For the Werewolves

I sweat each day

To earn my hide

To burn off this shell

And reveal the wolf inside

By work and desire

Embrace trial by fire

And make ourselves worthy

Of the life of blood and iron

Father’s Day at the Carnival

a tinkering sun glints sharply

from spinning rides,

small feet scamper

on dry grass

through laughter and chaos

to an unhinged carousel

with a wink

from the leathered carney

clasping sweaty little hands

to thunder past

the shady barkers,

hurtling headlong

into years

of everyday madness

and new adventure

of whatever comes next 

Grit City Sunset

still at heart

this is a gritty city

sweated out

on packed

train cars

where our petty travails

are mocked

by pastel majesty

of sunset

the red-pink

skyblood of pride

slashed across the westward sky,

a reward

for myriad dreamers

cobbling new lives

one hard day at a time,

ready to bare

their threadbare souls

to strangers

Mud Soup

churning churlish

under canopy of trees

at the quiet park

summer streets simmer

while temptint rain

the only Dad here

hiding under a sweaty hat

trying not to gawk

at the fit mom

breastfeeding

and the cool dirt

speaks to me

when the girls pile it

to build their castle

we endure all shapes

of absurdities

to give our blood kin

an edge,

grateful we no longer

have to kill for it

the girls

make their quiet father

mud soup

I pretend to sip it

—delicious—

as I wait

to unleash their ambition

upon the world

Righteous Fires in the American Mind

Our land,

born from multitudes

of blood,

cannot slip peacefully

into old age.

Like these fireworks,

we flare brilliantly,

a shining white hot light

for all to see,

violent,

ending in charred carnage.

History is our loving scold:

Independence is the love of danger

and the thrill of the hunt.

Let us make kindling of our fears.

Let us rattle the slumbering minds

with our fire at the ready

and our gunpowder dry.

If our end is in madness,

it will be righteous and strange.