Hero’s hands

“You the hero in here” I said,
as a newly boarded passenger opened up the windows
on the late afternoon bus into the county.

An early April day felt like early May
on the shoreline toes of the Cascades,
buzzed from cheap beer and rays caught in the grass.

She needed air after a quick run to the station
in knee-high black leather boots at that,
and a knee-high wool-blend skirt.

The bus was full enough to bring strangers close together,
body heat, sweat, and a pheromone chamber
breathing hard, but steady from exertion
adrenaline and something sweeter breathes its way inside,
firm shoulders pressed against my own
as she reads Ken Kesey’s ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’.

I know the book and I know the movie,
yet I’m trapped inside, silent like a lobotomized Randle Murphy,
or maybe Billy Bibbit, biting his tongue,
waiting for the right words,
but Chief knows that talk is cheap.

I see her hands.
They look like mine,
but I know the hero’s hands will never find
the ones that type this script
carefully describing
a life lived in fantasy
ever after



In a world the embraces real freedom
real freedom of speech
real freedom of expression
everybody is a poet
everybody is free to speak the truth
and the starving artist dies
and the starving artist dies
and nobody

the starving poet
forced to get
a fucking job.

Support free speech


I write to write
not to right the wrongs held by hungry men
and women who want just a little bit more.

We take and we react
to the injustice of others who take more than we
giving a shit only when it suits our needs.

He, she, or they are always to blame
for the wars and global warming
so live for yourself only for today.

You come to poetry readings
to hear something real you can really relate to
and to be seen by others just like you.

That is the problem that dares not keep a name
behind plastic smiles, it hides in fear
of seeing the other in our own reflection.

My darkness casts a shadow
upon the prim white lilies
bred for perfect splendor
in safer spaces
free from wild wolves.

But who will do the culling
to keep the beasts away?
Or, better yet, extinct,
just a glorified myth
fading like a memory.

Write Winter – February 2014

Track through cedars

Howling symphony
ocean waves
carry the currents
breathing collectively

not like any thing,
Winter whirlwinds
shower shorelines
inundate the inland



torrents of

the crunch
of footsteps

soil concealed
in a blanket
of perfect

whisper softly
barren branches bearing
plastered skins
of precipitated

Paws deface
the picturesque
powdered swamp

ambitious prints
in the trail of shreds
through the pacifying veil
of subterranean




Apostrophe logo 4short


yet curved


she takes

her cues

from owner’s




on her lips



omission is

a circumstance

of life, can’t you see?



she is master

of contractions




she struggles with

making odd bits mingle

with her ?’s & ()’s


in apostrophes lies