Carrie's Confectionery

The Sheriff doesn't like trouble in his town

watched too much TV with his old man

~thinks he's Matt Dillon

but has a splash of Barney Fife

when Zelda's Hideout, at the edge of town

got too rowdy, he slapped spur to hide, so to say,

and busted their ass good!

some guy fixes computers there now

The Silver Dollar on East Main gets by ok,

cuz they have some kid leave an envelope in the Sheriff's mailbox

every Thursday at midnight

but Corky's Tavern on Maple didn't fair so well

Corky said, "Fuck that shit!"

and went to the city council

unaware how well traveled the envelopes were

That's just the way it is, love it or leave it

or,

hide the tree in the forest

Carrie's Confectionery sits smack dab on Main Street

between the Fire Department and Post Office

across the alley, in the back, is Jack's Bait and Tackle.

and never mind that there ain't a fish to be caught for forty miles

and never mind that, how in the hell can anyone make a living

selling candy, fine linen, and used books.

what matters, is the hidden tunnel under the alley that leads

from Jack's to Carrie's. The one the bootlegger's dug way

back in the 20's. The one the Sheriff doesn't know

anything about.

oh, he strolls into Jack's now and then, jus cuz ya never know, and Jack

sells guns.

but he never goes into Carrie's. Barely gives the front window

a passing glance. Not that it matters.

all the action's in the deep basement that's been sound proofed.

the big stud poker game, the moonshine whiskey,

the bar you can smoke weed at,

the girls the Sheriff thinks are Jack's cousins who

live in the apartment above the bait shop,

the makeshift bedrooms where a person can sleep it off,

or get it on, before walking out Jack's front door in the morning,

tipping the hat to the Mayor.

it's all there to be had in Carrie's Confectionery,

where almost nothing ever sells

and the Sheriff never looks

A New Day

open yer eyes boy!

open them buggers wide

a new day's a dawnin

the sun is at the gate

foot on the block

waitin to blaze

~waiting for you

the storms of yesterday

but a remembrance

while the lazy wheat and

eager flowers in youth

mime happily to the wind

rise up! rise up!

let's be on our way

breaking the bonds of gravity

feet to the quick

high stepping eager hope

we can do it once again

if we can forget why we stopped

turn away from barkers and clowns

throw stardust pound to the penny

so many days have been stolen

too many a day surrendered, so

today, we'll turn this ship downwind

and just let er ride,

forgetting the chains

that stole our once

easy drift

Remembering You

in the stillness of the night

moon giving no quarter

i remember you through

the crystal pane

your skin smooth and warm

beneath my trembling touch

your warm breath whispering

love songs upon my neck

i see you now and then

along the highways i travel

and even feel you in the

fresh morning breeze

you've become the cool of the dew

the warmth of any fire's blaze

and a stranger's smile in the

afterglow of a glance returned

i sing to you

when the lyrics speak your name

always wondering

if you hear me

but it is in the stillness of the night

somewhere between frosted glass

and pregnant moons

where i remember you best

Lost In The Fog

i wear the night as London cloak

through fog heavy alleys upon

cobblestone brick, cold

and high collared

somewhere in this dark passage

is a door hiding the hearth

full of warmth, ethereal glow,

and rest, to the lonely of lonelies

this cloak i wear not by choice

but by reason of insanity

for what else could it be

to have already passed

so many doors of shelter

the morning will come

once again finding me

the desolate outcast

blinded by the dark

of the high collars

i insanely call comfort

Strangers to Friends

There are places, where broken dreams and broken hearts come together to mend.

Malcontents and wishful thinkers find cliffs to cast their hopes from, ponds to skip their thoughts, one, two-threefourfive across.

The sweet Georgia spring night was conjuring in dust whirls along late night streets, the street lamps yawned. It was Monday.

I felt the tug, and the dust whirl led the way.

The irony of Crowded House playing "Don't Dream It's over" could not be overlooked in the near empty lounge.

There was she, behind the bar doing the nails that had already been done. There was he, a local for sure with rehearsed banter.

He tanked the boredom with economy fuel

"Slow night"

She didn't look up, or waste words either.

"I've made three dollars"

There was a ridiculous poker game going on and i glanced the players.

The pretty young girl that would be a fashion designer until the funds ran out halfway to her dream.

The hotel manager from India who didn't give a shit about this Georgia hotel

The old man, and the big wampum liar telling his stories ten floors above the flag.

The piles of chips looked impressive, but held as much value as the liar's fables of being shot twice in the head in Iraq. Oh, men have been shot twice in the head in Iraq, but those men don't brag~they struggle to forget.

"I used to eat monkey brains in India," The liar tossed out like a baby throws its pacifier.

The man from India couldn't let this one slide.

"They don't eat monkey brains in India."

You have to love a terrible liar, they never let truth be a burden.

"Yes they do. They did where I was."

The facial ping pong was priceless as the manager fingered his cards.

"And where is it you were?"

The liar's bullet wounds were causing amnesia.

"I can't remember."

"Well," the man from India put forth. "Was it North, East, West, or South?"

The liar was stumbling badly, obviously over matched.

"Um, I can't remember, now."

The dark skinned manager was satisfied, nodded, and looked back to his cards.

I turned to the bartender and we quietly laughed together.

An hour ago, none of us knew the others. Three hours from now, we would all be hugging each other, saying goodnight, as the manager on wobbly legs told us he really had to close down as it was an hour past last call. He hugged everyone too.

In between, we swapped stories. Some true, some not-it didn't matter. We argued over music. We danced. The young failed fashioner wore my coat as we all went outside in a group to smoke. She and I smiled at each other like lovers, because that's what we needed.

The liar's stories grew ferociously and we pretended to believe him, because that's what he needed.

The old man and local boy went home, but three men and two women came in to take their place and we welcomed them like cousins to a reunion. They brought a dog, which quickly became our dog, too.

The bartender made seventy dollars in tips, I gave the pretty girl a half a pack of smokes and my lighter.

The liar said he was going to Arizona to fix global warming. We wished him well.

This is how it was on a Monday night in Georgia. A group of strangers that needed something, and friends willing to give it.

The Jester Has Retired

the king is dead

long live the king

young and old

rascals and noblemen

born royal, worthy

and wanting

i've played for them all

i've swallowed the sword

juggled the daggers

told jokes

until the only punchline

is me

why, i could make myself disappear

over here

and then

*poof*

reappear over there

a clap of the hands and off i'd run

all yellow bloomers

with black stars

and a hat full of tossles

to conceal my wares

pull a rabbit from a hat?

phtt! child's play to a jester

able to pull a hat from a rabbit's ass

and convince it's a crown

the Queen is dead

long reign the queen

but where is the jester?

and who now will amuse?

the jester is gone

and all of his tricks

hats for hooks

and bloomers to rags

he'll dance no more

the limp fangled jig

for the game has gone old

and the jester, out of jolly

shall bow no more

Losing My Religion

i sat upon the rocks at the edge of the sea

just a boy head full of dreams

all heart full of want, upon a tide

chartless of course

i rode a train across Thailand

thundering to a destination

i hoped to never reach

but this, my secret locked tight

the mountains loomed in the distance

i hoped to never lessen, for their peaks

once conquered, would be too much feast

for the want i craved tight fisted

the seagulls spoke my religion,

the sky cathedral to my claims

chimed hallelujah to the virgin spirit

lost in the wildflowers of the ruling horizon

the ridiculousness of youth

oblivious to wisdom past

knows no friend among man

nor enemy among gods

but time teaches our faults

through a jealous rage stamping

failure upon wistful dreams

while horizons paint a faded canvas

the loss of this immortality

through the consummation of time to self

resides in the fable of destination

and peaks without fire, too near

it is divorce now i seek

from the cruel master i've become

so free i may be, to forget what i've learned

and find my first love abandoned somewhere

among restless seagulls and aimless tides