Honest and True

I am a hit man, honest and true

For a bag of money I’ll murder for you

With garrote, gun, or knife – can make it look like an accident

If the bag is big enough I’ll even kill the president


My girlfriend is a prostitute, with a heart of gold

for enough money, she’ll do just what she’s told

– with a smile she’ll suck your cock or take it in the ass

You might think the less of her, but she does it all with class


Girlfriend and I went for walk out in the park

That’s where we ran into an orphan with a story – stark!

Just for the thrill of it, he ran up against the mob

– and as luck would have it, I had already contracted for the job


A violent man dies a violent death

Better to just focus on your breath

Karma goes ’round and ’round

’cause what gets lost – will always get found


My girlfriend is a prostitute with a heart of gold

One thing she’ll tell you is – love can’t be bought or sold

That kid’s pristine innocence really touched our hearts

But it made the oligarchs nervous, it gave them fits and starts


This next verse is one I have not written yet

It’s where the three of us watch a beautiful sunset

It is a montage of us having fun on the beach

Complete with foreshadowing of us going once more unto the breach


The banksters indecision gave us our big chance –

to hit them where it hurts, and make it look like happenstance

Rube Goldberg would have liked the trap we set in motion

-and by the time they were all dead, we had sailed across the ocean


A violent man dies a violent death

Better to just focus on your breath

karma goes ’round and ’round

’cause what gets lost – will always get found


Now every assassin from Manila to Peru –

is on the hunt for us, oh what can we do?

We tried hiding out in Montevideo, and then in Birmingham

Life’s evanescent glory is striking when you are on the lam


A violent man dies a violent death

Better just focus on your breath

Karma goes ’round and ’round

’cause what gets lost – will always be found


Esteban The Chameleon caught up to us outside of Pahrump

We had let our guard down, hauling our trash out to the dump

The only thing we could do was lock eyes with that crazy kid –

And now the three of us are dissolving in hydro-chlor-ic ac-id


A violent man dies a violent death

Better to just meditate and focus on your breath

Because what gets lost will always be found

Because what gets lost will always be found





Without Sleep

She has a pretty face, – but crooked somehow like she was in a terrible accident, and the scars have healed beautifully.

Phlegmy voices rumble out polite requests for more coffee!

– more coffee!

… and a, check please!

She pirouettes behind the counter deftly pouring Sanka into sturdy, bone-white cups; pausing just long enough with each of us, – smiling just long enough to make us feel a little bit human

My hands hurt

We call each other “Hand”

Not driver

Not trucker

And definitely not “good buddy”


… and my hands hurt

I tap a Lucky out of the pack, and even though it feels like I’m wearing boxing gloves I manage to flip out my Zippo – and spark the flame open

To my left there is a flannel clad Buddha named Bubba talking about his hemorrhoids and the emaciated Prince Siddhartha to my right is telling a Cajun about his stomach problems …

I have to put my attention back on my hands, – because if I gaze at anyone for too long they start to look like amphibians

I start laughing

I have never been late for an appointment, – I’ve never been in a wreck, and I’m thinking, “I’m really in trouble here”

Thinking, –  “Just three hundred more miles, and I’ll be in Harrisburg”

“Six more hours”, I keep telling myself; when suddenly a coolness touches my wrist …

I look up and am captivated by the waitresses shimmering leopard frog face

She props an elbow on her off kilter hip, indicates the steaming, black contents of her glass pot – and says, “ain’t no more of this gonna do you no good Hand”

“You forget that load of yours

You forget that load, and get yourself some sleep”



The Poetry of Dan Gable

It was the summer of 1980, and I was lying on the couch, enjoying the air conditioning, and reading The Drunken Boat; when three loud knocks shocked me out of my aesthetic reverie. It was the knock knock knock of authority, and it rattled the old mobile home from floor to ceiling. I quickly scanned the room for any drug paraphernalia, and satisfied that everything was cool, – I went to answer the door fully expecting the cops.

It wouldn’t be unusual for the constabulary to be knocking on our door. The trailer park we lived in, wasn’t one of nicer ones around. Most of the mobile homes were from the 50s and 60s, – they even allowed RVs and converted school buses there. We were college students, but most of our neighbors effortlessly lived up to the epithet : “white trash”.

But when I opened the door, there stood my childhood hero, Dan Gable. Two time Olympic Gold Medal Winner, and now Head Coach of The University of Iowa Wrestling Team. Dan Gable.

Drenched in sweat, wearing a tee shirt, gym trunks, and running shoes; he stood there with his chest heaving up and down, but not breathing hard. I craned my head out the door to see if there was a car parked in our spot, but there was none.

“Did you run out here”?

I stepped back, to let him in out of the heat.

“Where’s Garv”?

He stood there dripping sweat in our living room, taking in the decor; which was a cross between cowboy bunkhouse and opium den.  I was still high from the bong hits I’d had before breakfast, – but I managed to answer.

“Garvin went to Texas to work construction” …

“He what”?

…”got a job building bridges, – said it would be a good work out, and he’d be making a lot of money.”

“What are you doing”?

“Saying cool, and reading poetry”.

“Is that for a class”?


He nodded his head, and let out a heavy sigh.

“You gotta a pen and a piece of paper”?

I pointed to the pocket notebook and the tin can full of pens next to the phone in the kitchen.

Craig Garvin was one of the toughest guys I knew. A lot of young nimrods have that one one friend they’ve nicknamed “Tazz” – (short for Tasmanian Devil). Well, we didn’t call Garv that, but I have to say he resembled the Looney Tunes character in appearance, and in his ability to destroy anything that stood in his way . We had worked a railroad deconstruction job the summer before; Me, Garv, and Greg Glidwell. Every day of that job, new guys would join our little crew, but none of them made it past lunch. It was torturous, hard work, but we made swinging sledge hammers 8 to 10 hours a day fun …

… Garvin must have gotten a “walk on” spot on the wrestling team, and not told anyone.


Dan Gable scratched something on the note pad, then ripped the page out, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. He took another long look around the living room, and then dashed off a few words on the note pad, nodded his head, ripped the note out, and handed it me.

“There, – give that to Craig Garvin the next time you see him” – and he left.

I looked down, and read the note:


He ain’t got a spare,

and he ain’t got a jack.

Garv don’t care about nothin’

and he ain’t comin’ back!

It was signed, Coach Dan Gable

Probably not one of the highlight’s in his life, but even though I haven’t seen him in over 35 years; I’m sure Craig Garvin is doing fine.

As far as Dan Gable? He’s retired, and possibly spends his days fishing or writing poetry.