A Climbing Rock

A father’s job

is a climbing rock

to be that rough path

that winds to the top

to rule with love 

to tempt the fates

to put muscle on bones

and food on plates

hewn from

ancient tectonic madness

to guide through scrapes

and be a salve for sadness

unending

unbending and deep

to protect, defend

and lull to sleep

At the Tinkergarten Class

love

that boils down

to the pure enough

eyeing the girls

scooping mud

in headlong innocent greatness

among the clatter

and the chatter

of the catty city mothers

lone wolf father

proud among the pack

as his girls

school the other children

rule the roost

unafraid

hands deep in the ground

to let the cool Earth

bathe our good anger

content, for now

to not destroy this world

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

Lone Wolf in Manhattan

stop to realize

I have become

a walking relic,

a tie-wearing man

in an open-collar world

where eunuchs grow beards

and women lean in

when they should stand

where savages

are taken for scholars

and beauty and art

is measured in dollars

but I smile widely

as I spot the sharp eyes

of my growing tribe

recused

and refuse

to live a lie

Bounce University

an upward swing

from every down-pressed time

every fracture of spirit

every dying sign

basic joy of motion

as we laugh among the screams

primal, carnal joy commotion

powers scattered tribal dreams

jumping high

and shoeless

as if making pagan prayer

smiling and remorseless

as we immolate with flair

The Gospel of Swords

Blessed are the clear-eyed,

the keepers of swords,

by their bold blood

our lives are forged.

Lift our hammers

and our spears;

leave plowshare angels

their slavery

and tears.

Rejoice the future,

present and past.

As we make our history.

the die is cast.

All Night Driving

Smooth blacktop sailing

before light

cracks the horizon line,

soaring

like a swift boat captain

searching for ivory

or Vietcong

dreams of lobster rolls

and keeping children asleep

no time to stop

or think, or weep.

One week

without work stress

our steady paycheck souldeath.

Scrambling to get there

before commuters clog

the highway arteries.

Loving the brakespeed chaos

and the promise of coffee

and salty air

with leadfoot magic

to get us there.

Pregnant Irish Women Will Rule the Earth

The Irish ass

is always

primed for kissing

Cross an Irish woman

and leave

with teeth missing.

On those cold potions

I take a polite pass

but muster devotion

for the fiery Irish lass.

Mane of red

and swelled with child

they are maddening, mine

and bloody wild.