They are tearing up the old road again.
The road we built
with sweat and blood
and paved in dreams of love.
Old man Grady died there.
Fell off the steep ridge cliff
into a mad white torrent river
clutching his pick-axe firmly.

For three days we stopped work.
His wife still visits every year
throwing colourful fresh flowers
from her lonely summer garden.
Back then we worked the mules.
And at the end of every day
the men would gather
with whiskey bottles and rye.
Women would bring cheese and bread.
We laughed and praised the road.
God would smile upon us.

Before the road
we could never get across
after the hard spring rains.
When the winter snow dropped
we were an isolated island.
No one would dare the mountain.
Every six months
we would haul our goods to town
selling our animal skins and crops.
We kept the children happy.

I hear the bulldozers coming now.
Our love will soon be paved over.
The women and children are crying.
They hit a silver vein
and the mining company is bringing
their bankers and lawyers.
Our love has been bought and sold.
They are tearing up the road again.
The road we paved
with dreams of love.





I heard your poem on the radio today

little children were crying and bleeding

bowing to your mighty power

I pulled my glass eye out

and rolled it down a bubble-gum sidewalk

three flies were mystically immersed in conversation

they were talking about you, of course.

How you fought off all the angry slaves

so we could all drink milk and hug when

the cheerios were no longer crunchy.


I stepped on a pile of you today

but my new no-stick nuclear shoes

kept me balanced and poised

for your next question.

I had to answer honestly

as all the satellites were

joyously listening

and the quiet drone

of your new found synthetic existence

filtered the last ounce of sincerity

in the world.


Now everything is happy blue

and darkness hides inside a solar flare

my chain keeps rattling loudly

inside this cold locked chamber.

All the hammers and shovels

were worn down to splintered oak.

I forgot what trees looked like

and when I pulled your plastic vagina

from underneath the dusty glass dome

it wouldn’t talk to me anymore

it dried out and shriveled away.

Now all I have left is a rusty nail

and two holes in my blood soaked hands.