inevitability

i feel the engine within me
thrumming 
but missing a sporadic beat.
just enough to remind me
it will eventually seize
in an oily
steamy surprise
of end time chaos.

i will grab my chest
or fall face-down
into my oatmeal.
or they may find me 
in the bathroom
splayed across the 
checkered tiles
like a surrendered
chessboard king. 

the clock is running
and i'd best 
get down the highway
before it inevitably stops
and i can't squeeze in my
las

Update

Hi, Folks....I've been in and out of the hospital. A couple of transfusions helped to stabilize me; make me feel better. I'm home now. Missed three weeks of work, and still feel way too weak. Anyway, I've been too out of it to write. Hopefully, I will soon be back to it. In the meantime, think a few good thoughts. If you pray, I'd be happy to be lifted to God. It's been a hard time. Surely good times will return!

~ James

holy light

lying in bed
at the first flaring
of the sun
my addled mind marveled
at the graceful arch
of her hip
gently sloped
as though it were
the geography of tiny explorers
hoping to make a colony
of lovers of her terrain.

the first rays
set afire her rising hip
and dazzled
the miniature vagabonds
making them think surely
gods dwelt here.

i touched her softly
and she awoke.

but how do you tell a goddess
her terrain
has been usurped
by those of lesser caste
content to dwell upon
the sensuality of slope
bathed in holy light?

Days Before Me

I have lost the words
The vowels and verbs
Of my fathers.

Precious sentences
Of hope and desire
Now lie mouldering
Gone
And forgotten.

Phonics of blessing
Are dead in
Days before me.

Breath they summoned
Begging rain upon their fields
Breath used for blessing
Breath saved for desire
Breath stored for welcome
Breath made for gasping the devine
All interred in soil and forgotten.

How came this shallow exchange?

All I've left is a solitary
Lonesome word meaning
Hummingbird.
And in this solitary word
Remains the whole of my grandfathers.

Oh, the loss
The sorrow of
Days before me.

The End Game

The End Game

Remember the sweet blossoms we bore
In the bright
And glorious spring of youth
And our pathless direction
Bound for no place particular
And every place generally?

Do you remember the sun
On our faces
And the moon in our nights?

Tell me true, love
Do you remember?

Snow fell gently in our winters
Melting effortlessly
Come morning's golden sun.

Truly, love
Do you remember?

We could fly
Across wide
Cloudless skies.

Love, truly
Do you remember?

Our feet, my love
Have anchored
And we are now rooted here.

Sweet love of my youth
Here we rest
You there, in stone
And I here, in dust.

Let it go
Darling love.
All is done.

Here we rest.

Your Refugee #1

I am your refugee
Patrolling ditches and ravines
Alongside your roads and highways.

In the dusk before nightfall
I move.
Stumbling at midnight
I move.

Alerted by the screaming complaint
Of your Stukas' siren  
I flatten into the earth
Clawing a shallow grave
To mark my passing.

Scorched earth burns
Along with carts
Mules
Children
And old women.
Men perish sheltering
Their children and wives.

I am your refugee.

PUKA PUKA PUKA PUKA
Your machine guns
Tear the heads from little boys
The arms and legs from little girls
Making them rag dolls
In lots too small for burying.

Get up! Get up! Move!
I implore
But an old woman says
To what end?
Are we not all dead?

My arms dangle uselessly at my sides.
My trousers are burnt and blood soaked.
I must die.

I am your refugee.

Waiting for Redemption

Waiting for Redemption

I yearn breath.
It's been so long since I have tasted life's nectar!

Soaking air through my skin
Through my fingertips
Even the ends of my hair
I drink oxygen from my strands.

I am thirsty.

Last night I stood
In the vex of Venus
Waiting for redemption
To fall
As rain
To the parched earth
As breath
To those dying to simply breathe.

Tonight, I will again wait
Among the toppled remnants
Of what are tokens
Of yesteryear's megaliths.

I will be in the shadow of years
In the tears of deferred hope
In the crushing of the petals
Wanting but to breathe.

Say it, oh say it!
Say the Word
And I shall be healed!
Will me to breathe again.
Bring your magnificent lips
To my begging ears
And say
'Breathe, my love!
I command breath
Into your parched
Dusty lungs!'

Say the Word
And I shall stand again
Breath will be mine
And I will drink the air
Of the first morning
As wedding wine!

Shoes I Stood In

The last time I stood in these shoes

I was a much younger man.

I still believed in attainable horizons

And the possibility of love.

The last time I stood in these shoes

I believed the worst pain

Life could offer was a hard fist

In a soft gut.

The last time I stood in these shoes

I could still blush

When a pretty girl whispered

A few filthy suggestions.

The last time I stood in these shoes

I could chase the sun down

And the moon rise

On nothing but pork skins and Swisher Sweets.

Son, the last time I stood in these shoes

I still believed it was impossible for me

To shuck a blade

And peel the core out of a fool like you.

But I’m a full grown man now

And damn few horizons are attainable

A fist in the gut is the least of pains

Pretty girls say the vilest things

I let others do the driving these days

And a blade shucks as easily as corn.

Things changed as I grew older.

I wear boots now

Hoping they'll make a difference

In the outcome.

Preparation for Goodbye

After sixty

Everything is preparation

For goodbye.

This came to me

While gazing at the lines

Of a fully restored ’40 Lincoln.

Thinking about it

It is not terribly old

Compared to Roman chariots

In the museum in London.

The magic is

That in such few years

We have streamlined

And techno-wizarded the hell

Out of our vehicles.

That gives the older ones a unique place

Behind velvet ropes.

My lines are not sweeping

And any chrome I had

Is long-ago busted and gone.

My beautiful interior

Is shabby, worn and faded.

I may deserve a rope

But I’ll never merit a velvet one.

Something about that ’40 Lincoln

Settles a sad note

In my heart and mind.

Seems

I’m learning

The language of goodbye.

The Shadow of Things Missing

The Shadow of Things Missing

We were like saddle bums

Horses hobbled

And our fire gazing back at us

Its crackling more like

The disapproval of old women

With clacking tongues.

We told each other

The same old stories

We’d rehearsed for years.

We politely laughed

Or grunted

At all the appropriate places.

We shared more than old tales.

We exposed our unhealed wounds

And the pain lifting from us

Like sparks rising relentlessly

Toward distant stars. 

We measured the

Shadows of things missing

For twenty

Thirty

Forty

Fifty years.

He told me about spinning

Helicopter blades

And I of shattering

Shards of glass

And midnight explosions.

Our fire has gone cold

The horses moved

To distant pastures.

We have both unburdened ourselves

Of softened butterscotch saddles.

Now, we tell our stories

To bare walls

And naked light bulbs.

We have learned

That without ears to hear

Tongues and lips

Are better mute.