Archive for November, 2013


November 30, 2013

A motion repeated as he read
seated in the cushioned library chair
getting to his feet
speaking slow in a voice like John Wayne’s
he’d say
“Is that true?”
and chuckle
“Is that true?” he’d sit back down
cross his legs, rise again
“Is that true?” ha ha ha
sometimes adding
“I can’t believe it.”

In his blue jeans and work boots
his Lakers tank top, gray-haired
his accent at odd with Asiatic features
what about this truth
was so difficult to accept
I had to wonder and wait
for more to become clear,
but standing once more
he said or read,
which I do not know,
“New York, Cleveland, Chicago, Detroit,”
and that’s when the librarian came
asked him to keep it to himself
as not to disturb others
now what could possibly be
so impossible to believe
in Janet Evanovich’s Sizzling Sixteen
is forever obscured from me


Senza Grazie

November 28, 2013

lactating crimson for a demonic brood
that carnivorously sucks
an unquenchable hunger
in its bones and deeper
greedily latched
pointed teeth interlocked around the bleeding prize
no creamy white, dreamy white this
no symbolism of mother’s milk –
the vital force flowing
from progenitor to offspring –
this is the real thing
deep red, profondo rosso
for the throat
no special glands required
no relationship, no thanks
pure giving, direct
a blood sacrifice
death of one to the heart of another
its given to the last, remorselessly…

Rinse and Repeat

November 26, 2013

We are gods
each of us
trapped in our solipsistic dreaming
lone knives
incising a surgical course through life
as many worlds as there are people
tight bubbles contained
bumping and bobbing in the frothy surf
making our tiny tide pool decisions
alone in our microcosm
others drift past
pissing their own legacy into snowdrifts
but forget them
you are the only thing that is real
all differing realities part, collapse and fade
as you machete your way through the jungle
slashing dense foliage
stamping down earth
shaping all that is and ever will be
putty in your hands
Adam in your hands
a paradise created
a paradise lost – no –
a paradise destroyed
on a fruity whim
apples, cocks and quim
blame the bitch for your failings
it’s all right
the universe is yours
to do with and make excuses
as you please
for you are god
and the world and what you make of it
are yours and yours alone
you’re trapped with it
to keep, to have, to hold, to own
it’s yours, god
your fucked up world
treasure this foul vanity of the selfish mind
wallow in what you’ve made
clay turned to shit
options are out
no wise decisions come
out of directions except one
rinse and repeat


November 23, 2013

Midland Prose

Scatter my sunshine like fungal spores over tilled fields
Scatter my goodwill like virus along city streets
idyllic nature and urban blight alike
distort the song in my heart out of tune
pharmaceutical advertisers promise me a way
to set the melody straight and in key
but I obsess upon hate and whiskey
the tune I wish to sing drowns
chokes out in sweet tobacco
what they’ve got the liquor stores got better
Scatter my smiles, my caress and exploration
Scatter it miles, in duress and extermination
city mouse and country rat are friends
an unholy alliance setting unavoidable traps
inescapable temptations for Homo Parasitica man
who grows his nightmares in the compost of wasted dreams
who nurtures future generations in iron age bullshit
who forgets future melody in death metal cacophony
as I struggle onward in an attempt to
Scatter my hatreds that coalesce in darkened bars
Scatter my…

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Set Them Straight

November 22, 2013

Those with money
in their hearts
cannot be swayed
by appeals to compassion

Reverse alchemy
is the best coercion

Replace the gold
set in their chest
with a kiss of hot lead
and then you’ll see
them set straight

Shakespeare at Dawn

November 20, 2013

bite me morning
fresh dawn
ice in my bones
steam on the river
book heavy bag
slung from shoulder
verbose encumbrance
in a single bounded volume
Shakespeare’s complete works
frosted breath
leaky nose
hot under knit cap
sweat beneath the layers
burning up, wet
in winter’s attire
boiling in rime
shoes soaking through
all blind white light
sun-blasting hungover eyes
smoke burnt lungs
inhaling frozen air
the walk
the weight
the cold
the morning
all the usual terrors
suddenly compounded or forgotten
snarling derangement across the lawn
black dog
a wingless needle-toothed bat
bent on attack
paws punching snowy crust
wolf blood maddened by the season
the hunt on bipedal unfleet prey
unable to run
braced for it
no fight or flight choice
no to be or not to be
fight and be
be and fight
the killer makes her leap
bard-bearing bag swings
on the up arc
under handed
barrel into belly
a frantic gnashing squeal of animal
tumbles and sprawls
a dark angry cloud
cutting an indifferent expanse of white sky
it flees
proffering a parting bark
to where I stand
victorious and Elizabethan

Seized by Days

November 18, 2013

Never seize the day
to do so is to restrict it
keep it from moving
when you choose to carpe diem
you imprison the day
arrest it in its development

Prevented from fulfillment
the days stagnate
become islands of trash
collected on still sea waters
all progress is halted
because you
in your fear
in your selfishness
refuse to release the days to flourish
to grow
to become more
than stale crackers in the pantry

The day is not your slave
the day is not yours to order and command
it belongs to everyone
but you
vainly and meanly
would deign to stick it in a box
package it and wrap it
stick on a gift tag to yourself

To make of the day a personal possession
is the peak of tragedy
as your days slip by
the ones once seized become liabilities
too many days to hold onto
the weight of them crushes you down
smashes you to the ground
presses you deeper into it
until you are buried
buried by accumulative days
beneath this pressure you cannot move
the days have their revenge, finally
seizing you

Cut Rate

November 16, 2013

When it’s a good day to cut out our tongues
I’ll give you a call and tell you
we can spend the afternoon that way
and wash down the beer with our blood
from then on
to each other we’ll be bound
walking down the street with one another
the people we pass will say “there’s those guys with no tongues”
as you are probably well aware
that’s not the sort of stigma a man’s much likely to escape
the main problem is
I’ve always had too much to say
and no matter how good the day
I doubt it will be ever good enough
some small fault
like a breeze from the east
an errant flap of a flag or
the shadow of a hawk across a peach
and I’ll decide
a better day will come
not a good one, but perfect
that’s what you want to wait for
and just like that
our glossectomy stops short
and we babble on
under the sun
a perfect day made only so by another tale to tell
the beer washes down words
off the tips of our pink wet tongues
keeping us apart
divisible individuals
separate in the gaze of others
we walk down the street


November 14, 2013

They want things
they want for us to feel
as they want us to
to control and dictate thought
parents they want preoccupied
by age and death
a ticking bomb countdown
to a time when today’s children
are elderly
and all others passed
it’s simple to control emotion
a phrase on a packet of photos
it says, “This year’s smile –
captured forever,”
because the boys and girls will grow
cold in their graves
old in their joints and bones
swallowed in loose skin
bent double by aches
but photographs age too
yellow and curl
color fades, lines blur
faces turn to featureless ghosts
there is no such duration
as forever
the children don’t get it
mom and dad don’t get it
the pictures don’t get it
eternity is a mermaid
illusory, unreal
a mistaken perception askew
murky under waves
senses are deceived
endless existence is non-existent
to entertain it is more folly
than sticking your prick up a fish

Dragon Tale

November 12, 2013

Short of stature
scales of a light pinkish hue
with a shriveled organ dangling between
his face more like a pigs
hands – bony claws
wings that flapped proud
madly beating the air
but impotent
when it came to getting aloft
not a great looking specimen
to be sure
he possessed none of the majesty, grace or daring-do
the dragons of the ancient tales bore
but make no mistake
for a dragon he was
drooling acid and venom
belching clouds of noisome black smoke
spitting here and there a stray spark
but most of all hording gold
and hating everyone but himself
his name – Grolpa
which in high Dragonese
meant “anti-social drama queen,”
it was not a proud appellation
yet it certainly suited him well
society he despised
where friends and neighbors gathered
he sought destruction
parks closed, libraries reduced to rubble
if there was any better sight for his eyes
than a condominium development
where children once laughed and played,
then he had no idea what it was
a vain, pale, porcine dragon
where people were hungry
there he was to mock their pangs
where people were sick
there he was to watch them die
he liked them sick and dying
he liked them underpaid and overworked
he liked them without recourse
doomed to a life of grim acceptance
and that’s how the people lived
day after day after year after century
on and on they went
accepting their lot
because what else was there for it
dragons are dragons
and dragons are how dragons have always been
and will remain
lest from amongst the people
a dragonslayer arises
to do the job the voters are unable