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

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.