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the resurrection

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i will drive this road

until it is a poem


taking the back way

i mean the way back way


where you can drive thirty five

and stop to piss


or look at the sunset

or a tree


or the cows

on the hillside


or the crows

in the field


ohio’s beauties

are humble


but plentiful


i will listen

to the same music


until it is like a ritual


always new

but with a familiar frame


i will drive down

into the small appalachian outlier


the little hollers

and quick streams


the trailers perched

on the hills


just over the bridge

acres of junked cars



awaiting redemption


then up the rise

on honeytown road


the low hills

and small woods


then near orrville

the fallow flats


fertile looking

even in winter


where the thousand acre fields stretch

unto the woodlands


and the creek flows

under the ice


in the shadow

of bare trees


sky golden rose

purple clouds


and you can see

for a mile in either direction


it is a good place to stop

turn off the engine


and pharoah’s magic


and stand

in the middle of the bridge


and stretch and sigh

and breathe


and listen

to the cold water


headlights coming


get back in

turn the key


and up

past the train tracks



the county road


past the semi trailers

and metal barns


then in the marshy plain

south of town


a flock of geese

are heading east


maybe a half mile



on a parallel path


they are doing

thirty seven


i speed up to catch them

and we ride a mile in synch


until they veer to the south


then i am onto

a higher road


pharoah again



and cajoling


blue hills

on the horizon


beauty broken

by power lines


and cell phone



driving home

driving home


to what






i will drive this poem

until i know you


taking the back way

i mean the way back way


until it is a road


we are immortal

we have forever


and i


i am learning








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Everything Is Relative

everything is relative

except the Absolute

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Quit Talking



quit talking

to yourself

out loud


or inside your head


quit talking

to people

who are not there


out loud


or inside your head


if you must talk

talk to god


or speak in poetry


out loud


or inside your




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Greed is Love.

I do not often visit the Acton Institute’s website, but when I do I always find something really really stupid:

The idea that capitalism has anything to do with anything but the love of money, which St Paul says is….  well, you know, is beyond absurd. I could not endure watching more than a few minutes of this but skipping ahead I saw the part about capitalists really trying to make the world a better place and the notion that somehow greed equates Eros…

And to think that there are actonistas who find this inspiring….

And if this does not confirm the proverb ‘Never trust a man in a bowtie’ then I do not know what would.

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