June is draining away

June 2016-“Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.”   ― Charles Bukowski

Of the Summer Solstice -every fleeting evening light, wish & sigh as brief as in the wink of an eye


Summer Soul 1

1st Day of Summer


Solstice scimitar shaft
Slicing search torch
Gleaming longest burn
briefest pinnacle of light
declining seconds after
a descent commences….

The shadows start their
Encroaching erosion

Learn that lesson
From those who would
Build their world
On your ashes.

Uncollected 2013


In Sonic Embrace 


Curtains in the wind*

(audio version from CD Quattro-Vox 2013)


June splits open
cleanly down the middle
of herself in the bedroom
just after the grayest
faint whisper that
Dawn could muster
into the folds of
curtains setting sail.

Windows wide open
to allow the night out
and perhaps the morning in.

I stirred from my dream
just enough to perceive
the bedroom awash
in a sonic embrace.

Pinpoints of color
Cartwheel in motion
to swaying trees tops
rocking in the yard below.

The respirator of late Spring
laboring in a rush
of the moisture
laden air awash
hissing in soft exhale.

Then there’s the sound
of a passing freight train.
There’s always that sound
somewhere around this
middle time of June.

In the sonic embrace
bleeding all over your face
pouring into your ears.
fans twirl in slow
languid circle overhead
Fans much more busy
buzzing at the foot of the bed.

June escapes me
as you do here.

My half-dream wakes
me in this first light.
The sonic embrace of false

Between the two of you
Between the two of you
I just don’t know
what I will ever do.

June splits open
cleanly down the middle
of herself in the bedroom
just after the grayest
faint whisper that
Dawn could muster
into the folds of
curtains setting sail.

From Gridville 6/2006


I promise to keep your photo on the dresser


ghosts 4Another month blooms
from inside itself to life
May June July
as flower explosions
scent the time sky
while memory invoked
moments seeded in youth
Sunrises with snow white
air born cotton fibers
Dawns with a high full moon
still hanging in the blue sky
leftover midnight @ dawn
May June July.
Another month blooms
from inside itself to life.

You once yourself
did as much
to awaken in rebirth
on either coast strange or familiar bed
with a yellow light streaking through
custard bedroom curtains
spilling on and firing the ivory of the sheets.
untroubled by any horizon of doubt
from the meridian of the coming day.

Her arms reached for you
while a picture of someone else
sat planted eyeless on the dresser watching
you moving from the small of her back
into that coal shock blackness
of her wild thatched hair
cascading on to her shoulders
bodies entwined rising from the mattress
singing into each others ears.

 from Gridville 7/2006


Dwindling Shadows of June

June Shadow 1*


(Audio version from the CD Quatro-Vox 2013)


In the dwindling shadows of June
dancing in her
twilight skirt
gushing vermilion liquid
time is like a broken
Capillarity in the calendars
main line artery.
You can’t hope to contain
any of the torrent
Just drown maybe baby
Because the
big drain is on
You can feel the pull
you can feel the life
leave you
ever closer to
the finish
Not some abstract
intellectual property
but a cold hard tangible reality.
Your ebbing confidence
in a narrow shallow vision
in the past semi-protected
you from the harsh truth
from too much disappointment
There are no prospects
for replenishment here
This dissipation bathed
in spectacular warm light
is waning
the dissipation grows in the encroaching shadows
and takes
what was given
in the finite
while what is being
taken away

Sometimes Grief 2012

father son 7


The Old Man’s Fault


Hallmark defines

yet another contrive

consumer day of obligation

but fails to see the

species, phylum, the role

the basic biological

reality as it exists beyond

some 5 dollars of gaily configured cardboard

with sentimentality nobody really believes

or nasty sarcasm that all most

everyone smugly snickers at and buys.


father son 4No.

Closer to the truth

on this Sunday morning in June

is that the once thought of as




of the nuclear family

has been reduced

to an atom smashed

pulverized fragment

waddling away down

the aisles in Krap-Mart

in a sad post-modern procession

of the daddy parade.


The fat sad daddies

The trim yuppie daddies

Hung over haunted looking

out estranged vacant eyes

ghosts of father figures

Booze fighter Fathers of




reduced to

being walking ATMs

for their families

support and subsistence.


Father son 8Big dumb stupid looking

bumbling cartoon cats

lisping along as their

little kitten sons

trail a half a dozen steps

behind them with a

brown paper bag

over their heads



Father son 3O Father….I’m so ashamed…”


All hail

that worthless drunk

drinking by himself

out in the garage

that fragile shaky

blue veined pasty

pile of protoplasm

who holds his family

together with a iron

willed grip of silly putty

and threat of the liability

of alimony

His manhood


Balls ?

What Balls ?

He’s been bent over

in a question mark

into a bowling ally

beer gut male pattern

baldness worn down

burnt out shell

surfing porn sites

of the internet looking

for pictures of women

who remind him of

old girl friends.


In nature

Especially the insect world

The male role is

defined only

the biological imperative

Basically ?

He’s fertilizer

after that

it’s off to be eaten.


If he’s lucky.


So here’s to your Dad

The father

once son himself

reduced to a lonely holy ghost


And if he’s not here


your first teacher

the artist who help

create the piece of work

that is you.


Daddy on a lease

Daddy on the skids

Pale wobbly old man

shaking his fist a death

Raging how he still can

even if he never did in the first place.


You want to believe that

you’re here on earth because that worthless

bastard thought about getting laid

one night after too many beers

and conceived your existence ?


Go for it.


fathersonBut closer to the truth

just maybe you never knew

that once there was a man

who when he looked at you

in the eyes for the first time

in that moment

did see

a world of love

shinning private light

like a gate in heaven

had been left ajar.



Go right ahead.

Curse his name as you try to forget him.


But….. if he’s still around ?

some night

and no not on this day…

crack him a cold one

and put your hand on his shoulder and say.


“ No…..to be fair it’s not all your fault

I would have been so goddamn miserable even without you.”


And then duck pretty quick

as he takes a swing at you….


And he connects square

and plants back on your smart mouthed little ass?


You had it coming


Sometime Grief – 6/2010/12


June Fragments


What kind of Guy was He?   3.0

He was the kind of guy

That when he heard

Ice cream trucks

On summer evening

And all he wanted was

to buy somebody

One delicious cold moment.


Some people


Some people can write it

And others can do it

But only those

Who can hear it

Do anything with it

For you.


Let me tell you something there pal…

She had eyes

That were meant to be broken

Like a race horse named

I’ll take another.


1st Day of Summer


Solstice scimitar shaft

Slicing search torch

Gleaming longest burn

briefest pinnacle of light

declining seconds after

a descent commences….


The shadows start their

Encroaching erosion




Learn that lesson

From those who would

Build their world

On your ashes.


Did you Ever?


Look in the mirror

And see

A missing person?


Type Wrote


So here I am once again

Typing rope over the

Horseshoe Falls at night

shinning a spot light.


But not a tether in sight,


Sticking Points


You perfect prick bitch

Such an exquisite thorn

That impaled itself

Buried so deep into you

Where in the end all you

Could do was barely mange

To snap off the top

With the point still

Embedded deeply

And sure

Time I guess

Will allow the flesh to heal

Cover the surface

Of point of entry

But deep down inside

The missing fork end

Will remain burrowed intact

Like the one half

Of a pulled apart wishbone

With the only remaining question


Did you get your wish…..


Or just the short end of the stick ?


The Open Casket of your Face

Left only to wonder now

What was left for you

To see in the open

Casket of your face


When first light dawn

Whispers pale blue shadows

In a shaky wobbly hue

Filing the sky so gently


A pitcher of light trickling

Into the day bowl

Gradually like the touch

Of his hand upon your shoulder


Forgotten promises

Revived back to life

As you rolled over

Open your eyes for the first time.


But now there’s no one there

Quite the nothing next to you

Just the outside of the window

As God turns on the Mourning Doves


She fights now the memory

The feel

The touch

between the sheets.


Just eyes sent away

Just eyes taken away

And the voice of such

Fleeting rare poetry.


Silenced.                                                                                       6/2012


Notice of Vacancy


This is to inform you that

The poet is not in at the moment.


We have no idea where he is

And if/when he will be back.


He could be out drinking somewhere

By himself in a place where nobody

Can get at him.


(He’s been doing that a lot lately)


Last we knew he expressed he was

Just out of words he thought mattered much anymore.

His images and sentiments ignored or

Just coolly appraised from afar without any passion  .


It’s really starting to get to him.

He realizes fully well how little

This poetry matters most days.


If we hear from him

We will let you know.

Don’t expect much

He doesn’t.

Got Abstract ? 2014


Manhattan Partitions



 An accounting process used to compare two sets of records to ensure the figures are in agreement and are accurate. Reconciliation is the key process used to determine whether the money leaving an account matches the amount spent, ensuring that the two values are balanced at the end of the recording period.


June had told everyone

How she was through with him

Told him as well in

no uncertain terms.


But yet as the days collected

and the nights disappeared

even the name of her month

now hours and ashes away

from the turn of the page.


June still looked in from afar.


Why was the end of them

still so compelling to her?


She wouldn’t talk to him

She wouldn’t face him.

She wouldn’t look him in the eyes.


But from a cloaked distance

She still watched him

twisting in the wind


June knew.




She did.


All about him.



His strengths

His weaknesses

His love for her.


Some days the sense of loss

The silence and emptiness

The regret was

almost palatable.



June recoiled from the notion

that there was satisfaction here

to be derived in this devastation.


But what was it then?



She wanted him

only now

in past tense.


In her history.

Reconciled and filed

Like at the conclusion

Of any month.


Her fondest

most recent





A memory she could account for..


The knowledge

of his broken heart

kept her own stronger


More resolved.


In doing what was best


For her.




In a few days

She could take

her name away

from him

for another year.


Just a month.

His favorite season

Of the longest light.



It was order.

It was just the calendar.


He had given her everything

He had

He was.


And she had as well.



And June walked

on that.


What more could she possibly

want from him?


Expect perhaps this….


To look upon him

and then away.


And know

He knew it

Sometimes Grief- barks up the wrong tree 2012


Medical Records


lLittle V Says here that I was born 6/7/55

for $125.00 with that you get three consulting physicians @ 25 bucks a pop & a C-section.

And all I’ve heard my entire life was that I was no bargain.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  -Attitude House  2001




Sister in Gemini

(for June Webb)

I remember seeing her out in the front yard in the June sunshine

When we were both quite small

Out on a blue chez lounge recovering from her latest operation

Her blonde hair and massive white bandages and cast seemed to glow

The doctors where trying to repair her deformed limbs

She and I had been born hours apart

I was told that June might never walk again and would probably

Have to struggle this handicap for the rest of her life

Yet it was me who was indelibly marked with harmless

port wine stains  on my face and neck….

Like a Technicolor Achilles

and was told to consider myself lucky

I saw her years later in the marketplace still limping with

Her signature smile and familiar lope

I kissed her and wished us a happy birthday

And she smiled and remarked…why you haven’t aged at all

I replied with a shrug….you ought to see me on the inside

They knew just where to aim the arrows.

Got Abstract /2014

The Yellow Sting Ray


Yellow StingrayWhen I turned 12

I pestered the living crap

Out of my folks for this

Really, expensive Schwinn

Yellow Sting Ray Bicycle

With high set handle sissy bars,

Gear shift and sparkly plastic banana seat

That I saw in the widow of Terry’ Bike shop

In town.


The old man said how ugly it was

and was just way too much GD money

at 89 dollars for such stupid dangerous thing

But it was my birthday

And I think my Nana kicked

In some dough.


So that evening my mom pulls

Into the driveway with it sticking out

Of the rear of the gray station wagon

And I took off on it like a bat out of hell

Not getting more than twenty feet away

And attempted to POP a wheelie like I had

Seen them do on TV.


Of course I immediately dumped the thing

Going air borne and ending up

In a crashing concussion

To the hard into the road surface

Raking myself up one bloody mess

Of road rash from head to foot in

Shredded clothes and with blue stones

And tar stuck into my abrasions.


Not only that I bend the frame,

handle bars

the yellow banana seat

came off as well.


And some 45 years later

I’m still doing pretty much

The same kind bullshit

to anything

I can get my hands on.


Just still trying to ride the GD thing

Without going down in flames

And tearing my ass to shreds

Down into the gutter


Got Abstract   2014


Lost & Found June Fragments



Most of what you are compelled to recall

Arrives in this plain brown reality wrapper

Containing roses and razor blades

in a hollowed out hymnal

So that all you can really remember clearly

Is praying never to be cut like that again.


What is a Good Story Teller ?


A good story teller

Can relate to you the verbatim truth

And you’ll be so sure they are lying

Through their teeth

And yet

That very same person will in the next breath

Spew the most outrageous bold face lie

And you’ll bet your last bottom dollar

You just heard a brilliant truth.


The Pyromaniac’s Logic


Unhappy little oneListen.

You remind of the little girl

Who started a fire somewhere once

And ran away

Only to show later

With coffee and donuts

For the sweaty beat fireman

Trying to extinguish the damage

And when during the coffee break

They seemed none to please to see you


You storm away in a huff

Thinking just how ungrateful

They are.


-Uncollected 2012

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