I think I will name the mule Cassius.

I wrote a poem to my father in the summer of 1988

it was the summer that the Black Hills always seemed to be on fire, one fire so fierce, the smoke blocked out the sun. I wrote him this poem because I could not have spoken the words, my mouth could not form them. My throat tightened, and my cheek bones twinged, and the words would not come out. I would think them alone at night when I heard Claude working, sawing the cedar boards, nailing, sanding, making ready. My father had become so quiet, and I wanted him to know in words how much he was loved, how much he would be missed. There had to be some words. He would sit outside sometimes in the sun. That is where he was when I brought him my sheet of notebook paper. Maybe it was 12 lines or so. I can't even remember but a few of the words. Holes, coyotes, listen, howl. I don't even know what happened to it. There were words.

Would you like to live on less...

could you?

Hermosa song

Synergy is such a stupid word. Not all mistakes are negative and not all hand holding is miracle work. We learn by our mistakes. October. 1992. DUI. St. Croix County Slammer. Nearly lost the scholarship. Never before had I celebrated Easter break-I never really did celebrate Easter. Three years away from home, living like a vagabond, and there I was-Easter Dinner with the family in March 1993. Celebrating a new Driver's License. A new appreciation? No. My aunt pulled me
aside. "Every man needs a chain," she said as she gave me a late birthday present. Inside-a gold necklace. Men in my clan don't wear necklaces. "Every man needs a chain," she said. I didn't know what she meant until she died a few weeks later. Every man is a danger to himself. Trade in the hand cuffs and the stupidity for the respectable version. Every man does need a chain, a link back to the earth- something solid. Gold, wire, steel. It doesn't matter. The final link to earth is rotten and holds no hope.

jdw

There is no task

that is beneath me. No job I would not be willing to do. That is not the kind of pride I am cursed with. I don't concern myself with retirement. Most likely, I will die with my hammer in my hand.

Float like a butterfly...

Grimly by young eyes
on the edge of a bed in a dining room
sits a man with a beard
Bumblebee slippers hide
dying, disfigured feet
that dangle off the floor
Eyes down once and up again
the black and yellow stripes bring a smile.



Contributed by JDW

from sidearm pete's sleep

Last week
I was tearing the roof off an old building/shed
It wasn't my building or shed,
so I kept looking over my shoulder.
then
for some reason
Dad is sliding off the roof
and
I grab him by the ankle
I was able to hold him
and lift him to safety
just
like he did for me
So many times before.