Thursday, September 29, 2011


exceeding all bounds of entitlement 
translucent velvet green
pale as shallow water
blooming radiant moonlight

Monday, September 26, 2011


It is not understanding,
but a reflection
of oneself dancing,

Not to be misunderstood,
but bravely forge forward
under the guise
of a false prophet
bent on revenge;

revealing the fire within.

A villain, renowned
for its blasphemy;
its attack
on the order of the cross.

Red X's line the wall;
wall of dancing blood.

Fear not, they cry!
Fear not.

Our souls march of to war.
Our blood cries out for war.
cruel bastard war!

Thursday, September 22, 2011


It's a back door
It's a front door,
while the dog's door
is our running around
looking for its dog.

She came through
the front door,
catching me
washing blood
off the back door.

She questions
my fascination
with bloody doors
and sends me
out looking
for the dog's door.

She has never understood
my fascination with doors;
Doors she keeps locked,
hiding away my fascination;

keeping my back
squarely back up
against her door.

without emotion, oceans would fail.
it is as simple as that.
yes, as simple as that.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


It's a load of crap.
All of it.
From the preachers
standing at their pulpits
promising salvation,
to  the politicians telling us
to kiss their sweet ass
because their sweet asses
are in a special class.
Pass the collections plate.
The more we pour into those
collection plates
the better our chances at
those pearly gates.
Souls bought and paid for
with a few dollars
most of us can ill afford.
Don't be cheap now,
or you'll be eating grass
and kissing the devil's ass.
Then, there are those politicians
standing up there
at the million dollars podiums,
doing their best to impress
all those young female voters;
fucking as many as they can
while their wives
look the other way, pretending.........
Politicians not troubled, at all,
about the sad state of affairs
this country is in, while
so many of their people
are living out of garbage cans.
we, the people, are damn angry,
and the politicians don't give a damn!
Well, they can take my vote
and stick in up their sweet ass!

Monday, September 19, 2011


The dead have no say,
and they keep saying it
in the most peculiar ways;

Wait for our eyes to close,
sneak in our heads
and teach us the most
sad games to play.

Or creep into our beds,
make us shiver and wither
in the most damnable way.

Death and dead live to die.
They've had their say.
Stay out of their way.

poetry is to be savored slowly
enjoyed through each nerve ending
each verse a life of its own
developing inside of us
something beautiful to grow

savor your poetry slow

Friday, September 16, 2011


As we sit around
licking our wounds,
waiting for the
the next shoe to drop.

Thunder can be heard.

It's as if the world
has moved on
and left us to muddle
in our own little
make believe worlds.

There is a song
about this,
sung by the wind.

The song
has no words.

And the melody
smells of death.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


Dancing with the devil,
as if death
were the answer
to all life's problems.

As if life
were a curse
with no answers
to any of life's problems.

Dancing with the devil.
A dance step
out of touch with reality.

Monday, September 12, 2011


I always had this need
to be something,
something new.
But, I am old
and there is nothing new
about being old,
except for the nightmares.
No, the nightmares are not new,
They are as old as the hills
this old bag of bones,
and this old burnt out town.
And we have to ask ourselves
why in hell we hung around
and let his old town
drag us down with it.

At night we hear the moaning.
Even the wind cries its discontent,
and we think we are the ones

There is a man, down on the corner,
waving a bible at us,
promising us to save our souls,
but our souls were smart enough
to leave this dying mess
long before the moaning started;
long before this old town
even knew it was dead.

Saturday, September 10, 2011


This blond hellion
walks up to me,
shakes her fist at me,
and accuses me of the most
horrendous atrocities.

I catch the A bus
to the first atrocity,
and discover it's only
a long dead poet
with his nose in a twist,
having missed his last
two dead lines.

We go out for beer
and reminisce about hellions
and missed dead lines.

The hellion shows up
and accuses the dead poet
of adultery.

With a shake of her fist,
she leaves us to our beer
and takes the bartender
to the back room
for some show and tell.

I have a hot dog with relish.
Dead poet passed on the hot dog
and had another beer.

Bartender came back,
from the back,
looking beat, but with a smile.

We don't know where
the hell the hellion went,
but she paid for our beer.  

Tuesday, September 6, 2011


You may have anything you want,
unless it's something you need.
Or, something you think you need,
along with want you want.

Having been satisfied
with eating green grapes,
I fully realize it's much,
much too late to take it all back.

Indignant, are we?

Suffice it to say, each dog has its day,
or days, depending on whose balls it licks.

This will all be misconstrued
as some elaborate joke, unless
you have no taste for the finer things

I have been wound a little too tight,
which reflects badly on my bad posture,
and the fact I have no clean underwear.

Everything is in jeopardy.

Jovial fools all; thought they could walk
before they could crawl.
Ending up in congress to screw us all.

I'm a three toed devil,
and I've eaten all the green grapes.

Saturday, September 3, 2011


Alright then.
                    Alright then.

He gives her the finger.

          She grabs it,
                      snaps it cleanly.

His screams echo
            through our heads
       and out the door.

      Now, he whimpers,
                         as if his middle finger

           has just been broken,
 which, of course,
                                   it has.

           She tips back a beer.

and the sun sets.

Soon, tomorrow will arrive.

He hopes she'll be out of beer.


Friday, September 2, 2011


Cultural suicide
Massive social unrest
with fear
mutual enemies
sing our demise
the eagle cries