A prosperity for all men. The sign rusted and dull, but the words were still enchanting. Prosperity. What does that even mean in a world like this?
Enough food grown in the small garden carved out of this hillside? The community had come up with a barter system, but who is to know if the exchanges are fair? What weight does it hold? One disagreement and murder and violence could ensue. Luckily so far, the garden has fed everyone here and peace has lasted. But what if a baby is born? Or a stranger walks into town? Do we lose our humanity when hunger takes over? Or if the winter is harsh? Or the locusts come?
A prosperity for all men reads the sign at the town’s entrance, a lone relic of a time when people actually visited here. It’s a noble thought. It just has a lot of variables to overcome.

In the sand a small beetle dug and dug, but the predator desert mouse still found him faster than his claws could move.
High above in the lone tree in this part of the desert Ashmit sat on a small folding chair. He wore his balaclava tight around his face, a long thin shirt covering up to his wrists, and his ak-47 slung loosely around his back. His cargo pants were worn but still holding up. One interior pocket held an extra set of ammo, the other a small pear. It was ripe but he was saving it for after pick up. He could see the dust miles away. But the desert played tricks on his eyes. He looked to the sun but wasn’t quite sure of the time. Soon his shift would be over. Another would take his place for 24 hours. And he would rest for seven days. And then return. To guard this tree in the desert. No one knew why anymore? It was something the elders had done. And so they did it again. No one ever attacked the tree, its roots thick into the ground sourcing water from deep deep below in the old land. Surviving. Much like Ashmit. He counted himself lucky to be one of the seven guards. They lived lifes of somewhat comfort in the village. When one died others clamorred for their spot. Each guard was afforded their own bed, and a clean shower after each return. A benefit that many would die for. 
But it had its drawbacks as well. No guard was allowed to marry. Often he sat here thinking of  Meera, a girl from his youth. He fantasized about her long brown hair, and a night they had played cards for hours, watching the sun come up.
He walked to the canteen he had brought on shift change and poured a cup, dropping a few tea leaves into it. The sun would brew the tea quickly, the heat here natural and radiant.
The dust cloud grew closer. Ashmit sipped his tea. Dipak would be here soon. He didn’t particularly like the man, his jokes crude and his beard unkempt. But he smiled without doubt at the exchange once every seven days, his duty done.
Until next week, to guard a tree. No one knew why. But it was a noble enough endeavor.

My poem The Directions We Take was selected to be included in the 2025 volume of Art on the Trails which takes place at Beals Preserve in Southborough, Massachusetts. The trails at Beals Preserve call artists each year to exhibit their work along the trails. Each year they invite poets to comment on the art and select the best two poems for each work to be included in an annual chapbook. My poem is in response to Pivot Points by artist Rebecca Long seen below.

I will not be able to attend but there will be a closing celebration and Poets walk on September 14th if you are in the area. You can order a chapbook while available here . Find out more about Art on the Trails

Her hands reached across the car seat, its ripped leather telling stories with crumbs and lost money. Only the shadows from the broken windshield were more splintered. 

Her hands fumbled for something inside. Anything of value may help her barter for the next meal, the next potion of remedy. Anything to kill the hunger, the pain of another day on this stretch of Missouri highway. 

She had left Saint Louis behind, its warlords controlling all of the area from what used to be Washington University down to the Arch and the river below. Her father had told her of a hotel anime conference there where he met David Carradine. Years later she wondered who David Carradine was, and what was Anime?. But it had been important to her father. He said the old man had given half a effort at the panel, not really answering questions. But later that evening at the hotel bar, he sat alone. Smoking alone. The man her father said had been a legend of Kung Fu.
She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she liked the sound of her fathers voice. 

He said as he approached Carradine he noticed the actor watching him from a side eye, and he was pretty intimidating. But once they got past the small talk the actor slid the chair out beside him.
“Buy me a whiskey,” he said. Her fathers eyes still lit up years later when he told her this story. It was one of the happiest visions she had of her father.
She tasted whiskey once. And hated it completely. She spent the nights staring at the starry skies. Thinking about what David Carradine must have looked like. Wondering why people would gather to discuss this Anime thing. And how anyone could stomach whiskey. 

Her father did mention Carradines most famous role. A monk called Caine. Who walked the earth. She couldn’t help but smile at the similarities to her current journey. Exiled and alone, looking for faith and food in the wilderness of old America. 

Exiled and Alone. Hungry. With memories of her Father. And stories of the times she never knew.

Excited to announce my poem When You Are Dead has been included in the collection The Alien Buddha Loves You Too published today by Alien Buddha Press.
You can snag a copy off Amazon here

Your micro aggressions are felt at every slight,
The hate in your eyes is unforgiving, and unforgivable.
If you climbed to the highest ceiling, brush on your paintstick,
You’d only leave a mystery of human misery.
I’d love it if you found joy, and happiness, but you don’t deserve any of it.
But neither do I guess, a lonely excuse for oxygen.
Stagnant and old, best days behind me, behind us.
A terrible state for the end of the world,
The lines on the map mean nothing now.
They are just chalk that has been washed away,
Like any history we had.

The fire sunset over Los Angeles was crisp. Thirty years ago it would have been smudged with smog, but that smog like most pollution not caused by fallout had receded. Now the city had a cleaness not known to man.
From the hills the city may have passed as just that, its arachnid layers of highway and concrete still intact, just missing its ants. 

In Cairo the pyramids lay dormant, no tourists snapping pictures while being amused by the natives and scared of the religion. It would surprise no one if the aliens returned to take what belonged to them. Perhaps under all the sand a spaceship would rise and float away from the wasteland.
 

In Moscow the snow fell. And fell. And fell some more. Bottles of unopened vodka lined the markets, clear death, single file, undisturbed but growing weary with decades of dust. A single radio station played at town square, a song on repeat, a song of brotherhood and remembrance.

In Shanghai people worked, as they always had. The government did not let them know otherwise. It was after all, the way it had always been for the world’s oldest civilization. New rulers perhaps, but the common good carried on. Even when the common good only benefited the few not so benevolent ones. 

The earth continued to spin. That was the victory. A small grace of wonder in the universe that had long ago gave up on this place, rotten with humans, and disease, greed and bad taste.

The river rushed with an unyielding force. It crested above Jack’s head sending him swirling through the waves. How could he have been so stupid he thought, cursing himself. He had set the trap very gently on the side of the river knowing animals would be coming for water. He had already collected two other traps, a small rabbit and a squirrel. They would have fed him two meals at least. He came to inspect this river trap and saw it had found a prey. He approached it rapidly, not being aware of his surroundings. He heard the branch snap behind him and the shadow that blocked the sun turned his heart quickly. He turned to see the large bear already in attack mode, standing on its hind legs and snarling at Jack as it plunged towards him. 

He did not have time to dodge or evade so he threw his arm up and outwards knocking the bear back slightly. The force sent him stumbling back, and into the freezing Missouri River. Now he fought the waves, catching air occasionally, tossing and turning, trying to find something to grab onto. He spun for minutes, growing tired. He hit a shallow bed and it scraped his legs but he was able to get a grip on a large rock. Cursing he pulled himself up, his meals lost to the river but he was alive. Jack headed for shore and took in his location. He was far from home. Time to head back upstream and hope the bear wasn’t there. Or that he wouldnt freeze to death in his wet clothes on the way home. Jack knew he needed to be smarter to continue to survive like this. Something had to change.

She took his hand gently. It was unexpected but welcomed. He looked at her, a beautiful thing peering at him behind bottle coke glasses.
“Do you want to talk about this?” he asked, looking at their hands entwined for the first time. She smiled and looked away towards the setting sun. It was a good enough answer for him. A while later her head rested on his shoulder and they sat there watching the world fall asleep. To grow old together without the dullness of language.

“Mondays are the worst.” He remembered saying such things. Now he didn’t even know what day it was. He knew it was fall because the leaves were turning golden brown, but there was no sense of days, no weekends, no holidays. It would have been football season now. Crowds would have been walking down this Georgia main street on the way to the old high school football stadium.  You would have been able to smell the hot dogs and bbq grilling, hearing the PA announcer in the distance like a ghost announcing players names.
But now the street sat silent. The football stadium was deserted, although the bleachers provided respite from the sun if you found your way underneath them. In those days Fridays were tolerable. You had a game to look forward to and a cold beer. He imagined how it felt on his hands, the chill of alumnium, the sound of the can cracking open. The cold pour into his throat, and the instant relaxation that followed. He had found a six pack last year. It was expired but he drank it anyway. It was one of the worst things he had ever tasted. And it threw most of it up later that evening. But if presented with another beer today in the fall autumn sun, he would undoubtably do it again.