Tonight I am fishing
in my rough bark
on the black sea.
I am reeling in the net:

that is full of babies,
heads' hair fine like black faun's fur
with white twitching
arms and legs.

for Chet Atkins (June 20, 1924 – June 30, 2001). Rest in peace.

I checked the headlines just the other day.
They told me you had put down your guitar.

Ron Paul I must confess that I am on the fence.
Your campaign strategy defies my prior sense.
Your message makes me think my prior strategems
are loosely wheeled, subject to logical mayhem.

Brave Kratos stood above the raging sea,
in the night as storm clouds cracked and groaned,
poised to fall and softly cried "the gods
of Olympus have abandoned me,"

Five years
the road is long and hard on the gone again
these tears
falling from the clouds in my eyes
there was a girl I knew in the gone away
her voice was sweet as wine

For a while now I have felt that there was something calling me
something's in the air now
Put my head to the ground, I can feel its heart beat
a murmur in the wind now
and it's a long, long way

When the sun comes up in the morning
and the sky is blue all day
I'll be there 'til the evening comes around
gonna meet you there and pass the time away

It's no surprise that your communications,
despite his vicious, petty administrations,
come to his calamitous defense
but everybody knows you're not that dense.

I'm trying to sleep, godammit, stop! - go figure -
yep, those loud ass fucks outside my door
are putting up a fence. I should consider
that this condo doesn't matter anymore.

unnumbered memories that crossed like sticks
of war that bitter wintry day unreal
that came and left my broken heart unfixed
(familial gatherings make their loud appeal

Only the fish have come this far where the long sweet tides walk out beyond the boundaries -- I think that I have gone too far this time.

Don't count this hour spent misunderstood -
but see what's common in a finer light,
and when the rain is easing in the street
conjure something cast against the night

People of time's salutations,
my love is gathering seashells
by that hilled windy gathering place the sea
(like dim worlds vexed with sound in the stuck conch,
to undo this day the scaly wrongs

Autumn has not come and built a room.
The windy hills are not less mighty things.
I-75 is not gathering in the gloom.

My eyes are not as willful as the rain.