One lavender morning…

•January 16, 2017 • 1 Comment

… mist crept into a gala,

so pure, and when I am

alone, I remember this,

I think of it, and I picture

my father, in shorts,

picking lilacs in the

backyard, and I think

of their smell, and smile,

and move, and I sing

the praise of others,

even when I am untrue,

it brings with it a

sense of greater good,

of masterful moments,

and my tears aren’t

as salty then; morose

and steeped in fear;

no matter then, no one

mattered then, so I

hold it higher still,

among the last ones

I plan to keep with me,

this and her face, this

and her face in the sun,

that is my finality,

thank you for this poetry.

The Crucible and the Can of Worms

•January 12, 2017 • 1 Comment

… and there it sat, atop a hill on high,

a light, brigand of sultry encounters,

perhaps more than a suited salt of

slanted mayhem, my world a bean,

strung along aside it, but then circling,

soaring inside the lofty of wind lofts,

an albatross, carrion crawlers of peak

and valley hid, the sun piqued above

the piquant paste, a sweet dialect of

magistrates and maniacs, covering

my head I insisted to my guide that

the time had risen, and the birds were

there for us, shoving my hand about

my bag, I groped sinister, but I only

found a rose that a nun gave me one

morning, and then without the grace

of note, a swoop-winged, angry bird

pushed us towards the valley bottom,

and my guide gushed the reddest of

blood, which I slipped in as I stood

to run; moving along the widest plane

I had ever seen, the albatross hovered

above, I heard the wings sonic as I

called for help, but like it was all a

dream or a curse from the heavens,

the bird trailed away, leaving me to

wander alone; my guide dead; I sang

this song to a barroom maiden one

night in spring, but being a baroque

beauty, her swill swollen tongue only

spoke in verbs, so the can of worms

open’d, and a new story wrote itself,

leaving the crucible untouched again.


If you like this poem, consider checking out my poetry chapbooks on Amazon. Thanks for reading!

Hearty Hearts Effusive and Loud

•January 3, 2017 • Leave a Comment

“Woe to you,” vagrant old-timer,

shame for your ways, where a

bottle of wine suits you more

than a system that hates you;

your body scarred, time bitter

and world weary, grip it close

to your chest, your life will

soon find a star to collapse on,

your heart warm by your will,

strength to conjugate, mankind

forgotten, leather and sour ale,

you’re your own hero, even if

no one sees you rotting in the

street, filled with booze; love

and solace you have, worry

and misery for them; a quarter

is just one step towards more

warmth, to heaven and your

god, held in her hands, you

can recall, blistered and sad,

busty and beautiful, she will

take your heart and mend its

tears, while your concrete bed

may act hard, you know your

freedom is better than a life

with them; drink it all, there

will always be more, life is a

limitless bottle of drink, use it.

New Year’s Gaiety

•December 31, 2016 • 1 Comment

If you don’t know the rules,

make them up;


it’s as hard as a penny,

and cruler than

a old, angry man,


but the purple mountain

glow, never stopped me

from trying,


but it stopped you,



Here’s a rhyming part:


In a light, tripping



I will wince, and

I will wonder,


forever in the sink,

we circle the drain,


stand in false sense,

and shovel our pain.


Back to this:


In wilting time,

I watch from a silly



the _  key on my keyboard

doesn’t work,


but I am contented by

its willingness to

express in silence.


I lied, the “m” key

does work; I would

worry if you wondered.


Take my hand this next

time, and we can fire


our stove with

coal and bunting,


in a passive role,

the dog will play

Richard Burton,


though I am drunker

than him, his clarity


surpasses; even you.

Trust the Cosmos; Fall from Grace

•December 28, 2016 • Leave a Comment

I stared at a quasar, along the Western sky,

my friend had stolen a bottle of booze, the

alarm was sounded, loudly he rifled, in a

casino, cigarettes over-priced, my money

too precious, my freedom maligned, but

just a moment in time, a blaze, base, best

friend, lost in paschal, schadenfreude, sky-

light in broad flight, and I walked as fast

as I remember, running from his face, his

bottle half empty; I’m not a thief; I’m not

going to jail for your problem; move quick,

manage yourself, baby bastard, cancer run;

we had trench coats in the sixth grade, in

the darkest of moments, I knew him, I felt

his heart, so sad and supple, a meat to

feast, a feigned silence, and his fat body:

the truest of all; do or deign, a purple, silk

shirt resting on your corpse, walking among

my family, a tragic caliber, too strong for

me, for us, like everyone else, stolen by

the thirst for drugs, for I, a language tank,

filled up with books and fear, watched each

winter as they all froze to death in the cast

of a plum grove, circle center, gangrene and

bear traps; fuck you, I will never forget.


EDIT: If you have the time, please check out my poetry chapbooks on Amazon. They are all self-published. Thank you, friends!

Morning; City; Wonder and Blood

•December 22, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Fresh cuts in the winter’s cold

hurt more than Hemingway’s

saddest flash fiction; in a burnt

out strip-shadow I waited for

the bus and wondered how

long it will take for the blood

to finally freeze, lest I will

have to use my coat, not a

solution, not in probate, not

in the misery of pain; sour

and pale, a woman asked for

the time, all I can see is bottles

of booze, and dreams of fur

wrapped tents, filled with sex

and Babylonian women, I am

the Sultan of greater purpose,

even if it’s not proper; “7:05”

I say to her, and she asks for

a light. I quit, and I tell her

that; it’s foreboding and swept

like hair, like my hair, which

I kept in a bag after I had a

ponytail as teenager, and she

continues to talk, the tunnel

of wind propulses cold and

without purpose, I look down

at my hand, the blood, at last,

finally gel; I ask the woman

for a bandage, she exhales smoke

from her long white cigarette and

says she isn’t a nurse, the bus

pulls up and she walks away.

Skyscrapers Like Monuments to Us

•December 16, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Nothing makes me happier,

sang a crying widower; once,

upon a treetop, I saw her

heart, her tears stained my

hand, and then she disappeared,


like this bottle, like a whisper,


and I sat alone under that tree,

toothless and happy, because

I fell so far for her, and now,

when I’m darkened, I can see her,

again in this light, pure; true;


like paint on a rail, and my


wrinkles pour out, reverb

and candles, like it was when

we met; 1965; our skies colored

the same tint, patrons of crass,

love, and saints of genuflection,


our shadows stand as giants in time


but then is never again, and my

beloved is a grassy spot in a field,

how does it end like this? Metal

tastes cold when it’s snowing,

long last, my love, at long last.