the checklist

if depression...

is sleeping 18 hours a day
is forgetting to eat
is knowing nothing tastes good anyway
is taking a shower based on the calendar
is walking 2 blocks to avoid a 3 min. conversation
is having endless violent, sweaty nightmares
is watching TV and not knowing what you saw
is swearing so bad the dog avoids you
is needing coffee but not going downstairs to pour it
is wishing the calendar went from Dec. 23 to Dec. 26
is starring into the dark and seeing faces to hell and gone
is avoiding every mirror
is checking your phone and glad no one has called
is driving on fumes just 'cuz you don't wanna get out of the truck
is reading Poe for laughs
is wearing orange with purple 'cuz you don't give a damn
is not washing the truck since this time last year
is having a calendar dating 2016
is not renewing your driver's license or the Reader's Digest
is gazing at a cemetery longingly
is telling your doc things you'll regret
is apologizing to the angels for having to watch you
is finding creative ways to fake it til (if) you shake it
is looking for any excuse to disengage
is cussing your wife when she says 'snap out of it'
is listening endlessly to Chris Stapleton's 'Broken Halos'
is forgetting what 'good' felt like...

then, yeah. I may be a little blue. How are you?

The Best Line From a Great Song...

"In my heart, you pay no rent."  ~~ Turnpike Troubadours

all the way over

gonna take off these boots
when i reach that
red rock road.
gonna toughen the soles
of these too-soft feet
and get Arkansas's
ancient soil
between my toes.

gonna let the midday heat
beating down
and waving up
drench me in southern sweat.
gonna lift my hands
to confederate-grey skies
and let the weight of years
exact its toll of debt.

gonna sigh from my heart
and bleed from my soul
when i cross that
Arkansas line.
gonna weep for the memory
of the living and the dead
considering the thin-braided coil
that connects us to time.

gonna wash my feet
cool my brow
and anoint my wounds
when i get to Jordan's banks.
gonna walk on Jordan's tide
all the way over
to the promised land
shouting loud the offering of my thanks!

Low Hanging Fruit

A heavy dew coats
All the naked twigs
And spikes of dead, brown grass
With a silver frosting.
Even the air is saturated
And at first, stings the lungs
With the first breath
Of early day.

Upstairs in my home
My freshly made bed
Is still warm
And I fight the urge
To return to its safe folds.

Thinly clad bodies
Huddle within newspaper blankets
Lie upon cardboard mattresses.
They dwell under railroad bridges
And tree lines along the river.

An old drag queen I'd befriended
Had lived this way for years.
I'd tried to help him enroll
In the Rescue Mission
And later paid his first month's rent
On a new apartment.
But by winter, Queenie was once again
Homeless.

We'd had many conversations
About hypothermia
And the risks of young toughs
Who rolled those alone and sick.
Low hanging fruit.
Alone and vulnerable.

We buried Queenie in a service
Attended by the few friends he had.
A roving gang beat him senseless
Broke his legs
Then set him afire
Beneath a dark trestle.

As beautiful as the frost is
My thoughts return to Queenie.
It's the ones who die
That grip my memory.
Any success stories are lost somewhere
In the mix.

The frost icing is sharp
In morning sun.
It's splendid and invites awe.

But it's Queenie
His body writhing in its own
Fire and ice
Who fills my thoughts
This morning.

December 4, 1919, Heartbreak, Arkansas

Today, December 4, would have been the 99th birthday of my father, Herschel Woods. He was a good man, but not as simple as most supposed. A man of few words does not mean he does not understand speech, nor speaker. My dad was a provider, a protector, a leader. Men looked to his wisdom when it was decision time. My dad was a warrior. But he kept his pain silent, a prisoner tightly guarded, until one afternoon he paroled his pain, and poured it out with me. I am proud to have come from him; to share his DNA. I am a poor copy of the original. I did not lose dad. I know where he is, and I will fall into his embrace again, some good day. But I miss him terribly. Every reminder of him makes me stand taller. Narrow my focus. Get it done no matter the hour. Then go home with the radio pounding, and the air howling in the racks and ladders. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.

Not Misled

His handshake lied.
It was warm and firm
And held me
A second too long.

I sought his eyes
To determine the veracity
The integrity of his soul.
But his eyes refused contact.
They darted to my ring
To the ashtray on his table
And the knap of the carpet.

He lightened his grip
To withdraw into some unseen cavern
And sever contact.

I did not allow this.
I kept my grip firm
Strong
Until his eyes locked mine.

I did not smile.
My countenance made a statement.
It said
I know who you are.
I am not misled.

I know you, sir.

First Thing in the Morning

I take seriously Christ's injunction:
Physician, Heal Thyself!

I lance my own boils
Scrape away warts to the bone
Slice and purify puss blisters
Treat my own fevers
Sew up my own cuts
Remove my own fish hooks.

If I can do it without passing out
I'll do it myself.
Over the years I've taken responsibility
For my injuries and wounds.
Twice I've awoken to the bright lights
Of hospitals.
Had I known I'd been in the box
Of a Fire Department Bone Bucket
I'd have jumped at the next light
And healed myself.
I've dressed and walked out
Of hospital rooms
Wanting to go home to die.

If you know me
You know I'm speaking truth.

There are some deep wounds
I've never successfully treated.
God knows I saturated them with
Alcohol
And I've medicated them to oblivion.
But the next day
Those very wounds were the first
To greet me at daybreak.
Nothing tastes worse than
Coffee dregs
Stirred with bitter memories
First thing in the morning.

Can't nobody heal that.

Where Does a Man Go to Weep?

Where does a man go
To weep?
Where does a man hide?
When his world tumbles
From orbit
And he is thrown
Into eternity
Where does he go?

When the woman he'd loved
All his life
Laughs
And he is utterly alone
Where does that man go?

When a man stares into the darkness
With no one beside him
Where does he go?

The answer will sound silly
And sophomoric
But for those who've been there
They will know the truth.
That man will shakily
Crawl into his truck                           
Remove his hat from his head
Cover his face
And there in that void
He will cry.

Memory

She is a fugitive
Hiding in plain sight
Living loudly in the day
Sleeping safely in the night.

She is a poet
Rhyming deftly her life
Her days a published letter
As edged as any knife.

She is music
Her purposes recorded in grooves
And her actions the stylus
Her lifetime gently soothes.

She is august brilliance
Remembered in lightening blaze
Her memory burning daily
Shinning brightly through the haze.

She is, to me, sacred memory
And the kindling I require
To warm my aging memory
With the comfort of her fire.

Just a Thought....

When a man tells you he is going to kill you...believe him. When a woman does not tell you she is going to kill you, suspect her anyway. (A lesson from East Texas, 1990).

The Next 50 Feet

I have been down as many alleys
As I have main drags.
But I remember alley cinder
Better than I do concrete boulevards.

I remember fires
Kindled in 50 gallon drums
And needles in mud puddles.
I remember burned out garages
And wary eyes half-hidden
behind kitchen blinds
Little white baby dolls
With shorn yellow hair
Sightless eye sockets.
I remember the lust
For danger inherent
In the next 50 feet
And the bitter burn
Deep in my throat.

The CTA buses belch diesel
On Stoney Island
But in the alleys
The air stings
Of cigarettes
Cheap whiskey
And sex.

I remember the sharp crunch
Of cinder
Beneath my boot
The skittering of rats
And the whimper escaping
Torn screens
From the third floor walk-up.

From 79th Street
The Chicago Fire Department
Bone Bucket screams
Like a bereft mother
But here in the cinder alley
Is the metallic click
Of the slide
On a 9 with an extended clip.

I know these alleys
And they remember me
Because you never forget
The sights
The smells
The sounds
Of those preparing
To die.

Come, Day, Come!

Come, Day, Come!

The morning of The Day
Is coming
When these unsteady legs
Will strengthen
And I will stand.

All those wisdoms I've practiced
Will cleave
To the roof of my mouth
And the only sound
I will utter
Will be a stunned gasp.

These hands will stretch
To embrace you
But will clutch my sternum
From fear they will but wither
When offered the Divine.

This grey matter
That has parenthesized
Life and death
So offhandedly
Will fail for fear
It has missed
The fragrance
Of forever.

Nevertheless...
Come, Day, Come!

Tear away the gauze
Shred the body and bones
Of this tremulous present
That I might finally stand
On good ground
In the bright, new
Golden light
Of morning.

Long Night Moon

A frigid Long Night Moon

Watches me shivering

Within a horse blanket

Wishing for a slosh of whiskey

Or a cup of bitter coffee

Dying slowly

In this cold camp.

My pony stamps on hard soil

In patchy snow

Nothin’ to eat

And the stream’s frozen

His breath suspends

In the full moon night

In this cold camp.

In this cold camp

I force myself awake

Knowing if I sleep

Death waits patiently

And I'll be found

By wolves and winter's moon.

My bones will bleach here.

In this cold camp

I watch December's disk

Climb pathless skies

Taking no notice of me

Eyes closing

Seeking hopelessly to embrace the inner flame

In this cold camp.

A Sweet Ache

Lyrics and rhythms
Bob and weave
With the dexterity
Of a fighter
Landing blows
With each line
And note.
 
They exact
A certain kind of pain
Emitting from
My tender core
Radiating down every
Neural pathway
And registering
A sweet ache
Within my
Organs and bowels.
They bleed from my heart
And lungs.

They render me
Helpless breathless and weak
Unable to fight back
To resist 

The pain of the past

Nor see
The frustration of the future.

Trust me

Young man…

Before you make

The same mistake.

Trust me

Young lady…

Some songs must not
Be played twice.

The Blessed Place

They walked into

The church of stone

In hats and gloves

And heels.

Not far into

The holy place

They crossed themselves

And kneeled.

An organ pled

In solemn tone

To quiet themselves

In prayer.

A hush suspended

Above the crowd

Holiness filled

The air.

I’ve sat with those

In that quiet
Breathless place

I’ve felt that silent presence.

I’ve tasted to see

The Lord was good

I’ve known His mysterious

Essence.

But we have lost

Ourselves somewhere

Along the way.

His touch has left the people.

It was never about

The gold and gilt

It was never about

The steeple.

Our music is blaring

While we sit laughing

Sipping our Starbucks  

And clapping our hands.

We demand the dazzle

Of the ‘Worship Show’

As we move in the rhythm

Of our bands.

There is a throne somewhere

Beyond what we

Can guess

Further than we see.

In majesty the Lord God

Rules

In silence He awaits

Our bended a knee.

Music fills

The blessed Place

And joy surrounds

His throne.

And nothing matters

But true worship there

When we make the Lord

Our own.

Requiem for a Summer Afternoon

Requiem for a Summer Afternoon

I see you...

Early afternoon sun

Spins your hair

Brilliant gold.

Your eyes glint

With the diamond light

Flashing off the lake.

My hand reaches

The shoreline

Along your forehead.

The pads of my fingers play
Through your waves of
Auburn hair

Downward

Across your eyelids

Bridge of your nose

Your sweet lips

I have known so well

The swell of your chin

Down your smooth neck

And off your open collar

My touch swirling

Like tidal pools.

I see you

With more than eyes.

You stand before me

Offering this moment

As searing memory.

I take you in my arms

Press you into

My body

And

I see you.

Kiss

When she kissed me

I took it as a joke.

She backed away

Eyes wide

Hands rising to her mouth

As though she was afraid

Of what I might do.

My mind raced

To determine her intention.

She had been a friend

For years

But I perceived her

As always unobtainable

So when she kissed me

I thought it was a tease

Like a bone tossed to a dog.

My heart leapt

But my brain was on fire

Feeling diminished

At the hands

(or lips)

Of a woman I’d always

Admired.

She fled the room.

The moment was gone

And never returned.

But her kiss somehow

Aged me

And I never again

Misread the intention
Behind the sweetness
Of a simple 
Kiss. 

I Have Learned

Learned Lessons 

I have learned

Love is starlight

Flared upon clay skin.

Passion is fuel

From one’s white hot

Core.

I have learned

Kings stand

In darkness

And paupers

Flaunt themselves

In light.

I have learned

Hate presents itself

As love

And coils within

Covers

Of safety.

I have learned

Wounds make room

For a man.

Scars are

Lessons written

Across flesh.

I have learned

To protect

Truth

And never forsake

What is valued

Beyond breath and blood.

Body Count

Blood smeared the walls

Splashed the tile

And saturated the clothes

Of the dead man

With his throat slit

Like a gleaming second mouth.

The sharp coppery smell

Of his blood

Filled my head

And I tried to breathe

Through my hanky.

Last week a dead man

Slumped over the wheel of his Buick

Parked in his garage.

A small crimson hole

Appeared in his right temple

But the exit wound on his left

Was the size of a plum.

Death is a rude visitor

Appearing at his pleasure.

There is no preparation possible

When his shadow darkens

A door sill.

I remember teenagers

Suspended from garage rafters

Bodies burst along railroad tracks

Each piece no larger than a basketball.

I was the first there

To comfort a screaming woman

Whose husband sat

Impaled on the shaft of an old Chevy’s

Steering column.

I tried fruitlessly to comfort

A father

Whose wife poisoned

Their four children

When a man in a Hawaiian shirt

Screamed in the parlor’s large room

That he wanted to see the children’s bodies.

My hand was on the father’s shoulder

As he melted into the carpet.

I’ve knocked on doors at midnight

To tell families

A husband, a wife

A child

Mother or father

Was never coming home.

Then, I awoke one morning

Knowing

It was over.

I could do no more.

I dry cleaned my uniform

And hung it in my closet

Still in its plastic shroud.

But I close my eyes to sleep

And count bodies

The way others count sheep.

Squint Just Right

I stood gazing into what starlight

Chicago night-glare permitted.

Only the most hardy of stars penetrated

The milky smear of urban cover.

A particular stab of light

Caught my attention.

It was directly overhead

And seemed to slowly move.

I watched it until

My neck ached.

Whether or not

It truly moved

Was uncertain.

Finally, I surrendered my curiosity

And returned to

The more stable universe

Of my kitchen.

Later, when sleep should have

Overtaken me

I lay awake

Thinking of you...

Imagining your orbit

The way you move through a life

That no longer includes me.

You and that mysterious star

Merge within my thoughts.

I imagine your movement

But can not discern

Your orbit.

But I am not a space man.

I am a mud hound

And being such

Must train myself

To avoid looking up.

It leads to frustration

And despair.

Besides

Mud is interesting, too

If you squint just right.

The Loss of a Good Man...

I just learned of the passing of a good man, former Naperville, IL, mayor, George Pradel. I served along with him when I was with the police force. Not only was George a good man, he was bright, bold, and colorful. A former Marine, his pride in the Corps, and love for his country was very real and obvious. Cancer took him from us today, and we are the less for it. I'll have to sit with this loss a bit and take some time to grieve. It's hard to say farewell to such a man. But I know where he went, and he knew he was going home. With that in view, I have not lost George. I know where he is. 

Then God Bless You

If you’ve sat where I sit

And watch cannon smoke

Diffuse through the tree branches

And grow deaf

With each fiery blast

Inhaling burnt powder

And cordite

Then God bless you.

If you’ve stood shoulder to shoulder

Fixing glittering bayonets

And wishing you were

Anywhere but here

And every cell in your body

Seeks to fly away

Far, far away

And anywhere but here

Then God bless you.

If you’ve ever wondered

Why you cannot feel the earth

Beneath your feet

And the entire bloody field

Seems to fall away

Like you’re viewing the whole battle

From some cloudy height

And all you want is

Water and time

Just time and water

Then God bless you.

If you’ve ever wondered

If your girl

Or your folks back home

Remember you

Or think of you

Whether they fear for you

And await your imminent return?

If you believe the snake that curls

Deep in your throat

Behind your tongue

Is fear

Then God bless you.

God bless you

When your bowls loose

Your stomach heaves

God bless you

When you wipe

The blood and brains

Of your friend from your face

And, at that moment caught yourself

Begging for your mother.

Yes,

God bless you, sir.

 

Come, Child (I'll Teach You to Hate)

She sat me on her

Knobby knee

Poked my belly

And said that’s where

A Yankee shot me.

I looked at my

Belly button

With a child’s shock

And examined my “wound”

Taking amazed stock.

That’s how Grammy

Taught me to hate

Soldiers wearing blue

And disdain all

They both say and do.

Her daddy was a *Rebel

And he toted

His hate forever

Passing it on to me

To lay it down never.

Soldiers in blue

Have marched far off

And never will return

But if they do

They’ll set these fields to burn.

So come, child, sit upon my knee

And I’ll teach you

How and who to hate.

It’s branded on your belly

It’s both our fortune and your fate.

*5th Mississippi Vol. Infantry, Co. C 

Sniper*

You will know it’s time

When the trigger throbs

Beneath your finger.

The walnut stock resting

In your palm

Will ache.

You will hear the muzzle

Breath’s staccato 

Hiss.

You will know its time

When your lungs

Burn like a coal furnace.

You will know it’s time

When your mark

Opens his eyes

When he sees you

And knows his tomorrows

Are over.

Then you will know

It’s time.

*I spent a little time with a law enforcement Special Response Team (SRT). Not enough to roll with them, but enough to understand what makes them shudder.

A Bit Peek-ed

You okay, pardner?

My buddy asks

Leaning over his cup

At the Dixie Café.

You look a bit peek-ed

He says

From behind his sweeping

White moustache.

He straightens

In his chair

Glancing across the room

Searching those ears

He didn’t intend listen

To his pointed query.

He misses nothing

Observes everything

Knows my life

The way he knows

The bark of his dog

Or the sputter and growl

Of his truck.

My breath comes with effort

And my cup sits cooling before me.

I cover my left hand

To disguise the absence of the ring

That once hid the

Fish belly skin below the missing gold band.

Yeah

I say.

Just got the wind knocked outta me

Is all.

Lonely

Lonely...

Is the sound of one beating heart

The smell of last night’s uncollected refuse

The sight of a single toothbrush in the holder

The touch of nothing but bedsheets against your Skin

The taste of dry toast upon your tongue.

Lonely...

Has no anthem or opus

To herald its presence

No bawdy dance

Or flashing lights

To announce entry.

Lonely...

Creeps along curbsides

And stalks within blind alleyways.

Lonely...

Has no sizzle on the griddle

No appetite or desire.

Lonely...

Offers no laughter

No camaraderie.

Lonely...

Has no melodic poetry

No soulful tunes.

Lonely...

Is the weed in the garden

And the single cloud veiling the moon.

Lonely

Simply

Is.

The Silence of Snows

The silence of snows

Pile against my door

While, within the panes

Fragrant coffee brews

And I shuffle in socked feet

To find my cup

Perched upon a crowded shelf.

There is nothing awaiting me today

So the snows shall remain trackless

And unmolested.

Today I will feed the fire

Settle into a soiled armchair

And let my soul drift

Along the baseboards.

Today I will lose count

Of my heartbeat

And ignore my pulse.

Today I will silence my phone

And forget to eat.

I will give this day away

And require from it nothing

I have not given to it.

The silence of snows

Will muffle my inhalations

And smother my snores.

The coffee will cool

In the cup

And I will bank the fires

Into ember

And I will curl within the cloud

And gather with the snows

Piling against my door.