Knock
A friend knocked on my door. It was 2am, but I wasn't asleep. Like him I was unemployed, and stayed up late reading old spy novels.

When I opened the door I was surprised to see his tired, dying eyes. "I don't want to live no more," he said.

I took him in and gave him some coffee. It was cold out, and all he had on was a spring jacket.

I didn't know what to say, but I started talking.

"What are you saying about wanting to die?" I asked.

"When I sleep, bullies come to me and do cruel things. They hurt me bad."

"But they're only dreams. Pay no attention to them and they'll go away, Johnny."

"Can I stay on your couch tonight. It's cold out and I got nowhere to go."

"Sure," I said. I didn't tell him I had to be out by the end of the next day. I hadn't paid my rent, not since I lost my job. Like him I'd have nowhere to go.

The next morning, I shook Johnny, but one of the bullies must of taken him in the night. The landlord showed no mercy. Said the dead man was my problem, and he wanted the both of us gone. I packed my belongings and left Johnny behind. Even when he died, the bullies couldn't leave Johnny alone.

Walk
I walk along a path of frozen leaves.
Wondering only of my mortal self.
I wander absently within the barren beauty of the old, the fallen. I hear the trees: Listen to us!
In silence I walk quickly with icy steps. The first snow and wind against my cold skin. My feet unsure, I catch my balance before I fall. The talking trees scared me. It is early winter and I was not there when they lost golden leaves. Tomorrow I will know their sorrow and make prayer in the emptiness of winter.

Blood
I sit in a room of hurt and water
I wash my pain as if I was a sinner
Baptize myself as if I was priest,
a Holy Man gently stroking my bleeding brow
I see no God
No Christ
No Budda
I wait and wait for No One
And No One waits for me
Just with this dry thirst, I sail away on a human river of blood and water

Lowly

A man in a black overcoat walks across the floor of a bar without a name. It is a quiet night, near closing time; just an old timer sits at table near the stale air of the men’s room. He mutters aimlessly to himself as he moves his hand slowly along a beer glass. He makes a fist and lets go with crooked, hurting fingers. The music had died an hour ago. The kitchen is silent.

The man in the overcoat stands across from the bartender. From his pocket he pulls four photographs and lays the black and white prints across the oak bar top.

He says: “They’re all gone.”

“Dead.” The bartender grunts.

“Yes. What can you do about it?”

 “Nothing. Ask God.”

The stranger lifts the photos and places them in his pocket. As he walks back across the floor he hears the old man stammer ”Nnn..othing ..Nothing. Nobody can do nothing.”

The man in the overcoat makes a fist in his pocket and opens his hand against the photos. Lately his fingers have been hurting. He wonders aloud if soon he will sit in a bar and curse his muttering God. The old man says nothing. The bartender whistles lowly.

Drift
I'm drifting, I'm drifting
As silence in a summer breeze
To hear the laughter of clapping leaves
I drift in silence
To the dying
I drift in silence
To the end of my mortal self
I drift in silence
Then I hear nothing
Do I return as the laughter in clapping leaves?

Return
The heart is my sullen beast that consumes me in sadness. But I will return. I will free myself of its grip and slay it. And speak of it no more as the beast slumbers in another man's soul.

Knee
I wave under a Scarlett Sky
Roll my tired shoulders,
Stretch my hurting arms,
Shake my weary fingers,
My bones, My aching bones
They want to go no more
Is that a wave of good-bye, for good?
To retire?
Give up the Ghost, so to speak?
I'll wake in the morning and talk to my bones
Perhaps we can accommodate one to the other
I'll move more slowly and carefully
Choose more wisely when and wear I go
But that Scarlett Sky belongs deep inside of me
See, even the heart has its bones to hold it in place
Just as they articulate the hurting knee