Two Poems

Shelled In

Write me in Beirut,
Stake sane drums with pins.
Keep the cash coming cold
in straight coffins.

Buy the fires,
Sleeping light,
Bound to drought.
Whole sale cracking shells,

Echo night.
Echo night

Summer shins
black, want no color,
"The Cleaners" call
“A” bomb of a lover.


When the eye
that we dwell upon,
wets a spot in time,
soldiers march back to their graves.
My dull cheek,
milked of sweat,
begs a tear.
But the salt has dried me out.





Cruel Religion and a Handsome Man


Blood on the mountain,
Blood from the baby's mouth.
They poisoned that fountain,
like the heart of the old south.

We're driving I-40,
Every one those ghost stories told.
Nashville to Memphis
Country first, with or without soul.
I'm a hollywood producer,
And it's your chance to direct.
Aware of the consumer
I'm pushing for more sex.

If there's no happy ending,
it's just as predictable, no less
Hard to believe,
when magic is a business.

A cruel religion and a handsome man
that tries to settle you down.
Like something I was told when I was ten,
"Sooner or later it all comes back around."