a simple thank-you would suffice

were all gonna need help some-day

so put away that deadpanned look

of a fish yanked from the sea

its flanks and fins all-dried in the sunlight

I aint extending my hand expecting a thing

if your working works

thinking charity a devise of some reward

my help is help and nothing more

it aint docking an I-O-U

you aint incurring a debt owed or a debt overdue

Im extending my hand empty

not to rifle your pockets for cash or coin

its a hand out

a boost up

an unaccounted concern

its because I happen to be here

I am nothing more than here

so if you need a heft to-day  Im here

a simple thank-you would suffice

but  again  if your working works around some other way

you can struggle unheeded

unhelped

and Ill walk away

1849,  Friday,  29  7. 11

Silence

an overwhelming silence

                                                                                  

                                                                                   as leaves and slender tree limbs bob 

without accompaniment

                                                              a hawk wheels in the blue gulf of a cloudless sky 

turning on points over a sharp brown ridge

               

                  a telephone wire stropped between its metallic box mounted on a timber pole 

to a yellow adobe house twists tan-gray to black  quivering with resonate motion

but no sound

              

                                                                                          

                                                                                    heat scribbles off a shingled roof   

pours like hot salt off corrugated stingy metal                           

                                         

                                         a stained-white net hanging from a basketball hoop slips stiffly

apricots blush

radiant purple charges of smoketree nettles nod                                                                            

blades of grass push their neighbors from behind and they in turn push theirs

the deep green shiny orange leaves stare  and tendrils of lavender beside them moan

everythings silent

deaf                                                                                                                    

though not blind

Sunnyday afternoon,  21  4. 13

Ill blame a gimlet every time

its

Rose

slipping effortlessly across my tongue

its

quick

quiet gin grinning

                             kidding

                                             poking with sharp elbows

                                                                                         and laughing hysterically but

silently behind the scene

                                            its hand slowly begins to constrict into a fist

                                                                                                                          to pummel

and smash as a drunken fist will

                                               and waking in the morning to bathe it in an ice-water bath

to alleviate its pain and swelling   its purple broken-skin knuckles  ice cubes bundled

in a stale filthy washcloth and held firm against a smashed nose or a split

blood-congealed eyebrow

maybe blaming a gimlet is wrong

an excuse

a tried-and-true gimmick

a gimlet gimmick

                              I said it first

like that    title    that book

                                              Life Without Limits    a christianbook.com brave helping

which Ive dubbed: Life Without Limbits

sardonic

perhaps cruel

but I didnt balance a young man bereft at birth of arms and legs atop a white sheet

against a green grass picnic setting

                                                            and pitch how fucking happy he is

                                                                                                                        grinning

as if he were incorruptible

“A long-time resident of Australia, Nick now lives with his wife in southern California.”

his wife

                    must be a saint!

                                                       

her ID is Nicks wife

how fucking generous

a woman virtually untouched

imagine                                                                                    

            being untouched  unstroked 

imagine

            arms not thrown about you or legs not wrapped around you holding you fast

holding you against your will  willfully

                                                                                                  hair unclasped unpulled

a head not clutched and lips not split on your lips in mad livid passion

and not have that warm delectable dribble of blood wiped gently from the corner of your

mouth or that happy dexterous finger to suck at as it dips into your mouth and plays

with your tongue

Nicks wife

is a fucking saint

but she hasnt a name

shes   Nicks   wife

the gimlet  subtly     

has intruded

Im talking   

with a drink

or maybe this is a talk one can only have with a drink

                                                                                      an entity  

                                                                                                     that neither condemns 

nor  condones                                                                         

                                                                                                     that just listens

                                                                                                                              hears

                                                                                                     priestly

                                                                                                     bartenderly

                                                                                                     friendly

Fucked up!

these Gimlet fists or Gimlet tears

Gimlet gimmicks 

Im adverse to none of them

Ill take whats in store any particular night

my face aint so pretty not to take a punch

my hands are restless  so aint no misgivings when they crunch up and whip out on the

ends of my arms

they aint so pretty either

they got what you might call  character

if I got anything

I got character

and character

is like a real good pair of leather shoes

you can resole and reheel

and an icy gimlets like a good spit-polish shine

refreshing 

the hard-worn leather sucks it up

   0159,  Friday,  31  5. 13