For Gaylon Currie

Wherever I watered the smooth, worked earth

That was to be my garden, 

White worms rose to drink. With a light-fearing reluctance 

They writhed up crumbs of loam

Until they shone on the wet, black dirt like blind stars.

Heavy-lidded shrub lizards, weirder than quarks

Or Persia, gave those worms the ancient eye,

Then descended with polite plops

To gobble up the heavens.

“Grazing my lizard herd,” I deadpanned

As you arrived, your arms around huge chunks

Of my past and cold beer. You blinked,

Stared like a great, wise reptile

And then, for no earthly reason other than love,

Almost believed me.

And that is it, old friend,

That despite everything you come with your hands

Held out to me,

Offering spirits, expecting magic,

Full of dark, thirsty brilliance.

All afternoon we leaned together,

Two shepherds of absurdity

Gathering about us like well-worn cloaks

The ragged meanings of our quest,

Drinking with the worms and stars.


I published a book of poems a few years back called Still Be Beautiful. Within a few months I intend to reissue portions of that book (including an ebook option), with substantial new poetic content, including the best lyrics from my songwriting career.

In the meantime, here is a sample poem, published initially in the Free State Review; more samples to follow: