Rock Accountant

Month: November, 2016

Not Enough to say

It is not enough to say,
“All is lost.”
When my love is that
which God has tossed,
Just out of my reach
for all my days.
Laying grief upon me
in all familiar ways.
To invent the world,
where one must fathom,
hearts dropped like leaves,
into a black chasm.
I arch my back and scream,
“No, take me.”
But God just stands there
like a tree.

Satchels of Silence

Men carry silence
in satchels
filled with oaths,
weaved loosely
from malice and murder.
All we are certain of
is that we have forgotten

Waiting to get hit

I was smart, so I did not get hit in high school.
Athletes got punished with “swats” from the coaches. One for a “D” and “two for an “E” ( an F nowadays). The paddles were wooden, and they hurt. The huge black kids, who frightened me, often cried.
In grade school, I was sent to the Principal to get spanked. Later he used a paddle too.
It was formative.
The waiting to get hit was terrifying. To this day, I never, ever, hesitate to confront the inevitable.
When I was younger I would hit first if I was sure it was coming my way.


The greatest challenge to any thinker is stating the problem in a way that will allow a solution. — Bertrand Russell


I love Thanksgiving on the main because it celebrates America’s laudable indifference to everything that would normally way heavily on a heart prone to disingenuous, self-serving sympathy. Pass the stuffing.

Kait Rokowski

“Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.” —Kait Rokowski

Plodding Human Elegance

Every living moment
is born a relic of a new past.
Perpetually inventing keepsakes and
providing souvenirs of
the plodding elegance of being human,
Reminding us
we are all but mere dreamers.

Relax to Earth

shakes a tear
into the open bazaar
Of embarrassed rainbows.
Every unsure man
drifts backward down the quiet inclination
of abandoned pride.
Resting when his
proud colors,
relax to earth.

Dead Bees

The young composer, working that summer at an artist’s colony had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she made amused or considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door, and she turned to him and said, “I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you I have had a double mastectomy.” When he didn’t understand, “I’ve lost both my breasts.” the radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity–like music–withered, very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I could.”
He walked back to his cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl–she must have swept them from the corners of her studio–was full of dead bees.
-Robert Haas

The Pittsburgh Steelers

The life of an average woman consists of one event which can be either multiplied with one spouse or with more than one partner. But the event itself remains essentially unvarying. All else is filled with chatter and worry.
The life of the average man is an exploration for avenues to be competitive without killing or being killed prematurely. This postulate only applies to men who are Steeler fans. All other men are actually women.

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