This is for my bro, Mike (not actually related) in response to his April 13th blog image. Winter walk ski hat breath puffs out hint of inner warmth, perhaps fire? Big tree not dead just naked, verdant clothing shed like Mata-Hari's veils. Dusk decending snow glows in the half-light, sparkling clear sky prophecies the colder to come. Hunched against the gray chill, I shove my hands into pockets. Wonder why I'm out here. Nothing called me no birds, no people, nothing but stillness. Perhaps something pushed instead somehow this empty walk is more fulfilling than what waits at home.

Airport smoking section our little reservation to preserve the masses from our "taint" My grandfather called them "coffin nails" I had images of undertakers sealing coffins nails giving off puffs of smoke with every hammer strike Smoking is a part of me from that first teenage introduction smoking on the sly constantly washing hands & face, eating breath mints As an adult, I watchthe war rage fewer areas to smoke in California trying to keep us off the sidewalks and a pub in Atlanta with a chair 5' up a wall labled 'no smoking section' I look around me the mix of age, race, style like a cohort of criminals savoring our forbidden pleasure I just sit here soul-searching until I find something with edges sharp enough to stick to paper.

Some snippets from my walk to the cafe: I just sit, nursing a coffee for hours until I find something with edges sharp enough to stick to paper. _____ I am in a land that seems dedicated to God and Country (music) _____ The conversation should not be about our choice of religion. Rather, it should be about our spirituality, or lack thereof. The church is just another idol we have erected, an edifice of rules and laws ostensibly intended to ease our path - point the way to God, if you will. Instead, it just blocks our view of the truly divine.

Well, woof...it's been almost a month without a post and I've been slowly regaining my sanity. Apologies for anyone who actually takes the time to read this tripe. ;) I am in Nashville right now, sitting at this nice little cafe called Sam & Zoe's. Nice little place. Of course, I smoke, so I'm sitting on the deck (ugh...forgot how HOT it is down here!) and I caught this image that has stuck with me, here's what it has become: Mockingbird Mimus polyglottos Mockingbird. A bird with no song of its own, it samples and adapts what it hears around it, be it other birds, cars, radios, or conversations. From this, it creates a melody exquisite and tragic singing: “I have no words of my own but listen, love, still, I am calling. In the evening, they fill the shrubbery with their beautiful loneliness. During the day, they compete with other birds for food and completion. Somewhere, there is another, who hears as I do. Outside my apartment there is one who has learned my neighbor’s car alarm. I suspect he sets it off himself occasionally to double-check the pitch and rhythm. Prolific in the South, none pay them heed. Just another drab little noisemaker. I cannot help but hear I cannot ignore another poet. At the café there is one who sits on a newsstand and sings the headlines. Surely there is a lady out there who is so enamored of the world.

Well, the title says poetry... A touch of background, my brother is schizophrenic, and this poem was the result of several frustrating phone conversations. Has been read at the PSU Poets & Writers open mic in Plymouth, NH. I. The Nazis chased you out of Barcelona. But you saw their tracks, the hidden swastikas in the furniture and floor mosaics. You had to do it, they needed to be dealt with. Sacramento wasn’t much better, but at least they let you drive. II. Eventually, you made it back to the Northeast trailing smoke and broken dishes. It seemed a safe haven but car rides, dead sparrows, woodland wanderings, crucified moths, secret societies, scents of lead, radioactive poison left behind by terrifying men, on your pillow and the pages of a magazine at the hospital. They let you out on Halloween. III. Having escaped, Houdini-like, a single candle burns annually hoping for a response. Images not quite seen, black on black, the voices speak through you control your actions, there is no accountability, “that was different,” you say, “they were controlling me again.” And I have nothing. No insight, no response.