​

I Felt Free

Found it hard to make the move

Never dreamed I had more to prove

A wolf bared his teeth for me to see

For the first time ever I felt free

I took the shortcut past overload

If I do what's right I won't explode

Start at A, go to B, choose to chase infinity

For the second time ever I felt free

Ain't no one gonna stop me here or there

My joint”s jumpin' for you, I swear

Older now, nothing left to flee

For the third time ever I felt free

I went away to do what I should do

Tomorrow I walk, yesterday I flew

If you want the groove, believe in me

For the fourth time ever I felt free

Wolf returned to finish off my fate

No longer will I have to wait

For the last time ever I felt free

For the last time ever . . . .

​

​

Leaving Town

Down a lilac-scented gravelly road to a clapboard bridge on overload.  Multi-flora rose scrapes my arm, cows heading back to Koneski's farm. Bearing right where the walnut stood, sun flashes hot off the Chevy hood. Queen Anne's lace blooming by the shack where Goose-girl waves and I wave back.

Tent caterpillars dropping off locust trees covering Pop’s '49 Mercury. Hay getting mowed by the massive black man, his nephew's twins playing kick-the-can. Shutters at the Zurkas in need of repair, porch door's open, so they're cutting hair. Lemonade stand at the crest of the hill, vine-ripe tomatoes with every refill. Nine brassieres on a clothesline dripping wet, septic-tank digger with a squirrel for

a pet.  

Rhode Island Red standing guard on the trail that leads to the shanty of the pig-man in jail. A stand of oaks with a flock of crows, high-tension wires with swallows in rows. Sergeant Yavorski dressed in trooper blue, his shell-shocked brother taking on World War II.

Maryann staring at another three-legged dog, four brothers playing pirate on a chestnut log. Richie Dugan with a water snake, fire trucks pumping down White MeadowLake. The smell of pirogies at Nemec's place prompts my panic of the coming rat race.

Down at the railroad crossing, I weep out loud, tears lost forever in

abillowing cloud. Then the mill-horn blares once and for all; the game

isover, don't forget your ball.
 

Love, American Guile

Early that week, a knock came at two in the morning.

The divorcee down the hall asked if she could come in.  

She had been on a date with a pilot at Boeing

who asked for her hand for she was the one.  

I asked what she wanted at two in the morning.  

She replied, “Whenever we talk, I value, your judgment.”

She asked me to help her make up her mind.  

So, we made love on and on,

with a whisper she said, “This is all that I needed.”

When he called in the morning,

she told him she would phone him

when she decides if he is the one.

Later that week, a knock came at three in the morning.  

The divorcee next door asked if she could come in.  

She had been on date with a Tucson policeman

who asked for her hand for she was the one.

I asked what she wanted at three in the morning.

She replied, “Whenever we talk, I value your judgment.”

She asked me to help her make up her mind.  

So, we made love on and on,

with a whisper she said, “This is all that I needed.”

When he called in the morning,

she told him she would phone him

when she decides if he is the one.

Later that morning, I said, "Goodbye,"  

I left on United; I got home in time

for my wedding on Friday

​
 

Along the 48th

I left before the first snowfall

Loping along Lackawanna tracks

I read the latest sign post

urging me to live it out

along the northwest coast

I read enough to learn the facts

the country feels a might less awful

when we fill in our toxic cracks.

She went home when times turned sour

So I packed my bags for Devil's Tower

and the Badlands I required

to forget the children I never sired

I cried too much when her letters stopped

No matter the day or the hour

tears takeaway my manly power.

She quit on me more than often

when my thoughts espoused something other

I took her words as sacrosanct

I left our house of pain not ranked

I took on the role of itinerant

reaching out for the Strait of Juan de Fuca

 leading jaundiced men and women

to joys way more than innocent.

No cash in hand made me berate

I am a better man away from hate

I took the bus to where I live in peace

The pay is feeble but my ache has ceased

I could say poverty has sealed my fate

but, I've made it to the western sea

where I can float, no need to mate.

Ever Been to Bisbee?

I get up every day with a brand new pain.

I roll out of bed 'cause I can't stand up.

“OK,Google,What is the time and, by the way, what is the day?”

Time for strawberries, a banana, a peach on a bed of Cheerios

and a whit of milk. All washed down with a pint of gin.

Take me out of here, buddy,

Take me out far, faraway

Out to the deserts where real men play.

Back east I tunneled coal for a living, leveling my lungs and mind.

Out west, by the playa at the Chiricahuan edge, I unearth copper in

open-pit mines, where the sun roasts my hide and my power down

to the bone. Here, I still consume my oats and fruit; but, rotgut gin

has all dried up. Cheap tequila has taken the job of killing me sooner.

Bleary at first light, I strain to watch Peregrines takeover the dawn,

searching for critters not ready to die. At sundown, Harris Hawks sail

'cross the mesquite snaring mammals and lizards for their proteins to eat.

I'm worn out from shoveling two tons of ore. So I give cougars, coyotes,

badgers, and ring-tailed cats free-reign to ingest each other, as long as they

don't take my poor hovel down. I let thunderstorms take care of that.

Sometimes on the weekend, I head over to Tombstone to find a luckless

woman who'll put up a good fight 'til she's drunker than me. On occasion,

I coax a sweet devil to spend the night with my honey-nuts and'blanco'

tequila her overnight prize. I like it best when I cuddle with a good lady

as the Sonora wind tantalizes the setting we're in, and concocts the sparkle

of the stars above.

No use kidding myself, shoveling rocks has murdered my spirit. Drinking

to my end of days is a waste of flesh if I'm living a desert song. Maybe

in the next life, I can look, feel and listen, then sing all about it.