Tangelo Stallion

Lo, gallant stone, I

Tell a gal to sin on

A goon’s ill talent.

A gent, lain lost. Lo!

An agent ill, loots.

Alone, stalling to

Listen. Go on, a tall,

Tall elation song.

O! An angel’s ill tot,

No legs; all on a tit.

No little gals on a

Tangelo stallion.

All gents toil on a

Gale lost, lain not

Slain, not legal to

Tell it on a slogan.

On a little slogan,

I lost all on a gent,

Into legal talons

Not on a legal list.

In all, get lost on a

Tangelo stallion

To let all sing on a

Long-last elation.

I stall on tangelo

Tangelo stallion

Slain nag too. Tell

All—ten slain! Go to

Gloat, all in stone.

Align no stale lot.

Alone, sin got tall,

Along tall stone, I

Got all silent on a

Stone gal, ill to an

Angel, a tot son—ill!

Lo! All-stone giant

Still to no glean, a

Gallant oilstone,

All lit onstage, on

A signal to tell on.

Angel, it’s on all to

Align solo talent

Ain’t along to sell

A tall silent goon.

Alas, no telling, to

Let slang toil on a

Last legal notion—

Tell it on a slogan!

I, along tall stone,

Alone, angst I toll,

In all, get lost on a

Legal nation lost

To let all sing on a

Long-last elation.

In all, get lost on a

Tangelo stallion.

Alas, no ill gotten

Long salt elation

Lo! All nations get

A glint lost alone.

Piss-Shit Water

Feces floatin’

in a porcelain bowl

of beer-yellow urine,

“Git chur ass ov’r here!

Ya little chickenshit! I’ll give ya shit!”

Whiskey-tainted piss-shit water

Flushin’ away six-year-old tears,

stinkin’ in my nostrils

forcin’ me to fight,

encouragin’ me to lie,

wakin’ me from sleep,

scarin’ me into survival.

Pruno-tainted piss-shit water

remindin’ my cellie he’s my bitch

Feces floatin’

in a stainless steel bowl

of beer-yellow urine,

whiskey-tainted piss-shit water

still with me after thirty years.

To Virginia

I lost you once,

and I lost you twice, then

I lost you thrice

stolen in secrecy

a decade before

you would weep

your thief

dead

before discovery

unaware

you were gone

you were

resurrected

snatched away violently

weeks before

you were legal

thieves

abscond

into dark anonymity

your absence

denied

you were

resurrected

given

instantly

to the first bidder

the recipient

not fit for

your worth

your absence

acknowledged

your were

not resurrected

like the son

you were

sacrificed

for the sins

of the mother’s drunken father

of the two drunken men in the red truck

of the

hopeless

drunken

girl

I lost you once,

and I lost you twice, then

I lost you thrice.

The Liquor Store: a sestina

One night I stopped to buy some smokes. Into

the liquor store I walked. Many people

were inside, some in search of bad habits;

our vices bring most of us here. A woman

in front of me was buying smokes—two types;

she bought beer too. I looked over at her.

She was clean and well groomed. She reached in her

purse, took out her card, put her PIN into

the machine. Plastic has different types.

Some people have bank cards, and some people

credit. An EBT card this woman

used—welfare! To support her habits?

I felt my body tense up. My habits

aren’t paid by the government. I watched her

and felt a deep disgust for this woman.

I wanted to curse her. I delved into

my mind to ask why we allow people

to use aid to purchase things of these types.

I began to think of different types

of people. Each of us has our habits.

I don’t know all the obstacles people

face. Then I pondered the “what-ifs.” Was her

story one I could understand? “Try to

put yourself in the life of this woman.”

Did her man say, “Go to the store, woman,

and buy me some beer and smokes—get two types.”

Did he make a threat to beat her into

oblivion—again? Are his habits

supported by Her fear of him? Is her

life spent taking care of other people?

Her life intrigued me. She treated people

with respect. She was pleasant, this woman

who I wanted to curse. Now I saw her

differently—just one of many types

of people, all with various habits

and whose lives I will never get into.

In the store are people of many types,

and I found this woman may have habits,

but I can’t judge her or what she’s into.

Little Bird

I found a little bird with broken wings,

so emaciated from starvation.

There’s no voice for songs, just a sound that stings.

His scared, child-like eyes can’t see salvation.

Cold and trembling, sure that harm is to come,

his beak and talons are just as a hawk’s

Angry about what his life has become,

if I try to help, he scratches and squawks.

So, he lacks the skills of civilized cultures.

Some would say he’s just a barbarian.

He’s a dove, been raised by vultures,

and fed just bits of diseased carrion.

I see his chance for recovery’s slim,

so I put him back where once I found him.