Loss Is

what remains 
when you find nothing 

but grieving 
remains 

Divination of Evil

“Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want
and deserve to get it good and hard.”—H.L. Mencken


I bet you ten will get you twenty 
Men wiser than I have said 
The pursuit of liberty starts 
As innocently 
As a child wanting 
What it cannot have, 

And ends with it 
Having what 
It doesn’t need; 
Indeed, most 
Of the time, it feels 
It just doesn’t 

Know what it wants 
Or needs, then gets it 
Good and hard 
In the gut when 
Least expected, 
Its entrails found lacking, 

While knowing bloody butchers 
Lick their chops in the end. 

Just Us and the Chickens

Not living as long as we do, 
Chickens do not have the time 
Nor our bird-brained inclination 
To piddle over whether or not 
There’s some kind of god working 
Wonders way up there above the weather; 
You can see an example of this 
When their gullets are parched 
And the nearest watering 
Hole’s dry as all get-out, 
Soon as they hear the rumbling 
Of nimbuses rolling their way, 
Straightaway they tilt 
Their dusty, wide-open beaks 
Upwards, look God square 
In the face and before you 
Know it—by thunder— 
Start gurgling 

Grace. 

One of These Days: A Parable of the Field Mouse

Little man, 
Just when you think 
You’ve made it through 

One more great, 
Simply fantastic flying 
Red white and blue day, 

A crepuscular screeching 
Flash of a hoot owl turning 
Your pinky moon face pale— 

How do you like that?
No more being 
Carried away. 

Waiting For My Wife To Return From Foraging, I Find Myself Musing On Unfailing Kismet

I’m sitting in the car 
And something tells me 

Before I can finish 
The poem I started 

In my mind when she left 
Twenty minutes ago, she’ll 

Appear with a full basket 
Of wild greens—see, 

I told you so. 

Lie of the Land

riot 
of wind leaves pine 
needles pile tossed up

rotting under 
brambles under 
which lies all matter 

of whatnot composing what- 
ever the blustering 
mind never sings truth 

fully mindful of nothing 
but trumped-up blistering 
naught. 

Lend Me Your Ears

Come round all 

You hard-of-hearing 
Stalwart comrades: Praised be 
The cicadas’ crazed 

Ear-thrumming drumming 
Anthem that in fits and starts 
Cranks into high gear 

Its deranged, fair weather song, 
For it shall stutter to a halt
Before we know it— 

That incessant, insistent rallying 
Cry that pierced our humdrum existence
All those long summers past 

Coming, going, gone.