Tag Archives: death

Kato is dead

Kato is dead and Van Williams is not happy
Neither is Van Morrison nor Jim Morrison
Not to mention Jim Nabors or my neighbors
But my neighbors are always mad
Because I wear my music too loud
And my dogs too
But that’s the way I like them
I like my music loud
I like my dogs loud
I like Jim and Van Morrison
I don’t care about Jim Nabors
I like the Green Hornet
But it really is a shame that Kato is dead

Late February Dreams

The dreams have come through in vivid living color
Great men who have touched my life who have gone
One man is fishing in the summer sun – a smile as wide as a mother’s love
Another man with books – a stack of books reaching him there in heaven
The third man at peace with his wife and son – like a snapshot on an autumn day
The dreams fill the night sky with joy wrapped in melancholy
I awake with the shade down and the prayer that I said everything I should have

The dreams play silently as though I am underwater
Great friends who I have loved or who have loved me
One woman lays with me – face down – in a butter yellow sweater
One man holds a baby high above his head – not a sacrifice – but sanctified
One woman wears too many layers of too many colors defying the springtime hue
The dreams careen across the night sky carrying me from this humble world
I awake with the shade over my eyes and the knowledge that I can say every thing I need

Leaving Lookout Mountain

There was a single star in the Tennessee sky
We followed it north to Nashville
And then on toward Bowling Green
Before we moved on homeward – Chicago
Still my heart is winding around that scenic route
Flying off of Missionary Ridge
And bouncing back toward lookout mountain
Like the union soldiers did 100 years before my birth

I am charging up the side of that mountain
And like a good confederate soldiers
I leave a part of myself up on that mountain

Now I search the autumn Chicago sky
To find that lone Tennessee star
If only to let her know
That I have not forgotten her
And that I will be back to see her
As soon as I possibly can

Small Fresh Tear Drops

The snow is whipping around me
Like shattered shards of safety glass
But when they touch my lips and nose
They melt softly
They disappear on each cheek
Leaving small fresh teardrops

When we met it was very cold in the city
But it was very warm in our bed
Now that you are gone it is cold in the city again
But this time it’s cold in our bed as well
Maybe I can open a window
And some of the snowflakes will join me
They will touch me in places that only you know
They will disappear on my blue body
Leaving small fresh tear drops
And I will not wipe them away
Until you come home
And you will come home

Ashland Avenue South of the Viaduct

This is Norman Rockwell’s drug fueled nightmare of America
A country smashed in the face by racism and hatred and anger
This bleak landscape allows no mercy and no opportunity and no love

Dirty broken windows that don’t let in the light but can’t keep out the brutal cold
Wood so rotten it droops like the dreams of the men and women it intends to protect
The quiet streams up swirling across the deserted lots and abandoned buildings

Hope pushes its way through the cracks of the jagged sidewalk
Only to be stepped on by heavy ugly boots filled with loathing
The boots and the loathing move west with a slow steady shuffle

The Monster Inside

Like the lone fierce monster roaming the countryside
Looking for someone to look beyond the grotesquerie
To dig deep down inside past the callused skin
and matted hair
To see the beating red lonely heart
crying out for understanding
He is only a man who has become
a product of his circumstances
Outside he may appear ghoulish and threatening
maybe even dangerous
But inside of the monster stirs a soul
longing for something – someone
He walks along through the world alone and scared
He is in much more danger
than the people who fear him
But they themselves will never know
what lurks there inside of him
They just may never know

Another Broken Soldier

I didn’t want to be the one who told him
Nobody wants to face the broken soldier
But someone has to
So there he was belching up beer
and smelling of cheap leather
Another broken soldier who
Upon breaking the ranks – has fallen
He is there waiting for redemption
He is there praying for his soul
He is there kneeling at the altar of his failures
The broken soldier reaches out for comfort
But receives nothing more than a cold drink
This seems – for now – to be enough

I was sad when I confronted him
Nobody wants to confront a broken soldier
But I guess it was my turn
So there we were trading war stories
and drinking long into the night
He was just another man who
Didn’t understand where all the time went
He was there waiting for his next drink
He was there praying for a punch line
He is crawling from the altar that was his life
The broken soldier reaches out for solace
But receives nothing more than a hard slap
This seems – for now – to do him in

Old Men and Birds

Old men and birds
Have the best stories here
No empty rhetoric
Words or songs pour out
Of beaks and trembling mouths
Reliving those moments of glory
Like they could bring it all back home
Whenever they needed it

Old men and birds
Get ignored around here
No honest attraction
They live within us
They who have seen so much
They know all they have is each other
Like the friend to share secrets with
At times when you need them most

Old men and birds
Die terribly here
No evident losses
Flies buzz around them
The rotting carcasses
Reclining on the dirty sidewalk
Where they fell when they got too tired
And simply needed a rest

The Death of Armando Passion

It started with the voices in his head
They told him that he wasn’t worth a thing
They soon made him forget what love would bring
Reminding him that’s he’s better off dead
There is no use in getting out of bed
Each mistake must somehow be amended
Each scraped knee must always be attended
But old Armando just gave up instead
And when he did the bottom just fell out
And how he did nobody seems to care
But now he’s dead and there is not a doubt
No one’s surprised that no one’s waiting there
Armando Passion now lays in the ground
And no one cares enough to make a sound

The Living Dead and Little Girl Blue

The living dead
and little girl blue
in the supermarket
holding hands
and pricing frozen foods
holding tightly
to acne fantasies
and days of discipline
The living dead
pushes the cart
while little girl blue
skips
lightly
down the aisle