didn’t the media kill you, back then ….
How did you survive….
Tell me your stories of princes and precious angels

whose lives they made real in the cobwebs
of a forest, like the mist waiting to be
dew, at sunrise;
.                                that brutal honesty
outside the soft repeal of moonlight,
streaking this dark field
by a railroad
.                            before crossing
a river seldom swam, getting lost
in the solemn dance
downstream;

relishing the atmosphere
as it rushes by in ragtime, calling the dancers
and dreamers of this warrior band to pray;

in a mad lust for cars,
and the sun tempting them
like sweet wine, for a moment
of clarity before screaming through the valley.

Maybe its time you find a little silence
within the nagging aeronautics that you believe
will bring focus to the chaos
of a soul trying,
.                                tasting
the sweet tobacco of the gentle shaman
in his hunger religion before divulging alliance.

Hemingway blew his brains out with an elephant gun,
the impact of that shot on your life, burnt
powder caught on waves of air that find the curtain
off-guard.
.                        Maybe you should do the same,
lash the mast of your wooden ship,
unhitch the bow with a prayer
of finally arriving
.                                      whole;
with body mind and soul, not asking
for a reason, while exorcising your demons.