Escape Goats

Instead of a curb was a goat head solidified as stone. Behind its calcium horns trailed the remnants of branches and moist, crinkled leaves. However, the heart of the beast still beat wild and red, untouched by the crystal decay. Its pulses and rhythms drew it further away from the body it no longer worked for.

How could it happen? What leads an organ to strike out for its own sake? When wholes grow weaker through set, stubborn ways, then the parts must create their own schedules. Therefore, all of the pieces of once living goats are free to each blur out of focus.

Husband, Clayvon

There’s not a whole lot you shouldn’t do for money. People like to act like there is, but when you list all the things out, it’s not anywhere near what you’d guess. Six or seven’s what I figure. One or two’s what I’ve done.

The worst and last of them was in winter of ‘59. I hadn’t been out of school long when I met her, and I hadn’t known her much longer when I married her. We were cut from the same bolt of fabric, Celey and me. Shared our hearts like a stitched shirt that splits where the buttons do. I was proud to be her husband, Clayvon. Still am.

We tried living in the city at first, but couldn’t take to it. We had no friends between us, save an old neighbor lady by the name of Lenore. She had blind eyes and arthritic fingers, which only led Celey and I to wonder all the more at the never-ending parade of casseroles and stews that passed through our doorway each week. A whisper of a knock was all that preceded them, twitchy and light enough to be, perhaps, unintentional. The truth though, is that Lenore meant everything she did. Nothing was by accident; all was done for love. She meant to be a blessing to us, so she was.

When Lenore died, Celey begged to leave the city. I had saved a few thousand from the construction job I found, but had hoped for more before making another move. Plans changed though, when our landlord emptied Lenore’s apartment onto the street below. Hoping not to miss a month’s rent, he’d foregone contact with any potential relative of the old widow. Instead, he dressed the front lawn and sidewalks in Lenore’s outdated dresses and reduced her life’s treasures to fresh pawn shop fodder. It was too much for Celey, when flocks of junkies emerged from dark places to strip clean the remnants of Lenore, our friend.

The next day, Celey told me I’d be a father in less than eight months. Husband in one year, daddy the next. Saying I was proud would sell the thing short. We shook off that city like a dog does his fleas, and found a bright three bedroom before George was born. Things were hard going for a while after that. Celey and me argued over whether we needed to borrow money, and if we did, from whose parents would it come. George was crying all hours, all days. I think he sensed the uncertainty surrounding his next meal. I know I did.

It was soon thereafter a call came from a guy I’d not thought of since high school. He’d gotten the new number from my mother and hoped I wouldn’t mind. I didn’t really, since I was the one who answered the phone, the only one who heard how desperate he sounded. I knew Celey would’ve shook her head though to see me talking to the man. He had always been mixed-up in some trouble or another, and his call was to say he now needed me to take the blame. Any other night, I swear, I’d have said no. But it was that night, when I noticed how diluted George’s milk was, how thin Celey’s face looked, how lean our butcher’s cuts had grown. Animals that died hungry. Not us.

I said yes, and hung the phone.

The next day, I confessed to a thing I did not do.  The police never questioned why I’d turn myself in, when by the look of it, the robbery had come off clean. All they had were suspicions of a thug who’d been seen around there before, a local small town who was always in some kind of trouble. But here I was to save them the bother of a car ride, and all they needed anyway was something dark to pin the crime on.

I handed over a thousand dollars and said the rest was claimed by irony when a crackhead in an alley claimed the big bucks with a knife. In truth, the money was home with Celey, the pay-off for giving freedom to a criminal in exchange for two years of my life. Of our life.

Celey wouldn’t visit for the first year. I’d send her photographs and letters saying how I’d done everything for love. Her responses totaled four words: Money is not love.

She was right, of course, so I made her truth my own for the remainder of my life.  Wealth crouches in the details of a whole mess of things, but not all of them. A thing like fatherhood, being a husband—money doesn’t enter into it. When it seemed like one couldn’t exist without the other, I should’ve given careful thought to those people and their list. I still say there isn’t too much you shouldn’t do for money. I’m just more mindful now then before I knew what really makes men rich.

Brain Waves

If all of our reminders were writ in knitted neural wires,

There’d be no need for pens and paper, screens or keys.

The paths all our thoughts travel-

living streets of layered matter-

Are all the space a being could ever need.

Man’s Ugly Algorithms

  • The trunk of every tree is the handle of a blade that will one day hack at the roots of itself
  • Good relations between species depend upon one party supplying food and heavy petting to the party most likely to eat the other
  • Losing gracefully is the wisdom of knowing other’s success is preferable to seeming like a jerk

Silent Spheres Sing

This galaxy’s an island-

A continent of stars,

And a billion other galaxies

Drift right alongside ours.

A black, vast sea before us,

An image from the past.

Everything is now some place else,

But our vision’s not as fast.

Hidden folds of wonder,

Life humble as clay.

Strokes as bold as thunder,

Origin of days.

The Long Night of History

Inside Room 103

On the back left hand wall,

6 portraits are hanging,

And each one of them all

Shows the very same building,

Just on different days.

6 sides of 1 person:

A revealing display.

Snapshots of progression-

2 Para ll e ll ines

Grouped 2 by 2

And stacked

Side by side.

We gather before them,

Linking thoughts into chains

To be wound round the table

And fastened to legs.

Transfixed, we stay seated,

Though time marches past.

Every moment a portrait-

Each the first,

Each the last.

Goodbye, and Thanks for Trying

There’s nothing you can do about the sores on your spine.

Growth spurts once hurt during youthful days gone by.

But now there’s dizziness in the morning.

And nights of tile for pillows, wondering

How soon sleep can turn to death.

You now face grim realizations;

So have a seat and catch your breath.

One in a million-

If they’re lucky-  will drink of a sweet wine

Before a tired draught weighs down the dozing eIe.

You may get to be that happy one,

Or it may wind up you won’t.

But if you’re counting on a miracle,


Men trace the lines of cloud folds

With brushstrokes slight as flesh,

Yet draw no closer to the true shape.

We just try to do our best.