The Other Side is Still Here

•March 21, 2017 • Leave a Comment

There’s never funerals, only parsed words,

comely and light; we fragrant few, listen

to each other, through cheesecloth, words

bold on screens, irregular wanderers, like

pulp, our family pretends, it dragons and

puffs, chained to the radiator, where my

eldest brother still lives, persecuted by a

tripping light and wain, his soul masked

by matronly guilt, brick and mortar walls,

an attic of panic, but I always get the call,

then there’s no funeral, reasons like spring,

when it rains and doesn’t, and rains, then

flowers grow, then they die, like morning

dreams, symphonies of birds, resting here,

so I visit cemeteries, I bereave my losses,

for people that I don’t know, because like

my being, their death is simply the same, a

life where no one close, ever has a funeral.

Hot Milk Drunk on Mind

•March 17, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Not a moment too soon, and I wrote

poems in my sleep, with a swan baby

and potion of magic, a wingéd math

equation ate its weight in pi, a sight

like a lake on fire, like a daft dilly

in suit of burgundy, laughing in jest

at an old man’s penis, shriveled and

and skunky, intrepid and lord-like;

stuffed with pimentos, the pig man

pushed the coward to the ground,

and moment’s before, I dreamt in

rhyme, vomit bat, crashed a tat, borne

of fire and liquid desire, but I stopped

the madness, when an irregular verb

showed me his new hat, like sweat,

like sweet, like Auden in spring,

like moss and circumference, rotund

and rigid, valiant and firm, the brink

of madness, entwined with pepper

and verbosity, I felt the fan’s cool

air brush my face, move my eyelash,

and I stepped into the nonsense world –

life is color – I splashed the hot water.

It’s in the Grapevines

•March 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment

In a hurry, life a bullet, trance-

like, dance-like, in a trauma,

like whirlwind, winos crying,

massive losses, grosses point

blank sips of whisky trips and

wonder gimps, produce wind;

our side, inside, out side, one

place, “police van,” intrusive

and obtusive, like incantations,

this invocation, a solid link

to mossy plantations, and asp

laden places, for junk in sink

is a lapsed blink, and I wince

every time a word rhymes,

out of time, out of rhymes,

then it ends; bullets flung in

a fury, a glory of godless men,

heathens to prosper, to wrist

sink, sip link, stiff eats, and

the gutter is nice, soon too

late, a last wish, more, more

lore, whore, inept, effectuate,

a list of spring flowers, seeds

for best, better, best, and the

sun blacks out, drunk again,

following the hobo, guttered.

New Poetry Chapbook

•March 15, 2017 • Leave a Comment


•March 10, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I will not lament, or languish in sad days,

sandy dunes or watery graves, inside a

tulip’s petals or outside of a windy bar,

for when the when was less than then,

and I was a speck inside of a flyblown

grin; nor will I rhyme on purpose, for a

once again man, trying to incite, that

which is the cruelest, that which alarms

us and scars us; see shores on fire, and

towns asunder? no… no patron of anger

can tempt my danger, nor shred my

trust, for once among us, we shared a

love like brothers, but now I wonder,

where it has gone, and yet the mother,

once a maven of disaster, hangs ever

on, like a shattered mirror, blunt and

torn; no, I will not rhyme for you, I will

not make a song out of your lessons, no

past nor present, names careful and instant,

no rhyme good enough for you; this:

a tale I won’t sing again, past your

sailor’s cap and bound to a shattered

man’s last, dying breath blowing wind

into your ear, my call to hear, blatant

and windswept, you’ll crawl like the

maggot, in the eyes of death, a cupid

of pain, arrows always sharp and blamed,

before I stray into the bullet’s path,

again, or ever again, the mess is left,

once more, in the door, darkened whore.

Life, After All

•February 17, 2017 • Leave a Comment

It’s a fatal flaw, and she weeps blood

of loss; tears so sweet, ants collect in

a wonderful passive line, they wait in

patience, for a drip drop drip; in moon

light night, a scared moment in wane,

a captive truncation, in valleys deep,




no bodies to speak of,

but the lasting hush, of breath and pyre,

struck down like thin walls, pale and

wanton, succumbing to motions, afar

she cries out, the village nearby, among

many who don’t hear; still the narrow

time breaks through, and the gilding

continues to paint the ground, a deep

red like no other, and the storm cleans

her face, and the brooding insects all

seek refuge, in their holes,



but time isn’t friends with man, so the

last moment isn’t recorded, and like

the day of her birth, she returns silent,

into the great mourning after, saccharin

sweet, her memory fades, and a tree

dots her death, for this is life after all.

Friday Writing Pinball; 2004

•February 7, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I started when it was dark, and I told the truth,

when I should have described it instead, I hear

every teacher I ever had, writing classes taught

me self-loathing habits, a full focus on how to

be yourself, while others misinterpret, and all


I am left with is a stack of papers, connected at

the corners by mismatched staples, or would it

be better to tell you how they smelled; I could,

but you’ve smelled paper, not imagine out loud.


If practice perfects you, then the more exposition

ensures a kill, Bambi, heart writing, explodes

in the reader’s mind, stimulating their neurons,

or something else, I didn’t research it, so now


I look like a hack; so here’s an allusion: chop

me down to size, so here’s a reason to forgive:

cliched love, notice I didn’t accent it? I’m not

sure any of them are proud, even if they were


they were all writers too, so telling another

writer you like them and their work, without

having some bullshit to sell of your own, puts

you in a bad situation, teachers suffer from


this the most; agenda-heavy assholes, ready to

criticize when they know less than you, unless

they don’t, then you are the asshole, and really,

aren’t we all assholes? No ending… this is art.


*Please note: This is not from 2004, and I didn’t proofread it.