Destiny is a
smiling *******
riding a motorcycle
through the
neighborhood, laughing
at children playing in
yards, eaten by worms and
time.
Pink
green
white
Keliedescope confusion on all
the cat's faces.
Providence is a stealthy hunter.

Those silver cans of
government meat, set
on the table with a red
and white checkered
tablecloth.
An old yellow light hung
on a chain illuminating
the can of meat.
It tasted like flavorless
gum.
It seemed like a mish-mash
of byproducts that no one
else wanted.
Mom always tried to make
a casserole out of it, but no
amount of pasta or sauce
would fix that roadkill.

Mom hid the cans in the
trash.  Tried to bury it
beneath empty packages
of mushrooms and onion
skins.
I'd dig lightly, and there it
was.
That silver government can.
Shadows for dinner.

A silhouetted pig, cow, or
chicken, made a cameo
on the can.
They reminded me of those
horrid souvenirs from
Disneyland that hung
above the antique *****.
As a boy, I'd look up to see
one of my brothers or sisters
likeness splayed out on the
wall in a creepy silhouette of
horror.
Deathlike, dark, and final.

It was like they caught the animal
at the
last stand.
Death and then eaten.
I know that's why I'm
here.

Without poetry, we'd all
be chained to fences of time.
locked in,
torn apart,
played with by the
cosmic dance.

Don't get me wrong,
the poems can't
cure cancer, or heal the
lame dog's leg.
But, they might give
the ****** hope, and the
hobos a home.

Poetry tricks the mind
into seeing things,
like woolfhounds with
bagpipes playing an
Irish jig, far away from
the ferryman and his ride
across the river.

Without poetry, about now,
my skull
would be a home for beetles
and worms, turning
ever so slowly into
dust.

I was starving in
Pennsylvania.
One night, I had
enough.
Done with it all.
The poverty and
sickness.
The drunken mad
nights
and dog-fight days.
Brutality for breakfast.
Served sunny side up
runny yolks with
butterflies trapped in
the yellow sunshine.
Spiders built webs in
my soul.

I stood on the torn-up
couch in my living room and
yelled at the walls.

Listen, you devil.
You want me, you better be
ready for a fight.
I paced the floor like a
washed-up heavyweight champ,
eyeing the ceiling like a
drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.

Stick a knife in the dawn.
Twist the peonies
into puppets.
Put the goldfish on
the counter and feed
it cereal.
Mice cast shadows as
big as elephants on
the yellow walls of
my heart.
Dance a slow waltz with
the philodendron.
Dig up
Mozart
Bach, and
Wagner.
Make a chocolate cake.
Read me, TS Eliot, and
sing old hymns.

**** everything.
Mom and Dad have died.

Death winks at the
lilies that smile in
the rain.
He takes her.
The last ***** trick.

Watered drinks and
syphilis doesn't do the
patrons any good.
Too much grief for
placebos and madness.
Relief must come.
***** and fantasy just
bring sickness, and
licking frogs is
out of the question.

Pipe dreams ease the pain
if you smoke them slowly.
Watch the blue ghost curl
into the feeling fan.

This saloon is home for the
iceman.
So, buy me another drink,
and we can think about
doing it all
tomorrow.
Isn't that right, Mr. O'Neil?