The Geology of Life

Walking the dry creek bed
this cool morning,
my boots stumble
upon millions of years
of geological debris.

These countless rocks
washed how far
by current and storm?

Born of fire and water,
broken by time and motion,
shale and limestone splinters
testify mutely
to the potent
anonymous forces
that shape and deposit us
on this ground
where we stand,
unsure how we arrived.

We are rocks in this stream,
our lives shaped by powers
We cannot know,
do not understand.

Creek bed, debris,
fragments, shards
and morning chill:
the ineluctable,
unknowable reality
of what is now.
- mce

A Mystery

Heroin, war,
marriage, divorce,
madness, freedom:
who knew the last
would be hardest
to survive?
- mce

The Cookie Question

When your heart
is broken repeatedly
does it become stronger
or does it just become
another crumbled cookie?
- mce

The Road Does Not Take Questions

At sixteen
I said fuck it
and ran away
from home.
Forty-one
years later,
I'm still running.
Forty-one years
still seeking
the answers
to that
wayward kid's
questions
and not
one step closer:
from what,
to what?
- mce

But This Is Hard V 2.0

"The poem reveals itself only to the ignorant man." - Wallace Stevens

Become a child again;
indulge yourself
in ignorance and wonder;
be open to paradox,
uncertainty and amazement.
Recall the very first time
you noticed fireflies
blinking out rapturous glory,
the mystery and grandeur
of that innocent instant.
Return your heart to that state
of spontaneous marvel.
The world will reveal itself,
transformed and articulate,
into small, exquisite fragments
manifested as poems,
a wholly fresh vision
of the same old universe
experienced through
the welcoming eyes
of an idiot.
- mce

Dusk on Spring Creek

Ed Abbey said
that freedom begins
between the ears.
He was right,
but the questions remain,
where does it lead,
how does it end
and can we endure
the journey?
- mce

A Simple Question

What happens
when every road
is a detour
and you are
too tired
to keep driving?
- mce

A Morning Meditation on Fire and Loons

The loonier you get,
the more you write.

The popping flames flare
in your wobbly, burning head
igniting each random word.

Your brain catches fire
and becomes a furnace.

Into it, you heap more words,
make it blaze
ever brighter, ever hotter.

Then you reach
into its glowing coals,
snatch out some
untempered syllables
and beat them
with the hammer
of your imagination.

From this raw molten stuff,
you forge the shape and form
of these poems that tell you:

you are still alive,
you are still here,
you are still you.

It is a process
as simple and complicated
as madness.
- mce

The Old Trees Preach A Sermon On The Curious Notion of Posterity

Just at dusk, when the birds settle
and the light has nearly fled,
gnarled and broken fruit trees,
weeds reaching to their hips,
covered with phosphorescent lichen,
loom in the overgrown, abandoned orchard
glowing faintly in the gathering darkness
like forgotten, malnourished ghosts.
- mce

Unexpected Blessing

It is good
to be a curmudgeon,
even better
to have been committed
at least once;
nonplussed,
the hooples
giggle nervously
and leave you
in peace.
- mce

Coming Suddenly Upon A Wal-Mart In Rural Tennessee

The real America
died at Wounded Knee
where this plastic,
shit-coated monstrosity
we now call home
was born,
appropriately,
in a hail of bullets.
- mce

An Incomplete Set Of Simple Rules For Living

Avoid interstates and airplanes
whenever possible.
Never clean your shotgun
while listening to George Jones
and drinking whiskey.
Visit between the thighs of women,
but do not become stuck there.
Remember that gold is only a color.
Consider that while drunk
is sometimes absolutely necessary,
sober has its virtues, too.
Assume that you are wrong
and you will probably be right.
Believe in birdsong and blueberries.
Know that when the chips are down
water is usually thicker than blood.
Doubt the lulling attractions
of usury and power.
If there is any way to stay clear
of marriage and war, do so.
Make your own list, take it to heart,
and never consider it finished.
- mce

Brautigan Was A Drunk, But He Got This Right...

"I am here
and you are distant."

The essential sadness
of those words
seizes the heart
of loneliness.

Here/distant:
the kernel
of so much despair
and poetry.
- mce

Birds Vs. Bankers

Last night up on the ridge
a whippoorwill sang
its incessant sweet song
in the thick, firefly darkness.
Dante was right to make Hell
a place without birds.
They fill the world with music
and ask nothing in return.
The purity of sweetness
without the demand for profit.
What a lovely notion.
- mce

Supplication

Use me, God,
as you like,
or dispose of me
as you see fit.
Only do not
keep me present
and useless.
That is beyond
my strength,
beyond my capacity
to bear.
- mce

Epistemology

I do not know
what rivers mean,
how buzzards think,
what the sun imagines,
or how snowdrifts feel.
This is sad and puzzling.
You would suppose
that in fifty-seven years
even a crazy man
might learn something
of consequence.
- mce

Mortality

My father has had
a mild stroke.
I sit in the sterile
emergency room
and listen
to the screams
of a child
down the hall
underscoring
the tiny space
between
the pain of birth
and the pain of death.
- mce

Madness V 2.0

It is not a state
of mind,
but a place
in hell
that you
do not wish
to enter,
although
you have no choice;
once you have visited,
nothing will ever
be the same
again.
If others
understood
the finality
of this horror,
they might not be
so quick to judge.
- mce

A Birthday Poem - for Richard

When you were just small,
you and I and Icy D. Bear
would lie in bed at day's end.

We would talk
until your silence told me
that you were slipping off
into your dreams,
but I would remain,
listening to your breath
become even,
until I knew you were
asleep and safe.

That was the warmest place
I have ever been.

Now you are nineteen,
a grown man
whom fate and madness
have taken from me.

I imagine you now,
knocking at life's door,
demanding your due,
as youth and strength require.

How I pray, my little/large son,
against my certain knowledge
of the world's cruelty and caprice,
that every door you touch
opens smoothly before you,
that all your sleep
may be warm and safe,
and that someday
your heart will soften
and admit me
once again into your dreams.
- mce

Whence It All Arises

The mundane world of details
yields only to the imagination.
Facts do not make a life;
events alone cannot explain a human.
A butterfly is just an insect
until the tale teller awakens its potential;
a lover is just a lump of flesh
until a story renders her beautiful.
The fictions we create generate a reality
beyond the dreary limitations of mere truth.
Knowing only the particulars
amounts to knowing nothing.
Lift your brush and paint a scene;
speak your words and create a world.
- mce

Gender Confusion

Women, generally,
desire stability,
and suspect intensity.
The more alive
you become,
the more frightening
you become.
A certain loneliness
adheres to freedom.
The price of being
must often be paid for
by waking up alone.
- mce

Celestial Payola

I vaguely recall whole nights
of deep, refreshing slumber,
waking renewed and ready.
Now, every morning,
I stumble into consciousness
from an exhausting welter
of dreams and demons
wondering how much
must you bribe God
to get a single, decent night of sleep?
- mce

Blueberries Incoming!

Yesterday,
I tasted
the first ripe
blueberry
of the season.
The explosion
of its flavor
on my parched
tongue:
first blast
of the luscious
blue barrage
to come.
- mce

5:30 AM Blues

Heavy rains last night;
thick mist this morning;
tree leaves dip and drip.
Not a glimmer of sun.
Even the birds sound
muted and distant.
Some days are born lonely.
- mce

From Troy to Laos V 2.0

Once on a miserably
hot, humid day
cruising above
a silent jungle,
I watched
a twenty-two year old
Cobra pilot
clear his machine guns
on an ancient,
abandoned,
Buddhist temple.
All the hubris
of western civilization
explicated
in one burst.
Homer, who best
knew the hearts
of men at war,
could not
have sung it better.
- mce

The Innate Physicality of Grief

How much
suffering
is bearable?
How much,
too much?
Only
the finger
caressing
the trigger
knows for sure.
- mce

Morning Mystery

If I am a loser,
so beneath contempt
as to merit
three years of silence
why do you bother
to seek out
my humble musings
on this obscure blog?
What could the words
of a dead man
possibly
have to offer you?
Am I like a train wreck
you can't help
but watch,
or do you remember
better times than these,
and miss them,
as I do?
Questions,
silence,
morning,
mystery.
- mce

Sunday Morning Invocation V 2.0

"Practice resurrection." - Wendell Berry

This sabbath morning
dawns vibrant
with Tennessee birdsong
and sunshine.
It is a prayer
to the freshness
of possibility,
driving the past away.
Keep me safe
in the freshness
of now.
Let the brilliance
of this new day
carry me
toward better tomorrows.
Stop my hands
from wanting
to strangle the world.
Make me a vessel
brimming with
love and forgiveness
for those
who have hurt
and deserted me.
Touch their hearts
with the same.
Take the bitterness
from my lips,
the despair
from my heart.
Keep me safe,
redeem
and resurrect
my soul.
The world
is a burden
too heavy
to lift alone.
Give me the strength
to continue
this journey,
and along the way
to hear the birds,
feel the sun,
and smile.
- mce

The Complete Experience of Father's Day

.

- mce

The Ex-Wife's Revenge

Since
she left me,
I have never
really
been able
to unpack,
not once.
- mce

Considering The Troubles After Three years

Walking this morning,
I frightened a white tail
at the confluence
of two creeks.

Hearing my approach,
it bounded
through the water,
up the bank
and vanished.

This deer
I never meant
to harm,
like those I loved,
never looking back,
simply gone
in a heartbeat.
- mce

A Cogent Existential Justification for the Necessity of a Second Pot of Coffee

Some mornings
are just that way.
- mce

Listening to Mozart While Cleaning the Shower

The experience
of the sublime
enables me
to endure
the reality
of the mundane.
Thank you,
Wolfgang,
my shower
sparkles
with your
brilliance.
- mce

Malaria Woman

Just when I think
I am cured,
the fever strikes again.
- mce

A Toss Up

Solitude/Loneliness:
two sides, one coin.

Solitude:
sitting silently
on my deck
in the velvet
Tennessee blackness,
alone,
watching thousands
of fireflies
blinking out
some fundamental,
incomprehensible
message.

The glory
of being alone.

Loneliness:
waking up,
alone,
from troubled dreams
of war
and lost love,
staring
at the same ceiling,
thinking,
shit, another
empty day
to fill.

The pain
of being alone.

Solitude/Loneliness:
two sides, one coin.

To be alive
means to flip it,
accept and embrace
what comes up,
glory or pain,
and move on.
- mce

The Inevitability of Morning V 2.0

My neck aches
this morning.
I can't read
without glasses.
Two cups of coffee
no longer
do the trick.
I'm getting old.
I live alone.
I'll never be rich,
famous or admired.
But none of this
matters at all.
The world
remains out there
and while I breathe,
I must show up.
- mce

On Meeting A High School Acquaintance After 40 Years V 4.0

He told me once,
at seventeen,
in my parents' attic,
that he would be a star,
remake the world
in his own image,
forge his life
by his own hand
with his own tools.

It would all happen,
he assured me,
through his own will
and determination.

Other people
were unnecessary;
fate, destiny, karma
and bad luck
only existed
in the heads
of losers,
not for him.

He was exempt.

Nothing could stop him.

He declared
himself
invincible,
(he had been reading
Ayn Rand)
and smiled
patronizingly
at my own
pathetic hippie
lack of ambition.

Now,
forty years gone,
divorced, broke
and unemployed,
he bums a cigarette
and whines
about the economy.

Apparently
the world
had other plans.
- mce

A Study in Silence

Returning alone
after work.

The shack
sitting empty,
waiting
for no one;

mist rising
from the still meadow
like silky,
slender ghosts;

the trees
keep their thoughts
to themselves;

a light rain
begins to fall;

no sounds,
but bird sounds
and my own breath,
both hushed.

How far away
the world
and all its bustle.

Money, ambition,
achievement
and success -
the cacophony
of modern life,
just so much noise.

In this silence,
I become
the best part
of silence:
myself.
- mce

Joy on a Hot Day

Discovering
that what you
were sure
was you last beer
is actually two.
- mce

Doggerel - for Anonymous

The man of deeds who lacks the word
is simple, stupid and absurd.
He works and struggles all the day
for nothing more than mindless pay.
He loves the rich and thinks them smart
for gaining through their lack of heart.
He loves his boundaries; worships rules;
considers those who break them fools.
His mind is closed; his world is small;
he has no words to think at all.
His conversation tends to stink
because he never learned to think.
His only drive is buying more;
he's little but a Hoople whore.
He does and does and that's enough,
if he can just keep buying stuff.
He never questions what he's told;
he's just a thing that's bought and sold.
And when it is his time to die;
he'll lack the words to wonder why.
- mce

Blueberries Better Than Sex - for Brinna V 2.0

Rows of blueberries,
silver leaf
and green stem,
dance gently
beneath
the unforgiving
Tennessee sun.

Reach, pull, tie,
prune, weed,
sweat, curse,
move on,
repeat.

Simple work
demanding
subtle skills.

You must come
into communion
with these plants.

You must know
their needs
and tend them.

To tend
means to touch
with love and grace,
with care.

Love, grace,
tending, caring:
these qualities
elevate the menial
to the sublime.

Your payment
is joy
in the process
itself,
the doing
of real work
that matters
to the silent earth
that will outlast
your efforts.

And,
of course,
that delicious
indigo bounty,
when the plants
reward you
with blueberries
better than sex.
- mce

Coda to the Morning Report

A poet writes
what he writes;
the reader reads
what he reads.
The real poem,
the poem
of the mind,
exists when
the two collide
and belongs -
exclusively
- to both
and neither
of them.
- mce

The Morning Report: How It Works

I get quite a few questions from readers about my writing. Generally, these questions fall into four broad categories. They concern why I use a blog, my method, my style, my honesty and the problem of hurting or offending people. Let me briefly speak to each of these.

I use a blog for self-publication because it allows me to publish and rewrite at my own convenience without the delays and politics inherent in traditional publishing venues. There are almost no markets for poetry these days. Those that remain are small and self-referential. You are put in the awkward position of trying to guess what will please the editor rather than what pleases you. You send a poem to a publisher and it takes months to hear back. If it is published, you can bet the magazine or website doesn't have many more readers than this blog. Moreover, you lose control of the poem. You can no longer re-write it; it becomes frozen in form. Thus, the only reason to publish in traditional venues is the ego boost of seeing your name in print. I've done that before and am over it. Now I am more interested in the writing itself. Blogging allows me to focus on the writing while avoiding the bullshit.

My method is harder to describe. I don't honestly know where this stuff comes from. It just shows up in my head. I have to polish it and craft it, but usually things come to me in whole first drafts. I get up early, drink a lot of coffee, smoke some cigarettes and wait to see what happens. 95% of my writing is done before noon. After that, the fickle muse goes off to bestow her favors on someone else. One morning last week I was driving into Cookeville to run some errands when the first draft of the poem "What the Earth Means," began to take shape in my head. I pulled off into the parking lot of the Smyrna Church of Christ and wrote it down on the back of an envelope. On the drive back, two more poems began to manifest themselves. Again, how this happens is a mystery to me. I just go with the proverbial flow.

Style is more concrete. Some of it comes from forty years of reading poetry. The poets who have most influenced me are Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, Gary Snyder, Wendell Berry, Richard Brautigan, Jim Harrison and certain Japanese and Chinese poets. Anyone who knows these writers will easily see their hands in my work. Other non-poets, Edward Abbey for instance, inform it as well. I like short, epigrammatic poems written in a personal voice. Our age has a short attention span; the long poem is dead. As for the voice, you can never remove the poet's consciousness from the poem, so why not include it, acknowledge it, and use it as a tool? For better or worse, that's what I do.

A young friend recently commented that she admired the honesty in my writing. I replied that it is easy to be honest when you are old, alone and have little to lose. That is true, but not complete. Honesty is affected by age and experience. When you are looking at sixty, time presses and what you are afraid to say now might not get said. But honesty is also necessary. Self-censorship is the death of poetry. If you dance around a subject, you might as well abandon it. Everything must be on the table: ex-wives, lovers, friends, children, failures, disasters, despair, even madness. Any hesitation or embarrassment I feel tells me that I am on the right track. My maxim is: be honest or be silent.

This leads me to the question of offending or harming others. In the first place, this is poetry, not reportage. Nothing I write is ever written with the intent of hurting anyone. Of course, my intent and what actually happens sometimes diverge. That is because what I write is my version of experience. It is experience filtered through my imagination. My ex-wife, former lovers, my kids, my friends, they would all - necessarily - have their own, probably quite different, versions of incidents I make use of. We all tell ourselves our own stories about the events in our lives. I am only telling my version; their versions belong to them. I am not telling the truth; I am creating my own imaginative version of the truth. A good example is the short piece, "The Girl Who Knocked." I knew it might offend, but it wanted to be written. I counted on the people I thought it might offend, including the girl herself, recognizing that it was partly autobiographical, partly fiction and being able to tell the difference. I'm happy to say that they did. Sometimes that may not be the case. I may, inadvertently, cause hurt. If so, I can only repeat what I've explained above and say again that I do not use poetry as a weapon. It is inescapable that if you know a writer, you might find yourself in something he writes and not like it. If that bothers you, try to avoid knowing writers.

I don't enjoy explaining my poetry. I really do hold the old Modernist view that the poem must speak for itself. It works for you or it doesn't. If it requires explanation, it probably isn't successful. But these peripheral questions do arise and people keep asking, so this is my early morning attempt to provide some honest answers. I hope they suffice. Now for more coffee and cigarettes and - hopefully - some real writing.
- mce

Sunday Morning Meeting

The Cedar Waxwing
on my deck railing
delivers a brief,
melodic sermon
and then departs.

The voice of God
speaks in many tongues,
equally beautiful,
equally difficult
to comprehend.

What can be done,
but to listen
and to hope.
- mce

What the Earth Means V 2.0

This day
lives in radiance,
clear and sparkling.
The sun shines
warmth and promise.
Colors abound:
powder blue,
the sky above;
along the road,
tiger lilies
shout orange;
the trees express
a green perfection.
No accident
could engender
such beauty.
No human words
can recreate it.
The earth presents
the mind of God,
within which
we come to know Him,
living out a prayer.
Creation:
always a wonder
to behold.
- mce

The Delight of Recalcitrance

I have grown
a beard,
luxuriant
in its whiteness.

Whenever I encounter it
in my mirror,
it says, sensibly:

Behold, Mike,
time is short.
Grow up,
find a place,
take a wife,
be an adult,
settle.

To which I reply,
delighting
in my recalcitrance:

No way, beard!
The difficult
is my destiny.
Black or white,
I will always
be a pirate.
- mce

No Ten Day Forecast Here

I am a weather map.

Within me
tornadoes whirl,
sunshine glistens,
winds howl,
storms explode,
stillness reigns.

Change is constant
and expected.

You cannot forecast
a life.

An Unfair Competition

A lover,
whom I cherished
(and who left me)
once said:
I will always
love your words;
apparently,
my words
are easier to love,
than I am.
- mce

Storm Season

Women
blow through
my life
like neurotic
hurricanes.
In their
aftermath,
I repair
what I can,
knowing
that the next
tropical depression
gathers
just beyond
the horizon.
- mce

Father's Day

An old acquaintance
disturbingly told me,
when I proudly
announced
my oldest son's
first step:
Keep in mind, Mike,
every step they take
is a step away from you.
Twenty-five years
and countless steps
have passed;
he was exactly
right.
- mce

Sehnsucht

In fifty-seven years
as a refugee,
I have never really
unpacked, not once.

Every place
is just a place.

People arrive
and disappear.

Home, hearth
and household
do not adhere
to me.

This morning
rain drips
from the trees;
birdsong
fills the air;
in the mist
across the road
from my cloud cabin
three deer graze.

A good place,
but not home.

I belong nowhere;
I will not stay here;
I know that.

I am the shade
of a Long Hunter,
always passing through,
never settling,
or a Hungry Ghost,
observing, remarking,
but never involved.

I am not
a determined king
and no Ithaca
awaits me,
no rooted bed
or loyal hound.

Yesterday
I followed a path
through the woods
that went nowhere,
simply ended.

Perfection,
of a kind,
existing for itself,
no reason
or destination,
just a way.

But it is my path,
and I will follow it.
- mce

The Futility of Possession

A few moments ago,
my computer crashed
and I lost a poem
I had been writing since dawn.
Why did it vanish?
Where did it go?
Possession
is a comfortable illusion,
but uncertainty
is the true face of God;
we own nothing in this life,
not even our words.
- mce

Invocation

Only visit my heart,
dear muse,
and together
we will launch
a thousand poems.
- mce

On The Efficacy of Prayer

Worst case:
you have spoken
honestly and humbly
to your own heart;
best case:
God hears;
what have you got
to lose?
- mce

Silence Speaks Volumes

Some days
nothing
is the most
eloquent
statement
you can
make.
Shout it
out.
- mce

Danse Macabre

The poet owns
a closet packed
with dancing
skeletons,
whirling and gliding;
he never needs
to dance alone.
- mce

After Work

Hours
in the hot sun
at an end.
Muscles,
sore and aching,
begin to relax.
The sweat
of honest labor
dries upon your body.
The beer
is cold
and forgiving.
The promise
of evening's cool
beckons.
Time to sit still
and be silent.
In this moment
of respite -
no thought,
no mind -
everything
is possible.
- mce

The Divorce: A History In 97 Words

Your ex-wife
takes your money
and your life,
feels nothing,
gets a face lift
and buys a new life;
your kids
take their leave,
imagine mommy
a wronged saint,
forget everything
you ever did
for them
and disappear;
friends you have known
for fifteen years
take cover
and vanish
for good
without a word;
the cops
take you to jail
and find your situation
amusing;
the judge
takes your freedom
and dignity,
frowns intently,
and gives you
a criminal record;
your lawyer
takes what's left;
you take
a beating
and walk out
to face the world
alone:
simplicity itself.
- mce

Comments V 3.0

It's odd. People love to read the comments that are posted here, but very few actually post comments. Come on folks, join in. Positive, negative, whimsical, serious - say something. All you have to do is click on "comments" beneath the posting and say what you like. It is set to allow anonymous comments, so you can even be a mystery if you like. Love to hear from you.
- mce

The Lost Wife

I loved you
and tried to become
what you wanted.
For decades
I tried to tame myself
to please you.
Couldn't do it.
Disaster ensued.
Could we really
have been so wrong?
So much hope
and effort
for nothing;
thirty years and more,
erased, wasted.
I don't know
what to do
with that loss.
Do you?
- mce

Not to Worry

On my desk,
empty beer bottles
and a spent pipe,
the evening's debris.
Last night
a bed full
of nightmares:
war, death and
a lost child.
This morning,
sun on the ridges,
a gentle breeze
sways the trees,
coffee and birdsong
on the deck.
Everything
comes full circle;
it is all part
of the process.
- mce

Why I Write V 2.0

People ask me why I write. It's a fair and obvious question. After all, I don't make money at it and I'm not interested in traditional publication. So why? And why put it on a blog for people to love, hate or ignore without generally even knowing which reaction they choose?

Well, it's simple. I write for the same reason that I breathe: to keep on living. For me the equation is simple: no breath; no life; no words; no life. Or perhaps, no self-expression; no self. But, I don't just express myself when I write, I discover myself. Writing tells me about who I am and it often tells me things I didn't know about myself before.

I don't choose to do it; I am compelled to do it. I have to, just to continue being. It's not what I do; it's what I am.

Was this always the case? Yes and no.

I wrote a lot when I was young. In high school and the army, I fully expected writing to somehow become the cornerstone of my life. It didn't work out that way.

I got married and for thirty years I stopped. Why? Writing must be brutally honest. My ex-wife didn't appreciate honesty that strayed outside of her very limited, conventional mindset. I loved her and I didn't want to upset her, so I squelched myself. It was either that or practice the most dishonest kind of self-censorship. I preferred silence to that.

Problem was that I voluntarily removed the thing that meant the most to me from my life. That made my life feel empty and unfulfilled. Those feelings accumulated over the years and the result was that, not only was I unhappy, so was she. It is hard to be a good husband, father or even person when you are only feeling half alive. In the end, I resented her for what I had done to myself to please her. And that had a lot to do with the marriage ending.

When it did, the faucet turned back on again. Through the last four (very difficult) years, writing has been my one constant; the thing that has sustained me through some very, very bad times. It still does.

As for the blog, it provides me with an audience without the hassles of traditional publishing. True, I don't know much about my audience, but I know it's there, and that's enough for me. It provides the very small amount of ego massage that I need.

Not a very cogent explanation, I suppose, but the best I have. I intend to keep writing. I hope you keep reading. Hell, I even wish my ex-wife would!
- mce

True Friends

It is simply
impossible
to survive
without them.
- mce

But What Could It Be?

Women:
they show up,
they smile,
they love my poems,
they grace my bed
and then,
they leave.
Something
is awry here.
- mce

LZ Serenity - The Mysterious Inner Sanctuary

The official 70s porno movie coach. I inherited it. Brown velour with faux leopard skin cushions. Really ladies, who could resist?

The mysterious no electricity heat source. Just throw in a tree and get cozy. Magic.

The central command center whence all official LZ Serenity communiques originate.

Serenity Renamed Landing Zone Serenity. Hoists Jolly Roger. Declares Itself "Hoople Free Zone."

An Awakening

Morning; reentry.
This can be
difficult.
When your nightmares
feel more vivid
than your life,
it takes
a little time
to sort things out.
Take a breath,
drink some coffee:
try to be sure
which is which.
- mce

Film Noir Breakfast

Thunder storms,
crazed lightening,
downpours,
nightmares,
intermittent sleep.

How different
the world appears
after such
a tortured night.

Grey, dripping,
bleak and dismal.

God must be
in Portugal
working
on his tan.

I feel like
a minor player
in some cheap
film noir movie
trying to remember
my lines.

Shooting starts
any minute now.

Damn,
who am I?
- mce

What Time Does Not Diminish

Thunder pounds the ridges.
Rain beats on the tin roof.
Past midnight and I can't sleep
for thinking of you.
There really is no fool
like an old fool.
- mce

What Really Matters? V 2.0

Incomes,
didn't match;
families,
didn't match;
ages,
didn't match;
backgrounds,
didn't match;
souls,
bodies,
minds
matched perfectly.
Life departs
in only a moment.
What really matters?

A Princess Poem

There have been
many since you,
but not one
like you.
- mce

First, Let It Rot

The poem sprouts
from the compost
of the mind.

People, events, desires
memories, hopes,
dreams, disappointments,
all mixed and turned,
watered with imagination,
until something
catches and clutches,
pale and fragile,
and begins to grope
slowly for the light.

Coax it,
nurture it,
tend it.

Pour your soul
and your love
into it.

Bring all that is you
to the task.

Perhaps a poem
will blossom.
- mce

The Virtue of Necessity

The whirr of chain saws
in the morning drizzle;
real work
stops for nothing.
- mce

A Mad Farmer Speaks... V 2.0

Why, at this late date, am I attempting to become a farmer? Why spend long days in the hot sun doing difficult manual labor?

For one thing, it is challenging to encounter new problems and learn new skills. To do this I have to dabble in small engine repair, plumbing (hydraulics), carpentry, as well as pruning, mulching, out-house construction, weather watching and many other pursuits that I have never encountered before. It is exhilarating to do things I have never tried before.

There is the autonomy of it, too. No boss, no computer, no staff meetings, no "team player" asininity. Just see the problems, make a plan, find the tools and do the job. There is nothing alienated about this labor.

Then there is the sense of immediate accomplishment, so unlike teaching. When I finish a job here, I can look at the tangible results and think, I did that. None of that "touching the future" bullshit. Even so, as I do the daily work, I have to be able to imagine ahead to the future, to the harvest. Farming requires faith.

Books, words and ideas have been the primary domain of my life. I love them and consider it a life well spent. But there is something about getting my hands dirty...
- mce

After Images

Closing my eyes
for a little siesta
after three hours
of sweltering sun
in the patch,
immediately
the image
of blueberry leaves
fills my head
swaying
- gentle, pale, green -
in my half-dreams,
both a lullaby
and a reminder
of work still undone.
- mce

Morning Alba

You wake
in a warm bed
and feel her
female presence;
she wakes,
opens her eyes,
and smiles.
What is more
lovely
and reassuring
than waking up
next to a lover
who wakes up
smiling?
The entire
coming day
seems to smile
along with her.
Small instances
like this
make the world
not only bearable,
but beautiful.
- mce

The Abolition of Work

Read Bob Black's great anarchist essay on the chief cause of misery in the world. It is an essential component of the anti-hoople reading list.

Find it at:

http://www.spunk.org/texts/writers/black/sp000156.txt