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Clocks are non conformists
They live their lives
so separately.
Not a brothersistermother
among them
to hold in their long,
stiff, uneven arms
that humans call hands.

From the book, 'The Fistless Fistfight', a collection of early poems from age 22 to age 32 (unpublished)

Poem from the 'American Sadness' series

Trace the lines in your face
to tomorrow and tomorrow.

Walk across the empty parking lot
feeling the ghost of the meadow.

Forget where you parked the car,
forever.

Walk away. Walk away.

Lay down
in the grass,
forever.