If you are reading this poem on a phone, note that the integrity of the lines, a major feature of poetry, is not displayed properly. Many if not most get cut short because of the small screen.

I sit and toil all day
at the heart’s sky,
laboring meaning into form
that won’t surprise me with its despair.

I unhand time.
It seizes me.
I believe in miracles.
It’s all a wonderful of the All-Look’s gaze.
I labor to see that.

I can remember it happening
long ago.
All the sights I see hide God.
Can you hide God?
It’s a revelation in a day,
the abruptness of creation
organizing time.

I can see through the forms
cloud my mind with meaning.
That bus that just stopped there,
it stayed a bus,
but it carried mystery.

The people at the bar getting drunk next door,
a singer sings their songs.
I can’t find the music or the melody
they become more than sharks
wetting their nose on freedom.

I carry them in time,
the little guy at the Roxie station wagon
tourist information center,
seeing past the show
into metaphor’s play.

Bathing suits and butts
don’t know what they mean.
Their wearers are proud of them.
They walk past smiling don’t look
stirring sexual desire.

I don’t know how to do this,
be a Roxie concierge
and assign God to the role.
I just mean somethin’ to everyone.
My hand is ever on time’s grasp,
“Yes ma’am, can I help you please?”


I study tourists
tryin’ to find time
a meal on paradise.
Can I help you folks?
Every meaning
gets bigger than time
and be what it means for.

Can you see that?
Every meaning we look at
wears the face of God,
but every dog knows
God is horribly attentive
to things you don’t understand.

I will find meaning there.
I will reach beyond the Earth
and sit at the Roxie and be myself
guiding tourists to their destination
on Fort Myers Beach.
Yah get me dog?