NOMADS

When the battles are over
and no one has won
we gather our chattles
and farther we run.

But there is no peace
where conscience abides
there is no home
where treachery resides.

And so nomads we become
wandering from sun to sun
pushing tiime beyond its limits
before we are forever done

She had made up her mind,
to be alone,
to cut herself off
from all perfunctory contacts.
He, too, was widdershins,
unwinding the sensations
of disintegration and anti-life.

Neither of them could stand
each other,
let alone the thought - the treason
of growing old
together.

What if i wanted to write poetry
and offered alms to the poet?

Give me a few words or give me
poetic death--
stasis is not a state of mind
nor the gist of things
like stingers on a scorpion
shaken from swaggering boots
of morning,

or a bumble bee,
neither
too yellow or too black
to carry its full weight;

forgive me for being where I'm
not wanted
or being who I am--
I'm an American Outlaw:
a stone's throw from
royalty and deeper than dirt
in my own shit

We returned to alien children
and wives we had forgot,
homes submersed in rot.
These women would not soften
privy that we picked dead men
from our teeth: brother’s blood ill-begot.
We writ their names in the sand not
seen by morning-light, their bones broken,

carried away by evening tides.
These men will not forgive us,
in sleep we sweat and scream
in nightmares our time we bide.
Within your guts we hold their rage continuous—
and only when compared to the devil are we redeemed.

what if i wanted to write poetry
and offered alms to the poet?

give me a few words or give me
poetic death,
stasis is not a state of mind
nor the gist of things
like stingers on a scorpion
shaken from swaggering boots
in the morning,
or a bumble bee,
neither too
too yellow or too black
to carry its full weight,