We live on street corners and back alleys
pressing our faces against pastry laden store front windows.
We hear hawkers and hot doggers calling in the street,
but all we can do is stare and wonder.

I can't pretend very well, and
turning my eyes away when I think something that I shouldn't say
I disconnect from honesty for your sake, and
shuffle back.

Before and behind trailing blood, and
following a bloody trail I feel again a warm hand upon my shoulder.
Strangers give me drink and call it life's blood, and bread
body.

Now I see your face for the first time
although I've long known you by reputation.
Ragged, wretched, beaten, beautiful. My eyes
fill up with tears.

We Hoist Bottles to Harness the Wind

Slightly alive in this world of furled sails
We nail plastic and glass to the mast.
No friend is the wind who comes now and again
Just to jest at our stagnant distress.

That cursed captain, he said "Listen well, all ye dead,
Land's a treasure, and I am the Key.
Hoist yer sails in wind gales that could empty the sea
But you'll ne'er budge an inch without me."

Childish riddles as these to my ears spoke disease;
Such a sailor as I earns his keep,
Yet he spoke as though toils would earn me no spoils
So I slit his damned throat in his sleep.

"Call me dead man again. You can die in my stead."
Snickered I as his pillow turned red.

Yet it seems he spoke truth, for now nothing we do
Moves our bow any nearer to home.
We've done all that we could to bring land to this wood,
Not a hint of slight progress we've known.

I've lost all hope in sails, they've failed time and again;
We hoist bottles to harness the wind.

The Germans Call It Fruehling

The world smells like dog poop these days.

Thawing preserves from Labrador walks and Terrier runs, creating obstacle courses for melting streams of snow and strollers. Mutt Mitts are shockingly neglected in the months around the winter solstice. Probably secretly. And bitterly.

The earth squishes. As if it's given up its grudge, finally caved in on that thing it said it wouldn't do. Like the time Jennifer Zawislak did invite Karly Kaneski to the birthday party, even though the fight happened on the bus and there hadn't been much talking or notes or phone calls since. And like Jennifer, the ground is breathing is easier for it. Things seem to fizz and pop, as the juices exchange.

Alarm clocks seem too slow, as we lean into the sunshine instead and swap out dark stumbles to sinks and toilets for liftings of window panes and bypasses of wool ensembles.

The melt ensues and the Germans call it Fruehling.

All Alone.

It made a sound. I know it must have, because everything that moves makes sound.

drip.......drip.......drip.......

There was so much other noise. Your people aren't known for their stoicism. Women wailing, thieves begging, soldiers mocking, the clouds thundering,

but I can't believe you didn't hear it.

drip.......drip.......drip......

Amidst the pounding of your heart, and your gasps for breath you must have heard it.

drip.......drip.......drip......

Your life was draining away and soaking into hard uncaring earth. Such loving liquid. It must have been a maddening and terrifying sound.

drip......drip.......drip......

A sinister voice in your head said, "You can make this stop." You chose the rack. You chose the noose. You chose this torture.

all alone with your

drip.....drip......drip.....

March Haiku

today I dream of
July and sand in my cracks
oh fearless loofah

midnight is an old
friend who greets me with wide eyes
two lids peek SO LONG!

The hair hung in his face covering his eyes but there was no doubt. He wept. Not the soft, willowy crying of a man accustomed to control, but the the penetrating wailing of a man who has just encountered the robbery of death. Deep, heavy, chest heaving, dangerous tears, moans, and mucus erupting from his face.

There was no shame. His grief was private and public. He could have been the only one standing there and his sorrow would have looked no different than it did now as he was surrounded by bewildered, wanting people.

This was a brother. Not simply a friend with whom you meet for a beer and a laugh, but someone who had shared in pain, fear, joy, conflict, and pleasure. It was the kind of pain that I imagine a tree feels as it's limbs are shorn off. The tearing of the saw into the wood, the weight of the limb as it begins to creak and fall, and the deafening crash of it hitting the ground and splintering into pieces.

The emotions acted like waves, the next one crashing as soon as the one before had subsided.

But there was no bitterness in the sorrow. No anger. It was grief unencumbered by these other emotions. Just a pure steady drip of sorrow pouring into his veins and making it's way through his body. He wondered whether he had stopped just feeling the emotion and instead had become his sorrow, it wrapped itself so completely around and through him.

He felt all this even though, within moments, through his own actions, he would be reunited with him.

Daisy's Chain

It was dark. It was stormy. My trench coat felt like a 40 pound used prophylactic twisted around my torso. You get the picture.

My partner and I were walking bowlegged down an alley behind some joint called "Daisy's Chain." I wouldn't call it seedy. Seedy's too good. I'd call it a pustule on the scrotum of Gotham, but I digress.

We had received a cold tip that a big dope deal would be happening in the basement of this rat hive, and in Gotham a cold tip is as good as it gets unless you've got money. In Gotham information is money.

"I hate my job." That's my partner. Porgy. Don't ask about his name. He won't tell you, and if you ask twice you're asking for trouble. He whines almost constantly, but he's the best partner I've ever had. He's not crooked, he's not yellow, and did I mention he's not crooked?

"Shut up Porgy." I briefly stopped to relight my dart. It wasn't going to happen in this slop.

Peering in through the low basement window it was quickly obvious that our cold tip was hotter than usual. Bricks of dope were strewn across tables in a room lit by two bare bulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling. The Smoked Irish had the dope on their side, and on the other side a gang of Roundeyes were keeping close tabs on several black leather briefcases. Porgy doesn't like it when I use racial slurs, but mother didn't use polite language with the various men she took into her bedroom. They always looked happy when they came out, and I never bothered to learn the correct terms. I myself am half Heeb, one quarter Taffy, and one quarter Boche.

There was no way Porgy and I would be able to touch all this heat. I was reaching for my radio to call for backup, and that's when it happened.

Nobody in the room saw him until it was too late, but I saw it like it was slow motion. One second that shadow in the corner was just a shadow, and the next second it was an unfolding mass of flying blades, smoke, and wings.

Now I'll be the first to admit that I've got some issues, but I know what I saw that night, so when I say wings I do mean, honest to dog, giant black wings.

The whole mass of them seemed to open fire at once. A couple of rounds even shot out the window Porgy and I were staring through, but we hardly noticed. Their bullets couldn't even touch him. He weaved in and out among them laying them all down one, two, three at a time until one last gibbering Jim Fish was all that was left conscious. He was crying out for mercy, and had a wet stream running down his leg that smelt of fear and "Daisy Chain" pecan burgers.

At that moment the creature turned and looked me straight in the eye.

The word "Run!" started bouncing around inside my skull like a cue ball in a trash can. I turned to bolt and glanced over at Porgy, but he was already gone.