The Guy Pulled Over's Life at a Glance

Working on the land with my hands.

Banging my head against a brick wall.

Kicking a dead horse with my feet.

The small of her back all covered in dirt.

Viewing their deaths from up close,
scratching around, picking lint off the floor.
Sniffing around for the smell of success.

The house on the hill ablaze.

Not a negative outlook,
but a realistic one.
Steeped in observational judgement,
but realistic nonetheless.

Bar the Black Sheep

Bar the black sheep.
Too fly-blown, no seeds sewn.
Too dry, scorched earth fried.
Nothing left to keep,
Too empty to weep.

Back-burn for the summer.
Crops dead, sheep dead.
A brown bit dad badly.
Nothing left, dad dead.
The past was train wreck
and mother had rope burns around her neck.

Bail for some money.
Leased the homestead:
Land was dead, they said.
But now it good for growing grapes.
I feel stupid, I feel raped
And share the farmer’s sentiment.

Bar fly for hours,
Bitter tasting, humbling and lasting.
Wasting away in a flesh-casting of a man.
If my folks could see me now.

From Darkness Comes Light

No money, no food.
No more to gain,
nothing to lose.

No crops, no seed.
No wood for the winter,
More mouths to feed.

No drive, no will.
No hope.
Nothing but an empty shell.

No rain, no God.
No relief.
More pieces of me lost.

No bullets, no gun.
No prayers answered.
Nothing but sun, sun, sun.

More than a stretched landscape.
Nothing left here for me.