, but this one lies still.

This shadow of man, once stout,
now his legs are withered and stiff;
the skin is loose and saggy like that
of a plucked goose. The neck

The phone rings late in the afternoon
She says she wants to see me tonight
I take another drink and contemplate the dance

Dark hair and a smile that cuts to the truth of the matter
Taking what she wants and leaving the rest
She turns over and draws the covers to her

And the damn cats look at me disapprovingly
I let them out to search for better company in the alley
She says, "Leave the bastards to the night and come back to bed."

Clad in the dark garment of night,
you walk into my dream,
wearing a diadem made of all the stars
I see in the night sky. Each one
of those countless sparkling gems
represents a single thought of my love for you;
Cupid gave it light to let you know,
I’m thinking of you; always.
How desperately I try to hold on
to each minute detail of your face—
and recall your loving words.
You are my passion; my longing;
my undying soul.
Where you are not, I cannot be.

My fever dream seethes me back to you
I am holding you close
with a desperate tenderness

You are saying goodbye,
but I’m somewhere else
in my fortress of doubt

Your offhand remarks,
the taking a powder looks,
should have made It clear
you were already gone

But dusty blue eyes
and a peach tree smile
give up their secrets reluctantly

Still, I hold on tighter
so you will not fade away
into the black of the night

Is this the end? Here I am;
moribund, motionless,
mind steeped in fatalism,

anticipating the approaching
end I perceive in hustling,
rushing doctors, their
emotionless faces concealed
behind surgical masks.

Bright light . . .
“Okay, on three . . .
now . . . heave-ho!”

Oh, fading skies of life!
Am I to be marooned
on a melancholic island,
entrapped by silence?

I close my eyes,
surrender to astral illusions.

You dreamer, do not coyly pretend
that my passion cannot reach you.
Do not deceive yourself; you are
not secure. Like a shadow cast
by moonlight, I come to you.

Oh—you are asleep? I think not;
for your rapid breathing, the fall
and rise of your exposed breasts,
all give you away.

There is only you in this room.
Are you aware of my presence?
You see, I possess a charm
that allowed me to enter your home
undetected. I bartered my soul
for the spell that made this visit possible,

The Stones and the Ramones
Social Distortion, out of the LA Punk scene
even Miles and Coltrane
She doesn’t need them

Still, in that void, there is a rhythm
found in her eyes, and in her heart
I let the sound sweep over me
It makes its own music

I listen to it over and over
A melody so beautiful
it can make you feel sorry
for blueberry pie

Her music has a piano
that finds our note of joy,
and a saxophone too,
that cries soulfully
somehow saying what I feel

I sat beneath the apple tree,
had sketching pad upon my knee,
took colored pencils, pad in hand
to draw the beauty I could see.

Blunt pencil points I'd soon restored;
both eyes fixed on the laden tree,
I found the perfect subject worthy
of that day's pleasant drawing spree.

From drooping limbs smiled ripened fruit,
but on my pad just one crude sphere
became the globe that shone in red
and filled my mind and heart with cheer.

Scott is dying in hospice
I think of him at this late time in his life
How he has found a way
to finally give something back, at least to me

His low place anchored
with misdeeds and transgressions
Still, he was loved by our mother

She was gone before him
In her absence, I looked after him
Food and other needed things

Anger made this an unwelcome burden at first,
while I still wandered in the fog of her loss
Urged on to help by the way she raised me

At morning’s angle of the sun,
Ants cast their long-lined shadows fro
To look like giants on the march,
Except they breed and live below,

Not on the earth, but deep within.
From high above I watched. They moved
In endless file, some ten abreast—
And of their sight I disapproved.

Although each pissant lifts one score-
And-five his own so paltry weight
In spoils ferociously obtained,
To me it’s diddly-squat at any rate.