Angel, Hank and Bob Wire

Taunt and straight Angel cut the wire loose. The razor-sharp barbs coiled back catching him across the face. Cheek flesh ripped out, his nose opened up, the barbwire lodged in, slightly above his eyelid and just under his eyebrow. He went down screaming as Hank stood there laughing.

“I told you not to cut it like that. God damn flatlanders!”  Hank shouted.

Angel had enough. With his eyelid pinned up and blood streaming down his face he reached for Hank’s leg and cut the muscle above the heel. Hank dropped to the floor no longer laughing. Pride was Angel’s Achilles heel.

Buried In Bennington



Bare from winter the Green Mountains rise,

Brown ridge backed beast lined with pine

Hind legs to the ground

Rusted trucks and power lines

The people decay at

Her base

Rivers washing showing new sand

Tree lined bank twisted in a knot

Beyond the bend

Summer waits

At the first old church Robert Frost lays

We walk where the green signs say

To go

The path off to the left invites us

That’s where the young couple go

Where the revolutionary soldiers lay

Where great moms are buried

Restless in his shadow

His family ready to be stacked

Right where birth is written in stone

Engraved death waits for them

Their place in the shadow

The close shadow

Of the only greatness they can obtain

A place in Robert Frost’s grave

Their lives already bargained for

Their worth aligned six feet under

How many feet does it take to bury

A great man?

How many relatives can you stack on one poet?

Stake your dreams on coming here

A pennies worth

You flip out

A poet’s wishing well

Tip a sip for your homie

Watching the braless photographer straddle his grave

As if you could ever be so big

Buried with your back to the church

By The Bank


 One hundred word prompt


The coming season slowed the ripples on the shallow side of the bend as the last of the leaves waited on a wind. Winter would be here. John pushed his fingers into the cold mud, the worms all but gone. He stared out at the river hoping to see a splash but instead found a perfect reflection of the riverbank. The fall run was over, soon the water would thicken and ice in the corners. The fish had fed well and the bite had slowed. Under the tree blanketed beneath some leaves he found one last worm, he found hope.



The Point


It is time to talk fishing. The winter is behind me, as mellow as it was, the clouds and the darkness got to me all the same. This is the time of the year when I look forward to the sun and adventures. This is when I start to think about my water. The salt waters off Long Island. I want out. I want to feel the rays.

A few family obligations including that bunny and after that it’s time to set some hooks. I almost want to use the bunny as bait but I know that’s not such a good idea.

So I wait.

But in the back of my mind I hear “Bunker chunk” and it echoes.

BUNKA, bunker, BUNKA, bunker. BUNKA.

I can see the rusty hooks, the blood and the seesawing horizon.

With Summer just around the block I wait on the warmth.

I organize the tackle box, sharpen the hooks, and bite lead weights onto line.

All of winters darkness comes out in the cut , the bite, the pursuit.

It’s time to catch the shadows of winter, find clear water and watch it turn from cold to hot.

It’s time to fish, to feel the tide, write and sink my feet into sand. It’s time to stand at the Equilibrium Point shouting.

Ambition #14



You have to have

Your blinders on

Half to have

Cause you are not supposed to say stuff like that

If that’s your tongue

You can not be afraid to speak

You have to be willing to go in to the dark


Spitting out

Vomiting if need be.

Eleven 22 #13




When I think of numbers

I always think of you



I wonder where you are

If you are looking at the clock

Saying see


That’s me

That’s my number

Because you are always seeing patterns

In the math

In the Bible

In the Quran

That it’s predetermined

That on the second month

The 22nd day

At 2:22

Thomas the Gemini is going to be there

And I am sure

If you came to see me

You would walk in at 11:22

Because when I think of numbers

I always think of you

And me

The perfect number 33

Cross And Short #12


There is a confusion

Where the wires

Cross and short.

Where sparks fly.

Words get thrown around

Like lawn darts.

Childish but Painful.

Belligerent barking,

Where no one wants to shut the fuck up.

Where the only end,

Is in the tight strangle of hugs,

Is in tears,

Snot on shoulders,

Confessions of love,

And never doing it again.