Gone to Pasture before You Know It

It’s when the few dazed village 
Old-timers left weave through 
The automobile-overrun streets 
Looking for the nearest 
Iron loop bolted to any building 
They used to tie their asses to. 

Reflect on It Like Wilde

Some say darkness is never complete, that 
It needs some light to make it into a whole. 

One could spend an entire lifetime 
Parsing this conundrum. 

It would be like putting yourself in a coma 
Most of the time and the rest trying 

To take yourself out. 

Lupine

A full moon. 

The call of wolfhounds 
Echoing in the night, waiting 

To hear the shadow 
Of their former selves 

Looming in the light. 

You Asked for It

When nothing keeps 
Coming through the door 

When least expected, 
Nothing more. 

In Passing, Simply Fantastic

A poem should be 
A medium, let’s say 
A vehicle 

To spirit us away 
To another world 
Without us knowing it, 

Just like a hearse. 

Survival of the Fittest

Some call it poetic justice— 
How fitting it is indeed that 

The most vocal of creatures remain 
Dumbstruck by the babbling of beasts. 

Testimony: Raymond's Early Years

The logging town’s main drag was once 
Planks supported on stilts above the mud- 
Flats where amongst the taverns and cat- 
Houses, drunks could be seen falling 
Through rotting boards or over the railings, 
While the upright citizenry kept voting 
In sheriffs who stood for whores galore 
And the inalienable rights of winos delirious
To bite off the heads of snakes at a nickel
A score offered by thrill-seeking urchins 
Who kept thirsting for more.