The winds pick 
up
and reanimate 
last autumn's leaves.

A knit beret 
flies off shouting 
RED 
down Locust Street.

In a nearby basement
a man
straightens the tie
on a corpse.

Like the wind
and the leaves
and the hat
it is his job.

Fast forward a few years, and you have bands like Metallica, who owe their entire fame to fans who made and zealously distributed illegal home-made recordings of the band's live performances. Ironically, of course, Metallica turned out just a few years later (after getting rich) to be among the most vocal opponents of bootlegging. 

Then, of course, there's Napster... and with it the realization that people were sharing music (gasp!) for FREE, and on a global scale, not just at headbanger parking lot keggers. But we all know what happened to Napster.

Now, with the advance of technology, we have users sharing, swapping, Wiki-ing, and blipping copyrighted content all over the place. And in response we have SOPA (the Stop Online Piracy Act) as the latest attempt, through über-strict control of all online media, to stop royalty-free sharing of, basically, anything. The only problem is: such control would cripple the Internet. (For a concise review of SOPA issues and FAQs, check out this link.)

The closest analogy that comes to mind is the attitude sheep ranchers have taken toward wolves. Rather than accept that a few head of sheep will be lost to wolves annually, ranchers propose the irradication of the wolf (by gun, by trap, by bomb if necessary), regardless of any other effects that irradication might have on the delicate balance of the ecosystem.  Seems (to me) that a far more rational response would be acceptance. You're going to lose a few sheep (and yes, a few dollars) and I'm sorry. But extinction of a valuable predator species, and the shockwaves that event would produce, are no answer. 

Same with online media sharing, piracy, whatever. I know that royalty-free sharing hurts smaller artists, and I am truly sorry. I know musicians who are struggling to make a buck. But crippling the Internet is not the answer. Lawmakers, go back to the drawing board and come up with something else. Now I understand that SOPA's creator is from Texas, and that Texans have a history of, shall we say, overreaction. I believe the state motto is: If you can't sell it, fuck it, or turn it into oil, then kill it. (It's on the state flag. In small print.)  But this may be one time that restraint is a better answer.

Either devise a more targeted approach to online piracy or accept that it is part of a global society that freely enchanges information. So email your Rep in Congress, email your Senator, and tell them SOPA is not the answer.

 

And then there's my mid-life crisis. Unlike most heterosexual men, who simply buy a sports car and start playing 69 with their dental hygienist, I decided to chase trains. Freight trains mostly. With my camera. It was a second adolescence, and since my first one had been spent in celibacy, perhaps it only fair that my second should be its echo. So, like my pudgy tween self (tho not in plaid pants this time) I ran around snapping photos of locomotives. And it was fun. A true simple pleasure. I learned a lot about history, and got to hang out with others who shared my interest. I got to visit Steamtown in Scranton, and the revered Horseshoe Curve near Altoona.  

And then one day, on my window sill, there was my hawk. Returned and refreshed. I hesitate to take credit for what happened next, because as other writers have said, the poems seemed not to be coming from me but through me. I am porous as limestone and they are water. I do not understand the process but I welcome it. I nurture and feed it. Because I do not know when it may decide again to depart.

So many thanks to all who have provided so much encouragement, validation, and support. To those who've reached out and helped my family when we struggled, to those who've published my work, to those who've bought the book.  Thank you all. 

Don't try to frighten me

with solitude. I've climbed into

the jail cell of my mind before.

One bed, one table, one chair,

one window, one typewriter

and a handful of books. 

I've watched the freighters

slide thru the harbor, the orphan

boys in the street as they picked

the pockets of rich tourists.

I've watched the birds

come and go with the seasons,

stray blessings caught

for a moment in the trees

then released to heaven.

I will outlast you. 

Step thru the King of Clubs

and out into the cold cobbled street.

The air smells of exhaust, tobacco,

and industry. The buildings stand

close as gossps. Do not bother

searching your pockets for money.

You won't find any. The sun spins

like a gilder's wheel. Your mind

is a room unfurnished with names.

Here you are no more than a leaf

gambled  by the wind. 

.

We tend to think of life as a line, a road, a tightrope, a string of pearls. Western thinking encourages us in this direction. Birth to death. Then, as the Christians would have it, a speedy disposition to either Heaven or Hell. Forever. 

I am not a spiritual person. But I am also not a person who enjoys being told what to do, where to go, or how to get there.  I distrust authority, mostly because I've been given ample reason to do so. I was brought up to believe that God's love is contingent on our behavior. I was also brought up to understand that the slightest infraction of house rules could cause my mother to pack a bag and walk out, usually when my father was away on business. She never got farther than the elevator, but to a 5-year-old who believes his mother is on the verge of abandoning him forever, that's far enough.  I distrust "forever." 

As I say, I am not a spiritual person. To me, adherence to organized religion is much like letting a drunk drive you home: it may turn out fine, but chances are it will be a spectacular catastrophe. I'm just contrary enough to dislike those odds. So, out of sheer contrariness, why not assume that life (and whatever lies after) is not linear. Let's say, for fun, that it is more like the ripple created when a raindrop strikes the surface of a pond. The concentric ripples move outward, growing ever larger until they are at last absorbed by whatever other forces (other raindrops, a sudden breeze, the movement of a carp below) are having their whim with the surface of the water at that time. So life is then expansive rather than linear. And the purpoae of life then shifts from being one of "getting to point B" to one of including as much as possible within your circle of experience. (And no, material acquisition for its own sake does not count.)  So we go from a universe based on processing and judgment to one based on the unending an expansive search for variety. The endless creation, combination, and demolition of things. So the end is not to achieve salvation through austerity and self-denial but instead to increase one's experience without diminishing the experiential search of another. No, I am not saying you should go out and set fire to a cat just to see what happens. In fact, the contrary, for that would impede the cat's search for variety. What I'm saying is, pay attention. Open your eyes. Listen. Love. And when forced to choose between A and B, select C.

Goodbye false hope

Goodbye, calls from the emergency room

Goodbye to my monther-in-law's 60-day hospital stay

Gooodbye to her pneumonia

Goodbye to her foreclosure and eviction

Goodbye to bankruptcy

Goodbye, earthquakes

Goodbye Ruby, killed in a crash

Goodbye, wooden horses

Goodbye, paper roses

 Goodbye. 

§    §    §

Thank you, Twenty-Eleven

Thank you for my health

Thank you for my family

Thank you for rivers of verse running thru me

Thank you to my editor & publisher

Thank you friends (old and new)

Thank you.

And my best wishes to you all, my readers, for health, strength, and luck in the new year.

§   §   §   §

The river churns high and muddy, 
the ghosts of cars and oil drums 
hurtling downstream in the searchlights. 

Toads and moles crawl up the embankment 
in waves. Like men unaware 
they've been cut in two, they twist
and gasp, grabbing at your arms.

Sand bags or sand castles, 
it matters little. The radio says 
more rain's on the way. The road
will wash out by dawn. Pack your things, 
head to high ground.

 §   §   §   §

There's a doll among the splinters
and a pump that bleeds 

only rust. The shutters on the church
have been pulled tight as a noose 

around the Holy Ghost. Tree limbs
lay about like spent cigars 

and the filling station's closed. Some 
have vowed to return, but who

will charm the snakes from the silos
or burn the rats from the corn?