Excerpt for Yukon Calling: A Book of Poetry by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Yukon Calling

A Book of Poetry


on a moonless night

the last soul looks

for redemption from

his death

in time we

no more

know more

the shadows

concealing an

uncomfortable truth

gravestones litter

our homes we

mark the places


hope has

gone to

die a

slow and

painful death




ours is a dead

way of life made to

die by things we

cannot understand

can never understand

will never understand so long as we

don’t accept

on the moonless night

a train lumbers through the darkness

clear skies

mean lies

hidden in plain sight

on this moonless night

desperation coursing

through veins like the

fast-moving river over

jagged rocks threaten

death a unique visitor

along the lost way forward it’s

not fair it’s

never been fair it’s

a deed undone a black

rose for one moment

a train lumbers through the darkness

on board a man nameless


not faceless

hands dirty

skin calloused


darkness enveloping

all things

tall stacks reaching for the sky

stabbing at the darkness

jutting into the moonless night

desperation is here desperation





in the distance

sleek glass and steel

for a skeletal outline






laughing an

evil laugh

heard across

the darkness of the

moonless night

by the man on the train

and all


it always

happens in the night

a loose switch

or a misstep here

fires burning not burning

simmering not simmering in

truth it’s impossible to tell

red-brick walls and

hopeless falls the

pathetic and wretched

looking to a joke on

us all mocking taunting belittling

but for the future is ours

we know this




heads bobbing

on the open ocean

bottomless seas

black as ice

on the horizon

it always happens in the


striking a proposal


and indecent


but never all-

storm back

looking to the apocalypse

rising in the distance

the man in the truck

closes his eyes and

sleeps for a short time
in a crudely-made

track groove

a tread in the snow

warm but not hot

cool but never cold

left for dead

outlook good

sunny skies and

for-laid lies

costing us all

the last ounce of


we fire

set on fire

fires of liberation burning

columns of smoke rising

in funeral pyres

for the old way of life

two lanes north

one lane south

whoever thought

of a bridge with only three lanes?

down the hill

there’s a lake

frozen but

not iced-over

in the depths of winter


wires dangling from

pole to pole


mountains towering above us all

covered in snow

not only their peaks but

every patch of their faces

like old men

they look down on us all

not with pity or shame

but with sadness for

what we’ve


no one knows


there’re too many bars

and too many cafes

not that it maters anyhow

a cover for lost leads

and drowning beads

read the brochure if you must

this time read the

fine print

it’s your own fault

for trusting in them

to tell you the truth

a bird on a shoulder

sleeping (the bird,

not the shoulder) soundly

stirring occasionally

grinding its beak

not an it

a she


grinding her beak

we live

so far away from where we were born

in little canyons

and in trees lost to the

pages of time

but it’s not all for nought

let’s fight

get your guns


meet me out back in

two hundred years ago

relatively speaking

i’m not sure what any of us are doing

buy now pay later

but always crave

reject regret

embrace the horror

a dead bird

too many dead birds

so many dead birds

are you a criminal?

i know i am

the battle of all time

a truck in the night creaks

and groans but can never

save the dead birds


don’t look

at the water level

it’s higher than it’s ever been


it’s purple

no it’s magenta

and now it’s yellow a bright

golden yellow the

light will never die

only fade

from time to time

work not work

anyone can be anything

if they would only set their minds to it

but that’s a lie

a great fraud

those who survive by

drinking our blood

live in their glass-and-steel towers

while we suffer and die

but not for much longer


not superstitious

dead and dying

look to the living

to carry on their legacy

the burden falls on

working men

in their trucks dirty

rusty the

wheel wells smelling of

dead skunks run over on the

highway at night

dark nights

seem right

looking slight

in the after-day’s white

something free

is something nourished

looking fine

for a long time

i mean to dry

out in the sun

but there’s no sun

in the dead of winter

the long nights

sleepless frights

black all black

no more asunder

fighting back

the man in his truck

never fighting back

but dreaming of it

sleeping hungry

cold and tired

body aching

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