Fated Race

One in the same, my friend and I

To her, though with different face,

So indifferently she throws the die,

And the loser accepts a fated race.

Now one’s heart resounds from a wayside ditch

As echoes from a hidden mountain niche.

Life for Midwesterners

Life for Midwesterners is a dull elevator ride, 

all of us passengers—amicable in our continual exchange 

of pleasantries and Christian virtues. 

Living, simply a matter of patience, 

is expectantly watching the panel above the door enumerate the lottery of floors.

If we dispel all ruckus we can get through this together.

 
I once disproved the notion that those who never tried 

to escape a locked room were never locked-up at all.

This is why Midwesterners dislike outsiders:

they kick and scream and pound in the machine 

until they escape on some level, 

leaving the doors broken and ajar.

Country Song

In Davenport, in the month of June,

Above the River—a supermoon
—An eye among the violet fringed clouds

Revealed behind a dark unfurling brow.

The yellow florescence on the grill
With each mile becomes brighter still.

Like milk through the windows the world seeps

While the wheels traverse the hoary concrete.

Away blew the wind, leaving silent air

Stranded motionless above each hill.
Town lights, each problem, and savoire-faire
With each mile become dimmer still.

The Greatest Friendship

When he was a boy

In darkness

He played games with other boys.

He yelled: “Marco!”

They yelled: “Polo!”

And these friends eluded him.

When he became a man

He put away childish things.

He walked a man among children.

Once in need he called: “Marco!”

But voice responded:

“I am Spartacus!”

There was no greater friend.

Badfish Too

Strewn across the surface sea

Like determined currents we

Flow in circular connecting paths

Without change or truancy.

A blue whale of tail relieves
The sure haven of her man
To bring to me her sour miens,

Coming for a one night stand.