Posted in Before the Rain


Perhaps Jesus is to blame
to blame for conversion been more esteemed than consistency.
Before his time the world was God fearing
conform ? – You bet, no one stepped out of line
not when the Angel of death was the enforcer.
Ever since the second testament hit the book stands
the faithful have clenched teeth
recaptured waistlines superior to the non-expanded
spendthrift turned thrift, better than always frugal
reformed alcoholism as proof of character.
Perhaps the devout felt the same
in the years 0- 33 AD
prostitutes and murders the new celebrities
and holier than thou. Literally.

He had been a gambler in his time
a card shark some said
playing with his own deck
marked –
and with at least as many Aces as sleeves
in the end he had turned up trumps
and now ran his own casino. Clean,
outlaw turned sheriff. Bandits, he could spot them.

The hierarchy was present
the brass heavy and shiny at his retirement –
the head serang
and his deputy
and more acolytes than a visiting head of state.
The not always good employee
had turned good
and done good.
The only person missing
his defeated rival
someone who had never been anything but good.
Conversion the spoils. Consistency nothing.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.