we were a teenage
cover band
playing louie louie
wipeout & house of the risin' sun
from the back of a hay wagon
right behind the original
jc penney
hamilton missouri
my mama's town
my family tree
sitting around squinting
into the setting sun
great uncle whit
just starched overalls
pointing one shaky finger
at me singing
said—oh hell them there's city boys
turned and spit brown juice
into an empty cup
ten feet away
The Calling
in dark august
while cicadas sing
a summer song of death
& whippoorwills answer
the mourn of
chuck-wills-widow
a lone coyote
paired against
a yellow moon
howls a lonesome song
that will silence the night
as she follows his cry
A Beer With
Bukowski
sat two stools down
from bukowski
holding up a high-life
he nodded in my direction
downed it
tapped the empty
on the bar
another
I whispered
bartender
tell him I'm a poet
bukowski emptied
another one
tapped it twice
went to the john
I leaned in
whatdidhesay
sounding like cagney
& polishing small circles
on the wet bar
he said,
who the hell ain't
Bottom of the
Ninth
—for
Bob
we grew up playing
until dark
be home before
the street lights came on
mowing vacant lots
marking the bases
with scrapes of wood
or cardboard
sandlot baseball
a pastime passion
we were outside kids
wanting to be mantle
knocking it out
of the park or
drysdale striking out
the side in the last game
of the world series
we grew up
butch wax flat tops
gap tooth smiles
blue jeans rolled up
and dirty knees
catching crawdads
from the creek
with bacon and string
sometimes making
both love and war
we went looking
for that american dream
doing our own thing
our own way
finding nothing ever
remains the same
and there is no
yellow brick road
we shed some blood
along the way and
in that blood found
the real dream
was not a picket fence
2.5 children
a cadillac in every pot
but the love of
a good woman
arms holding us tight
waiting
for us
one day
to wake up
