Wednesday, September 30, 2009

By the Tuckaseegee River

look on fire
this morning: mist drifts up
high in rough ranges of smokiness:
my old friend, gone away,
would have loved
this grand
glories twirl
up around the corn stalks:
pink and purple flared horns: the yellow
corn leaves curl down edges
turning brown:
damp ground.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Blue Dusk Poem

This painting by Sylvia Williams is one of my favorites's the poem.

Hot Sky

Blood runs in the wood.
Sweet beauty
doesn't want to tell the world about that feeling
for which there are no words,
sweet beauty that draws tremor and pain
like a wire through the body’s arches,
through the brain,
up and down the spine.
I see your picture, your time.
Winter black branches
draw geographical designs in space,
delta networks
bleeding with the hot bay
of twilight blues -- a chorus behind,
waiting for the wintry moon:
a chanting silence --
beauty and sadness,
sadness and beauty.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Observing Nature

trident leaves,
yellow edges, borders brown,
passion flower failed to bloom this year,
no fruit to seed anew,
fading life
mantis wife -
lacking, taken within by instinct,
does eat her spouse's head:
would she not,
he would.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Yow! My Chapbook For Sale

You can now purchase your very own copy of "Deep Fried Do What and the Jesus Fish."
Only $3.00 plus postage. Contact me here or at
Here's a sample:
(from "Three Days of Winter on the Tallapoosa."
We have lost the church to the liars
and the pastor rolls in the briars
like a cat in summer
scratching its back:
and God has gone to the moon,
where he lives in an Airstream trailer,
the shiny tin shines
on the craters around
creating a skyline of diamonds,
and the moon makes a home for his failure,
a home for his brooding days,
a night for his sky
pinned with tin badges.
He sits on a chair and looks out
on a ridge of tin like a jagged blade --
a mountain scape,
a crater scape,
around the neighborhood of God’s trailer.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Here's at cha' Appalachia

of Muslim
extremists exhorted
by their leader made me realize
that Jihad, when shouted,
sounds much like
twang twang,
dress up nice,
twangey twang twang, yeeehahh!:
Well, stomp my feet and bow my fiddle
Give me a girl that likes
To diddle,
hee hah hah
yeehah, yeehah
hee hah, yeehah, yeehah, oh, do what?
Do what? Do what? Do what?
Ahhh, yeeeehahh!
I heard