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.