enchanted rock speaks rain

blue eyes far away

water lays in desert rock

the sky stares downward

dark stabbing shadows

hot dry bowl of dust and rock

black dog in the sun.

Wal Mart and unemployment......

There are always words that

you can say to make it all

better believably less empty

even though the streets end up in the same places

and the walls are really made of the

same atoms that keep following

you everywhere you may care to go

so I say to you

to keep on digging your way down to Babylon

and all the dreams that dreamers dream

because its better than stopping

or turning into something that just sits

there with the wax of sadness gleaming in a puddle around your feet

so what if the world has all the

room of a rusty can of soup..and

you are the BB left there staring at the

sunlit little hole wondering

how you got there.

you must keep going even if there

is no place to go

and look at all the fluorescent toys

in the store, tired of the sick plastic, not able

to look away,

keep looking at all the people around you subtly maimed

by rashes and scrapes on their bulbous luggage

Are you trying to look away?

there is always a bad tattoo

amidst a constellation of pimples

you cannot look away,

you must keep going even

though there is nowhere to

go, and you never had time to

learn anything worth knowing.

Eggplant

Her skin is fog and ivory

rippled by indecision

the delicate wedding cake

frosting crinkled on her

puzzling brow,

hands thin and alabaster, her long

sugary fingers invade the

dark shiny smoothness

first pinching then stroking

holding it up to drink the

shadow with her radiant cheek

she feels the heat and

rubs her straight, thin nose

against the absolute

firmness of it,

and unabashedly, after

her caresses tenderly

lays it slowly

down.

prepositions

Butterfly on a bell

redbird on a cannon

child by the roadside

your face in the window

haiku

grass green,long and soft

white skin and dark hair uncoiled

the berries of her lips.

The next day, he limped down to the thin, pebble beach by the lighthouse dock where he kept the small boat tied to a post. He wore an old, muddy blanket draped over his shoulders. He was still naked and spattered with blood, both his own and of the men he had killed. The side of his face was raw and hurt terribly. He looked and saw that his boat had been taken, the rope cut in haste. He let out a groan of despair and began gingerly washing himself in the cold waves. He finally steeled himself to shamble out into the surf and plunge his matted hair into the sea. When he came up for air, he noticed the half-sunk boat bobbing in the waves just inside the breakers. He swam out to it and grabbed the small stub of the rope, laboriously pulling it to shore.

As soon as he got it close enough to walk it in, he sat down exhausted and began sliding his poor cold butt in the shallows. Finally, he tipped it over and water came pouring out. The scrapes on the inside of the little boat and the bloody waterlogged shirtsleeve stuck to the oar lock gave mute testimony to the events that took place that night. It was most undeniably the squid that had claimed the pirate and dragged him down in the dark ocean. The frigid sea took on an even more chilling aspect for the battered lighthouse keeper.

He repaired the boat and fashioned new oars for it and the days took on their grinding march once again. He fished and scraped the hard,rocky soil for his sustenance. Every night, he tended the great light, heedless of hardship and difficulty. Weeks passed before he spotted the cleverly hidden navy longboat among the rocky coves of the island while he was looking for clams. It was a large and heavy thing, so he left it where it was and spread the thick canvas of its sail over it as a cover.

He occasionally had nightmares as he lay down in his rough bed at dawn. He dreamt of that terrible night. He dreamt that it was he who was dragged down by the giant squid as he stabbed at the horrid tentacles with a broken chisel.

The ship finally came with his replacement, a young poet with fine clothes and a chest of books. The young man looked at him and tried to pry from him, some sign of good spirits or any deep insight. Although he was only a year or two older, the lighthouse keeper just looked at him like he was a babbling child.

He told the captain about the missing longboat and told them how to find it. It was, after all, the King's property. The sailors had heard about how the boat was taken by the fierce pirate/convicts from other crews who had been combing the seas for these murderous thugs who managed to kill the marines and officers who were on guard when they escaped.

The sailors also began to notice how sullen and rough their formerly bubbly charge had become. He submitted his closed report to the Captain, who scarcely read it at first, simply noting the missing provisions with little interest. It was when the events of that terrible,stormy night were recounted that the Captain stopped drinking his glass of port. It was a remarkable story made all the more singular by the clipped, matter-of-fact way in which it was written.

Silence followed the man on his voyage home. The sailors kept their distance, making note of the long knife in his belt. When he returned, he scarcely spoke, and when he did it was always direct and with a purpose. He saw the world and the people in it as ugly and possibly dangerous.

By all accounts in the village, he was much improved.