I’ve written so many pieces that they sort of, well, they sort of flutter around the house like something that flutters from hand to pile to stack to folder to box and back to stack and off to flutter again. Literally hundreds have made their way into the mouth of no return, moth eater, something that flutters eater. Never to be seen or heard from again. No post cards from exotic beaches. Gone. Here’s some stuff that fluttered into my hands, and I just couldn’t let it go. I don’t know why and I don’t know when I wrote this. I’m not sure if it matters. But here it is.




Birds of a Feather


their black beaks
dipping in and out
of sorrow

their feet stick
in the dank mud

they gather here
to drink from
a lake of tears
their feathers
painted with pain
their dreams

stranded at
the bottom
of the lake

waiting to be
broke free
again to breathe
rising to
the surface









Some men would look at my life and say that “ he has nothing.”

But I have multitudes beyond
what are reachable for them.

I have sat atop the mountain
in which they were afraid to climb,
swam the river that they not dare
wade one foot in, taken the lover
whom they were afraid to talk to.

I have cried when they could not
show their faces and understood why
they themselves could not cry.

I have loved that person who
did not deserve
to be loved.


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