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A bunch of new poems and stuff

The fatigue

I have tired

Of the noise

Of the incessant

Drumming of

A heart

Running on



Silenced, even

A modicum of



I have hollered

At the hills

At the miscreants

Ill advised

Ill informed



Not to Get


To play Russian



Jim Jones

Could not

Have coached

To the Kool

Aid any

Better than

The fools who

Feed a fear

To earn a

Dollar appearing

On Fox with

Pillow man.

Games have

Scores that I

Do not want to

See. Interviews

With those on

death beds

Wishing they’d

Vaccinated, knowing

They were duped,

Begging other not

The same fate, the

Same last gasp.

Nurses, doctors.


Heroes of the

Highest rank

Must witness

The suffering

That could have

So easily been

Alleviated. If I am

Tired, what

Must they be?

Elder days

Elder days are flying

Past me. Elder time

moves so much

Faster, seconds

Pass in milliseconds

As the sand pours

Out at a perceived

greater rate.

Unlike the Youthful days

Where we risked all on

Wages of emotional toll

That were easy to pay

Because the effort bore

Little real consequence.

Time like air just seemed

To be there.

Elder days involve the

Joy of surrender and

Light loads. Admissions

Of ignorance invitations

To explore more, and

Still, those whose youthful

Days were filled with trauma

Relive its horror.

And for those in pain

I commensurate

But cannot take on the

Battles fought and lost by

Others and ones I was not

Drafted to defend.

I walk along the streets of

North Beach, the alleys of

Chinatown, the stretches

Of Ocean Beach and the

Marina. I stop on benches

And I absorb the sunlight

Into weary bones and

Chalk outlined memories.

As people pass, I open

Up my life and pretend

To talk to them and give

Away my memories like

Seed to the flocking sea

Gulls at my feet.

I give away grief to the

Stranger on the corner

Who seemed to need

It more than me.

I give away regret to

The angry boy who

Yelled at people who

Did not look like him.

I give away blind ambition

To those who will later

Lament their sad inability

To truly enjoy and see.

I give away much of the

Baggage that stored the

Marks of defeat and

Victories now amounting

To so little.

I run naked into

The crashing waves and

Yell in primal scream

“A life well lived needs

So little, THINK!”

Elder days will see my

Selfish charity as I wake

And throw off old ideas

For the few promises

Of dwindling tomorrows.

Smell of Texas

Rain falls on New York

Sidewalks, Washington

Square or Red Hook

And its scent differs

Little from LA detours.

Texas after rain smells

Of Millenia, desert rich

El Paso from Meso

America to No Country

For Old Man Mesas.

And the smell is blood

That on its Streets has

Poured from when

JFK was killed to

The Twenty-Two

Innocents of

recent past.

But the smell lasts

In its ocher baseness

Deep in the Trinity

Riverbed begging

For forgiveness for

The horror it has


And yet I still smell

Lizards running, red ants

Forming farms, hay, tule

Riverbed bull frogs croaking

Along the Rio Grande where

Pilgrims drown seeking

Freedom from despair.

A cussedness that prefers

Death to science, that

Sees freedom as a

Complete denial of anyone

But the proverbial “me.”

Selfishness bred into a

Fiber of disdain.

But a new smell is permeating

The air. A liberated Texas

A new defined Southwest,

The artists, the poets and the

Scholars are carving out

Canyons of creativity in the

Lone Star state.

Dixie Fire 2021

Violet dawn morning

Lines agitate the pink

Hawaiian sky. A horizon

Fighting with itself to

See who best welcomes

The full sun.

We are not there. We are

Here as flame oven heat

Races across our towns.

Smoke like the door to hell

Singe a curtain across the

Peeks of sky that attempt

To shine through the charred

Canopy’s demise.

We are here. We have run

Before and we must run

Again, fire refugees.

Fire and wind and the

Incessant heat, Dante

Rings don’t do it justice.

We melt as we run and

We freeze in silhouetted

Pantomime fear.

We are here. For now.

As I see the flames’ rage

I just drown.

On your face: In praise of aging faces

You wear the shades

Of make up over

Age spots and

Wrinkles well.

It is not an insult

And please don’t

Scowl or take it

this way.

Look for yourself.

See how you pay

Tribute to your

Aging features.

You wear your

Powder’s charm

Differently now.

Less is more.

The lightness of

The mask allows

The wisdom of

Beauty through.

And that is what

I meant to say.

You are more

Beautiful today.

Yesterday was

Wild and you

Harvested your

Face that way.

What I see is

The morning of

Dawn breaking

Over your face.

Radiance shines

Through like

Amazon sun streaks

Through canopy.

Your eyes open

With more and

Deliberate strength

And charm.

Words leave your

Mouth with more

Confidence, wit and

Unencumbered flair.

As I gray and hair

Has created a parted

Bald sea on my head

I Moses ahead.

And the joy of life

Is in seeing those

You love face aging

With aplomb.

Let youth have its

Have; let’s enjoy

Life without regret

Or Concern.

Let your face and mine

Face a mirror of time

And thank time for each

Wrinkle earned.

Looking back at philosophy’s gates

Young, I believed I understood

Philosophical works of great


Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Hegel,

Locke, Hobbes, Nietzsche,

Wittgenstein—I grabbed

What knowledge I could

And left the unknowable


If I understood anything I

Knew as Socrates said “I

Know that I do not know”

And maybe by asking

Questions I can at least

Know what I do not


And the gates of knowledge

To which I narcissistically

Thought I had a key remained

Locked though I opened them

And walked in.

Leafing through the pages of

Books, I refused to read others

And only looked to the next word

In the original text.

A youthful exuberance created

A passionate façade that made

Others think I knew what I was

Talking about.

Humility would come later and

Fear at not knowing overwhelmed

The ego that sought solace in

Not being found.

But I saw what I saw, and I felt

What I felt. And the morning

Kettle boiling whistles in utter


Admit you only saw the outline

Of the cave young boy. Admit

That ideas whirled undigested

In your brain.

Admission is confession is a

Legal malaprop to those who

Know and I will admit but

Refuse to confess.

So, old man tackle the text again

Now that you can admit and

Confess that you gathered

Only a bit.

Forgive the young you and

Hand it to the old you now

Who once again asks entry

Into philosophy’s gates.

Letters of regret

Acquaintances tell me of

Letters, long and detailed,

Written by the disenchanted

Sorcerers who deconstruct

Pasts and truly wonder

Why their greatness was

Passed over.

As if talent

Were as easy as gossip

Passed along and embellished

Creating in minds truth not

Based on fact but gossamer

verbiage as vapid as yesterday’s