Slipping Away   Monday, May 28, 2018

slipping away


my mind is blind
to the crisp autumn sky
and the creek running clear
an the squirrel
teasing my dog,
a backyard clown
mocking the quivering
of a small dog facing a large world

my eyes see none of this,
for like a fist
clenched tight on itself
I am closed to all but anger,
a simmering constant
since the last election,
not just at the lose
of mine against theirs
but at the outcome
as a symptom
of the nature of my life
in these later years,
like a lifetime
of being on the wrong side


I feel the passing of time now
like never before,
time and opportunity
slipping away,
life space lost
like water squeezed
from a cloth,
disappearing in an eddy
down a drain,
leaving an approximation of me
to fill the space I had before
until the day I need no space at all


as I read the obituaries in the morning
or stand at the grave of my father
as I did last week in a burial park
green with the growth of recent rain,
I cannot reconcile the contradictions
of death and life, how the life I see
in the obituary photos  and the light
I remember in my father's eyes
can disappear in an on-rush  of dark,
one moment to the next, life to death,
how it is that I, too, will someday slip
into the vortex of night and never return


I think of the eternal nature of atoms
and how they combine and recombine
over uncountable eons to create
illusions of form and
in some of those illusionary constructs
a spark of life and consciousness
and beings like you and me
and all those whose obituaries
I read every morning
and my father, dead 40 years,
the illusion of him gone forever
to seed the soil he lies in
and the grass and trees and clouds
over his head and, someday,
in the great recycling that brings
all the old to something new,
perhaps another form of life
and  sense of self and universe
outside of self that is the cradle
where rests the truth, for life to last
forever, we must over and over die

I began this post with a dark poem from Seven Beats a Second published thirteen years ago. I did not imagine then how much worse it could get.

I've also return to my library for the post, including also with my own poems, all new.

As those who read me know, I exhibit no pretentions of art in my work. Mostly I'm interested in telling stories and this "poetry" form is a fast, short and simple way to do that.

My range is limited - I write about memories an scienciey marvels get from reading. I try not to write about politics because it mostly pisses me off and I tend to shout when pissed off. I wrote a whole book of travel poems once, but since I don't travel much anymore, any travel poem I write is probably in the memory category. I write about weather when there is some and I write about nature, mostly from the vantage point of a guy who sees it from the highway when passing.

What I do most is observational, characters and situations I see in the normal passage of life. I pay attention, a listener, an eavesdropper and a watcher and it seems there's always something to write about if you keep your eyes and ears open.

Which I do.

slipping away

more dead children

Federico Garcia Lorca

I'll bet she has stories to tell

My Father's Silence (or, Last Night I Heard Two Poets - One Korean, One African American

on the edge

Jack Marshall

two who make me happy

poems in supermarkets

still not up to it

Osip Mandelstam
Tsarskoe Selo

great promise

Daisy Zamora
Another Time

aces and eights

Norman Stock
Buying Breakfast for My Kamikaze Pilot

she wears long dresses

better a monkey's uncle

a woman of mystery

Nikki Giovanni
When I Die

chasing a morning poem

Sometimes all you can do is howl.

more dead children

another bloody pile of dead children,
by another murdering child

let us pray - that's the call
though we've barely had time
to finish praying
for our last broken progeny...

what if, as evidence suggests
God don't give a shit
about piles
of murdered children?

what if neither
your God or your chickenshit politicians
care enough to put an end to it?

well, I suppose
you can pray anyway, mumble
your meaningless

I've seen show before, so I'll 
just change channels

Hee Haw's bound to be on 

First from my library, Federico Garcia Lorca, from Poet in New York, a bilingual edition published in 1988 by The Noonday Press, translation by Greg Simon and Steven F. White.

Born in 1898, Lorca was a poet, playwright, theater director and hero of the Spanish Civil War. Readers interested in his very interesting life, from his early years to his execution by Fascist soldiers in 1936, should look him up on the Internet.

In the meantime, prepare to have your mind blown.


The moon could rest in the end along he pure white
    curve of the horses.
A violent beam of light that escaped from a wound
projected the instant of a dead child's circumcision on
    the sky.

Blood flowed down the mountain and angels looked
    for it,
but the chalices became the wind and finally filled the shoes.
Crippled dogs puffed on their pipes and the odor of hot
grayed the round lips of those who vomited on street
And long southern howls arrived with the arid night
It was the moon burning the horses' pallus with its
A tailor, who specialized in purple,
had locked up three saintly women
and was showing them a skull through the window
In the borough, three boys circled a white camel
that wept because at dawn
there was no other way except though the needle's eye.
Oh, cross! Oh, nails! Oh the thorn!
Oh, thorn driven to the bone until the planets rust to
Since no one turned to look, the sky could undress.
Then the great voice was heard, and the Pharisees said:
That wicked cow has teats full of milk.
The multitude locked their doors
and rain flowed down the streets, determined to drench
    their hearts
while the evening clouded over with heartbeats and
and the darkened city agonized under the carpenters'
That wicked cow
has teats full of bird shot,
said the blue pharisees.
But blood drenched their feet and unclean spirits
splattered drops of blistered ponds on the temple walls.
Someone knew the precise moment that our lives would
    be saved
because the moon washed the burns
of the horses with water
and not the living girl they silenced in the sand.
Then the chills went out singing their songs
and frogs ignited fires on the river's double shore.
That wicked cow, wicked, wicked, wicked,
won't let us sleep, said the pharisees,
and they withdrew to their houses through the riotous
pushing the drunks aside and spitting sacrificial salt
while the blood followed them like a bleating lamb.

That's how it was
and the awakened earth cast off trembling rivers of

                                    New York, October 18, 1929

As an observer, I am mainly interested in women, there being almost always more to see and think about with women than with men who I usually find boring.

I'll bet she has stories to tell

it's true,
young women, 
pretty and plain,
draw my attention as I watch them talk, so
many so open to their character
as they talk, like the young woman
yesterday at Jim's Diner,
broad in the hips
and not a particularly pretty woman,
but so vibrant as she talks
I wish I could come to know her,
I wish I could be her friend...

but such can never be,
because for a man my age
to approach any female stranger,
especially if young,
invites instant approbation -

disdain at best, or worse
pepper spray, swat teams, perhaps,
perched, silent and still
on roof tops all around,
national headlines about
smelly old cowboys stalking
women under the bright sun
of a cool Texas morning,
and a drop of at least 238 points
to my credit score...


like the bow-legged woman approaching
on the red cobblestone sidewalk

a cowgirl perhaps,
with a story to tell
of cattle drives and smoky campfires
under a bright summer moon,
riding hard on a sweat-stained saddle
worn soft and slick 
between her legs,
a woman, perhaps, of whiskey dripping
from the whiskers
of a certain cowboy lover...

I wish I could ask her
to tell it to me,
all about

This is by Sapphire from her book Black Wings & Blind Angels, published in 2000 by Alfred A Knopf. Sapphire is a New York poet, her poems gritty and often angry, best known for her book, Precious, and the movie by the same name.

Unplanned, but a very tough Memorial Day poem these two days before as I type this.

My Father's Silence (or, Last Night I Heard Two Poets - One Korean, One African American)

The Korean woman reads first
& I hear the torn foot
of war
the bloody footsteps
that connect us
like jewelry around our necks
choking our words, creaking
like my father silent
in his easy chair
But the photograph talks:
"Korea 190" written on the back;
black and white, serrated edges
like butterflies. He is tall,
thoughtful, in the blood bleached
green fatigues of war.
A huge tent, the flaps rolled up -
a white man back to the camera
pounds on the typewriter.
Another looks to my father
in deference - up,
like he has never before
in Alabama, Peoria, Mississippi,
San Jose -
like he never will again.
The tent, the jungle foliage -
which are flowers, shrub & trees
to the natives -
gone forever in a chair, vinyl -
new kinds of plastic crying sounds
we never hear from a silent father
who prides himself on
never talking about the war, wars,
there were two.
But I hear in the middle of life
in the barb wire poem of a sun
filled porch they used to drink
iced tea upon & look out on their land -
I hear my father talking
& it is the slow sound
of a man who wants to die.

The black woman reads next -
wet, the kitchen, the Saran Wrap
melting dream of garbage floes
like we couldn't know then , in 1950,
what the aggression would cost us.
The true price of napalm
rolling through the aisle of America
on the wings of  a war
that didn't make sense,
he said.
No, he said, silent reactionary
man twisting like a big car
on the huge Erector Sets that haul
automobiles to market,
for a moment, a bump in the road,
& the vehicle in its trek
from assembly line to the grave,
rolls off one time unexpectedly
gumming the works
and a lifetime of petticoats,
Goodyear rubber, the cabinets turn channels
& he says, No,
my sons won't go. And they don't.

He sits silent armchair
of a newspaper dreaming blood  barb wire,
the torn integumen of the soul
mute in Alabama, Peoria, patient in Mississippi,
passing for white in San Jose
speaks like shrapnel
in the retina of a child's eye,
the fence he couldn't climb
he walks around
twenty years later. The dead
years stacked up like Melmac plates
wrapped in plastic & Styrofoam
even though they can't,
like him, break,
and the gesture is paralyzed
on the fence,
he is blind before he can see
the other side.
In order to die peacefully
he would have had to talk
about things other than
the photograph to his sons.
He would have had to ask
demand retribution for
the stolen snapshot of his soul.
Somewhere the wings of a butterfly
needed to be rearranged;
as it was
he walked along the fence
the major fold of his brain
dividing the days & nights
choking on Saran Wrap with
petticoats dark as nuclear winter
frozen on the little legs
of a tricycle.

Men can be interesting too, as long as they don't talk too much.

on the edge

he was walking south
down the alley when I started walking
my dog, and then when I came back
he was walking north...

a lazy challenge to his walk,
his hair and small mustache neatly trimmed,
thin brown cigarette lit with a silver Zippo,
black suit, gray pants,
not really dark enough to be really gray,
which would be a classy look,
but a lighter shade of black a mis-match between
the blackish pants and blacker coat,
a look which might be the sum of his dreams,
classy, but never matching up...

he's not homeless,
though I've no doubt he's done shelter nights,
a traveling man, but not a hobo,
living on the edge of his wits and endless black skies,
a gambling man, poker, 21, pitching pennies, flipping quarters,
anyway to bet, anyway to skin a sucker,
like the small-time gamblers
who live in the small motels
on St. Mary's, living on scrambled eggs
at tacos at tiny Mexican restaurants
he can walk to from his room,
up when the bars are open, down when they close,
his drink is vodka when he can afford it
or Dos Equis when he can't, makes his own
if he must, drinking all day, but no one ever sees him

(It's dangerous to be seen drunk
when you're living on the edge)

a man who barely remember when he thought
he had a future, satisfied now
with each day as it passes,
can't imagine anything else any more, living on the edge
and dying on the edge when that day comes,
when those who watch him see their own 
edge, and take it

photo by Dora Ramirez Itz
@ Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

This is by Jack Marshall from his book, Spiral Trace. The book was published by Coffee House Press in 2013.

Marshall born in 1936 in Brooklyn to an Iraqi father and a Syrian mother of Jewish heritage. He grew up speaking Arabic in his family's traditional Arab Jewish household and writes often of that heritage.

27 (of 86)

Among things I didn't know
I'd know until later-
which is now:

I remember, I remember
diving for depth
and coming up for air,

my mother's chintz curtains hold
an afternoon's quiet, suspended
in ironed folds;

her once telling me,
"If you love me,
leave me."

and of going blind:
"First I see cobwebs,
then I see clouds."

In summer, when skin
is pressed as into
softened paraffin, then

lightness of body,
naked, made me feel
I'd blow away.

I had wished not to
have  to wait
to get old before I knew

what the old know, what
I thought they knew.
It seemed like serenity but

was senescence,
and their wisdom,

Sometimes you get to see two interesting people together.

two who make me happy

it will be
hot and sunny today
as we approach another South Texas summer
and I'll be getting out in it, getting as much sun
as I can squeeze into a half hour
or so...

right now, it is morning, dim
and cool
the way summer here often starts the day...

here in the coffeehouse
it is as it always is,
this morning it is all men
but for one young woman,
small and dark,
dressed for success,
sharing a table with a middle-aged Latino
who I assess to be a small businessman from the west side,
a small grocery, perhaps, or pawn shop or maybe
in the home remodel and repair business,
stereotypical thinking, but stereotypes become stereotypes
because of a consistent base of facts, and
having spent much much of my life doing business 
with small business men of all races and flavors, I felt confident
of my assessment...

and, as well, the young woman, also in business, her own business
in advertising and promotion, doing her own ad copy, her own
graphics and photos and illustrations, the way many young women 
I know, smart and talented, with a fine arts or journalism degree,
build opportunities for themselves
when opportunities in the corporate world are rarely and

I admire them both

the middle-aged businessman because I know
most small businesses don't survive
past the second quarter, even with great sacrifice and labor,
and I admire the young woman for her
 entrepreneurial courage

both make me happy
because in this world where I am a fading presence
I am reassured by the strivers
who will build and preserver beyond my own time

reassurance that even in this time of disorder and moral decay
there are those who will rise above the worst of it
and rebuild with their life the wreckage
I will leave behind

This is mine, from last week.

poems in supermarkets

for the firs three-quarters of the day,
a pleasure I seldom exercise
and greatly, in my estimation deserve,
I rise at 3 pm. and face the poem-of-the-day
that is nowhere in sight...

having nothing to write about
but dreams I suspect are scandalous
and not well enough remembered anyway,
I'm guessing the day's poem will be
one of the increasing number of
"can't-write-a-poem-today" poems,
the subterfuge we use to make it appear
we have written a poem when we
and all the poem gods, high and low,
know very well we have not...

so I go to the supermarket
to buy some chocolate milk and
no-sugar-added ice cream,
and there at the checkout station
waiting for me is a pretty dark-haired
young woman about the size of a lima bean
and I see that on her name tag it says her name
is "Atlifi" and I think that is a wonderful name
and I tell her so and ask her how to pronounce it
and she tells me with a laugh and deep, desert-sunshine eyes
and I laugh back and she laughs again because
my South Texas-tied tongue mangles the name,
coming out nothing like her sweet-singing name as she said it
and we both laughed and went on our 

and I though how pleasant it was to have met
a pretty young woman with desert-sunshine eyes
and such a sweet-singing name
and how wonderful to have found a poem in a supermarket
on dry afternoons

and how sad it is that this same encounter
would terrify and disgust people to the point
of running for president...

Sometime you just have to settle for what you can get.

still not up to it

a beautiful morning
deserves a beautiful poem

a better poet would help with that,
but conditions on the ground
prayer as the only alternate available
poetic resource,
but since I don't normally consult
with the Big Scribbler
in the Clouds
and distrust the idea of divine inspiration
on all matters, including my morning poem,
I guess I'm stuck with the woman in black
at a table across the room about whom
I can say next to nothing
except that she's a black-haired woman,
partial to black,
and that she is deeply expressive,
her hands and arms and fingers
waving and twitching
wildly in the air
and if I was the young man
she is speaking to I would be wanting
to have a football or, perhaps, a motorcycle helmet
to protect against concussion should one of her wild swings
connect with my head


the morning is ever more beautiful than before
and I'm still not up to its poetic

For the next poet, Osip Mandelstam, I go back 200 years.

Born in 1891, Mandelstam was a Russian-Jewish poet sent into internal exile during Stalin's repression of the 1930s. Given a temporary reprieve, he was arrested again in 1938 and sentenced to a camp in Siberia, dying while in transit to the camp.

Stone, the first of only three books he published, is considered one to the masterpieces of Russian poetry. My edition, bilingual in Russian and English, was published by The Harvill  Press in 1981, with translation by Robert Tracy.

The Russian I studied for the Air Force for nine months is long gone so I had to look this up.

Tsarskoe Selo was, when the poem was written, the town where was located the Russian imperial family's palace.

35. Tsarskoe Selo

                     to Georgy Ivanov

Let's go to Tsarskoe Selo
Where, reckless, unthinking, and free
The lancers grin drunkenly
Vaulting over the saddle-bow...
Let's go to Tsarskoe Selo!

Barracks, palaces, parks,
Scraps of gun-wadding caught in the trees
And "Long Life" rolling thunderously
In response to "Good day, lads, good work!"
Barracks, palaces, parks...

Little villas, only one story,
Where generals of one idea
Read Niva or perhaps Dumas
To make the dull days go by...
Not villas, they're houses really!

The train whistles - the prince must be near.
There's his staff in the glass arcade..
Looking cross, and adjusting his braid,
Sword trailing, an officer appears:
There's no doubt that the prince is here...

Passing by on its homeward way
With a gray maid-of-honor's remains
To the kingdom where etiquette reigns
Goes a coach spreading secret dismay
As she goes on her homeward way...

Photo by Dora Ramirez Itz
@ Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

Another coffeehouse moment.

great promise

the tall girl
with very long legs
and large feet with white-painted toes
shuffles slowly,
tiny step by tiny step,
across the room, holding between her hands,
like Christ's own chalice,
her near over-flowing latte cup,
blood of the lamb
in transport

her friend
a short, chunky blond,
applauds as the journey is done,
nary a drop, nary a drop spilled
and the task is done,
as she sits with her sister-of-the-morning
in triumph,
white teeth flashing, eyes bright under
the long bill of her red gimme cap...

a day that starts so well
great promise
which I will share from afar



Next, by Daisy Zamora from her small collection, Riverbed of Memories, published by City Lights in 1992. It is a bilingual book, Spanish and English, translated by Barbara Paschke.

Zamora, born in Nicaragua in 1950, is described as one of the most prominent of contemporary Latin American poets.


No one knows where he came from.
In the morning he stretches in the sun,
or we watch his silhouette undulate
behind the opaque glass in the window.

Lonely like us:
"a couple stuck by the arrow..."

He's no one's property, does as he pleases,
this charcoal cat
               who survives
               catching cockroaches
                            and an occasional rat.

Another Time

We return to the place we were happy
accompanied by new friends:
seated face to face
your hand no longer seeks mine under the table.

In the shade
the tables where we once sat are empty.
Midday whitens the cocoplums in the highest branches
guayabas grow green among green leaves.

There's warmth between us,
we look like two old friends.
Tenderly, pregnant with sadness,
I look at the tables and chairs, so dead and alone.

Too many cowboy movies, that's the problem.

aces and eights

the WIFI
is down at my regular coffeehouse,
so I find a substitute
but the only available table
leaves me facing four feet from a blank wooden wall,
the unseen bubble and thrum
of life behind me
of the force of my compulsion
to always know,
like in
aces and eights,
black on black, the dead man's hand
he held before he was shot from behind,
shot from behind
as he played poker with his back to the saloon floor...

aces and eights - feeling very

Next, two short poems by Norman Stock from his book Buying Breakfast for my Kamikaze Pilot published by Gibb-Smith Publisher in 1994.

Born in Brooklyn, Stock earned an MA degree in English at Hunter College. Receiving a number of awards for his poetry, at the time of publication he lived in New York and was a librarian at Montclair State University in New Jersey.

Buying Breakfast for My Kamikaze Pilot

she always takes us down for a crash landing
I don't know why she does it
am I the enemy or is she
it's hard to tell on this particular morning
but I buy her breakfast anyway I give her all I have
and she gives me all she is whether in anger or love
as we go crashing through the breakfast plates upsetting
     the orange juice and eggs
and the coffee shop becomes our battleground where we
     both die together holding on to each other for dear
     sweet fucking life

My Hyena

guards the gate and will not let me in
holds a heavy lamp against me drives way the flies
defends the flowers keeps the dogs at bay
my hyena is the jackal of the garden nd the angel of my
     kitchen wall
the mouse is scared away the roaches run amok from her
she sprays the wind that kills she wields a mighty garden
my hyena keeps all things in place and she is sure to wash
     the grime of years
for in her wake no little creatures stir and all the work of
     men is torn and lost
with my hyena I am fixed and quiet all my days are numbered
     and spent
the flux of years is gone the riot quelled of sense and every
     little life is saved for good
for my hyena wants that nothing dies and only in her sight
     can flowers live
that from her careful watch will not escape nor me myself
     her surly bite

More from the coffeehouse.

she wears long dresses

she wears
short enough
to reveal that she has
feet, though
legs remain a matter of speculation

a large tattoo
on her back between her shoulders
where her dress
low enough to reveal it...

she comes in very early
every morning,
parking her tiny Prius
by the door while she buys
her morning latte,
quickly out the door,
to work, I suppose,
her face suggesting serious business

and I forgot to mention
her face,
with serious glasses
but lively
and open to humor,
and thin,
like her feet
moving quickly
the flutter and swirl
of her very long

My poem from last week, an examination of ancestry through the flow of time.

better a monkey's uncle

pretty special?

concerned about the idea
of being a monkey's descendent?

consider this -

all our planet's diverse species,
from the ladybug to the killer whale,
and this includes you and me,
from a common ancestor
that lived more than 650 million years ago

more than that,
of all our own personal genes,
55 percent were inherent in that first ancestor
who, over billions of generations
bred us,
meaning we owe more than half
of all that we are to some
single-cell blob
with wildly presumptuous ambitions...

making me think
all those evangelical anti-evolution fundamentalist
should be happy with the idea of descending from great apes and monkeys
because it is actually a lot worse
than that - better a monkey's uncle
than to be child of the gelatinous blob that chased
Steve McQueen in his younger

Mysteries in the morning...

a woman of mystery

a dismal morning
at the coffeehouse, early still,
just me and other old men with beards
who get up early
to seek their purpose...

in their absence
I try to be inspired by memories 
of pretty women,
like the dark-haired Latina
with one crooked little finger,
well-dressed, showing tan, well-formed legs,
actively engaged countenance as she talks to men
at a shared table - have I ever seen her talk
to other women, I don't think so, like me,
but opposite, for I rarely talk to men,
such dull, boring creatures who mostly
want to talk about the latest game or the fish
the caught/almost caught, it is the women
I find so much more interesting, though I suppose
women, gathered together, speak mostly
of the female equivalent of sports and fish, equally boring,
and perhaps that's why I converse so easily with them
when we are alone together, because I don't care to talk about
boring stuff of either gender, that's my guess, I'm pretty sure
it's not because of my dashing good looks or magnetic
personality since I have neither offering instead just respite
from the oppressing blanket of stereotypical expectation...


and the crooked little finger woman, I've never ask
but I suspect it's a genetic condition or the result of a bad break
never properly set which seems unlikely...

a woman of mystery -
I like that...

This is by Nikki Giovanni from her book, My House, published in 1983 by Quill.

Giovanni is a poet and essayist who came to prominence during the civil rights movement of the late 1960s. Born in Tennessee and raised in Ohio, she was educated at Fisk and Columbia Universities. She has been a popular speaker on campuses and elsewhere. She has been winner of many awards including a Grammy nomination for her spoken-word CD.

When I Die

when i die i hope no one who ever hurt me cries
and if they cry i hope their eyes fall out
and a million maggots that had made up their brains
crawl from the empty holes and devour the flesh
that covered the evil that passed itself off as a person
that i probably tried
to love

when i die i hope every worker in the national security
the interpol the fbicia foundation for the development
     of black women gets
an extra bonus and maybe takes a day off
and maybe even asks why they didn't work as hard for us
     as the did
but it always seems to be that way

please don't let hem read "nikki-roasa" maybe just let
some black woman who called herself my friend go around
     and collect
each and every book and let some black man who said it was
negative of me to want him to be a man collect every picture
and poster and let them burn - throw acid on them -shit
     on them as
they did me while I tried
     to live

and as soon as i die i hope everyone who loved me learns
     the meaning
of my death which is a simple lesson
don't do what you do very well very well and enjoy it it
     scares white folk
and makes black ones truly mad

but i do hope someone tells my son
his mother liked little old ladies with
their blue dresses and hats and gloves sitting
     by the window
to watch the dawn come up is valid that smiling at an old
and petting a dog don't detract from manhood
somebody please
tell him i knew all along that what would be
is what will be but i wanted to be a new person
and my rebirth was stifled not by the master
but by the slave

and if ever i touched a life i hope that life knows
that i know that touching was and still is and will always
     be the true

              (9 jan 72)

Finishing the post with a little fun.

chasing a morning poem

chasing a poem 
in a strange location,
am reminded
by another poet
of the value of "tomorrow"
in life ad in the toils of poem-a-day-poets

as long as there is a tomorrow
there will always be
another chance at greatness...

or, in my case
a chance at
because okeydokey is okay by me

also true with hokeypokey,
should there be a question
about turning oneself around

maybe it's not great
it's at least
a dance I can do

If you've a mind to, please comment by clicking on the comment button below and let me know if you have a problem accessing the comment section. I've been told there's a problem but I can't confirm it. I do now that I've not been receiving comments for a while now.

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony accusatory, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad

 I welcome your comments below on this issue and the poetry and photography featured in it.

  Just click the "Comment" tab below.


New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces 

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer


  Peace in Our Time


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