Saturday, December 22, 2012

Your love is a holy river
That cleanses me.
In which I can bathe
Or get swept away
And carried to a new place.

I give myself to this river,
And in a mantra
Of three simple words
My soul is separated
From my body
And meets with yours.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Gun Control

You hold on to it like you'll loose.
But don't squeeze it too hard
Or else it might just go off
And we'll have one big mess.
It's just boys and your toys.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Portrait Of The Nude

Although you saw me on that first night
Naked as the day I was born,
The body you saw was that of a man,
But still in possession of the innocence
And the vulnerability of youth.
And with my clothes removed,
You saw only part of what I have to offer.
And in a slow, seductive striptease,
you will see the layers I have yet to remove
Vanish, and in time, you will see
My heart laid bare beating in my chest.
With every drop of blood pulsing in veins,
They carry your breath fueling my body.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Cookie Season

It's cold outside but we don't care
Because we have that oven going.

The it is that time of the year
To make something nice and
I know that sweet tooth of yours
It's aching.

Let's whip up the batter
As we melt like butter.
We can take turns licking up
Whatever is left on the spoon.

There's no time wasting
Because we've got all night
And the snow keeps falling harder.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Most people don't realize that ghosts can't be seen
They really aren't a specter a being, or the voice to a feeling;
Not the voice, but the feeling itself.

And these ghosts do haunt:
They come out in the words of the legend,
In the ink of iconography of the spirit,
And the etching of the acid soaked lithograph.
Sometimes they come as the rattling of a chain
Unlocking the gate to an old mansion,
Or under sheets with eye-hole stains
That cover furniture once alive with use,
Or even in the particles of dust that lie dormant
Until a curious new mind comes and kicks it up
With a seance, to have their heart aflutter in candlelight
And try to peak behind the chains
And underneath the dust and sheets
To try to see what's on the other side.

Little Heart-Shaped Candies

We've made something so sweet
It'll rot your teeth
And fatten you up
Until the doctor takes your feet.

If I Could Just Reach Out

I look over at you on your sleepy island stranded
And I wish I could swim over to you from mine
But the gap is too wide and I don't want to risk
Awakening a Great White shark or a Colossal squid
Or some other maritime beast of larger than life stature

So I try to get you to arouse enough to notice
But you don't understand my semaphore
And the banners I run get lost in the glaring sunlight
And my voice is too faint to yell and too far to be heard
But I could turn to matches and start a fire
So maybe you can smell the smoke and see the flame
My burning may be hasty and poses risk of consuming
My everything of a life aging on this island deserted but I
But to see you I wish to remain free from flames scorching
Because they sear quicker than the Sun
Who has helped in hiding my blushing face in your brilliance
But it is now the Moon who I am relying to open a path
Hidden by tides a sandbar on which we can meet
And embrace until the sea douses our dawning bodies.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

O Beckon Unto Me

Like my time spent outside in this season,
        My thoughts get more brief,
Yet my words still give shelter
--Warm & Inviting.

A Broken Cane and Discount Glasses

The poor man who counts on
      The bonds and stocks of other people
Is the fool for not buying more into himself.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

The vigor of this generation has been lost.
Thoughts have gotten in the way of action.

Monday, November 5, 2012

"Deer Tracks"

"Beautiful, sobbing, high-geared fucking
and then to lie silently like deer tracks
in the freshly-fallen snow beside the one
      you love. That's all."

When I Had A Child's Mind

In my youth,
I lived for God, country, and family.
Now I have turned my back
On God and country,
And all that I live for
Has scattered and expanded
Like this aging universe.

Real Things

A couple whose modest lives require frugality.
They are talented in their professions,
Have pleasant dispositions, and humble backgrounds.
Unlike the company they keep,
Their paychecks are meager pennies needing pinching.
Token perpetrators in their circle of friends,
However, never treated any differently;
Expected to keep up with high-living,
They were never given charity,
But they never felt ashamed.

A night after some event in an old brick mansion,
Historically located in a presently poor neighborhood
From which, they live only several blocks away.
It is not economic to drive that night,
And their two-door, rusted with paint chipping POS
Would not fit the scheme of cars valeted into security.
So the husband, in his thrift store suit still looking sharp,
And the wife, in her grandmother's vintage dress
Flashing an eloquent past, walk that night home.

Flirting with the breeze, airy on cocktails,
Ears fill with sweet nothings and rapid breath.
They tie each other to with their arms.
Lips locking and unlocking as they sway.
Their eyes spent more time reflecting each other
Than watching their path, it was no surprise
That they didn't see shadows cast from behind
Or hear quick steps approaching, or even
Put their arms up in surrender quickly.
But no matter, the encounter, from start to end,
Lasted only a fraction of a moment.
Her faux gold and precious gem necklace taken,
And his wallet filled with food stamps ripped off,
They were not stirred or shaken, simply glad
They were spared any real harm,
They giggled on the way home, find humor
In how little was actually taken
And how little it actually mattered.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

When they woke, white was all they saw.
Anesthetic sleep causes an unnatural darkness.
A body disabled, traps the mind and binds it
Further in the depths of their consciousness.
Holding faint candlelight kindled by memories
And that  deeper-sounding voice the mind possesses.
They have temporarily stepped out of the physical,
And facing the complexities of their existence,
They seek familiarity in an exotic location.

The voices they hear sound faint,
Mumbles and whispers, of insignificant
Little conversations echoing in the void
Of cognizance; they make little sense
Only in cadence and intonation---
Most likely originating from remembrance,
But one is unsure of the permeable nature
Of this state of mind and the physical world.

Their vision is hazy and confused with imagination.
The eyes think they see a flicker in the distance
As if there were few stars on the horizon
The size of the candlelight they feel warming their chin.
They want to go towards the light and think to walk,
Instead they feel they are floating, but no matter
How far they perceive they go, they never gain distance
And the flickering never comes closer.
The only thing left is to hear their thoughts.

Whiteness taking the eyes in such a way
Shocks them back into the world, forgetting
Their dream state. It's almost a sensation
Not unlike that of birth, they feel lighter
With life to live, spared a moment of crisis
And a piece of that darkness explored
And cut out of their worries and replaced
By a little candlelight.

Thursday, November 1, 2012


My pen is:
Easy to hold,
And Devious.

But it has run dry.
Can I dip in your well?

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Twenty-something post-adolescent kids
Pretending they're chemists
Pouring substances into their body,
Combusting until their lungs go black.
"Let me test my hypothesis."
Down this bottle.
Light these leaves.

They're trying to find the formula of youth.
Well they found it.
They found it in the inability to grow up,
Consider their mortality and their fallibility,
Consider their society and what they model,
What they contribute.

They all have jobs, have gotten haircuts,
But there aren't moments in which they:
Hate where they are,
Feel their regrets,
Ashamed of what they have become,
Believing there is no way to change.

Still, they haven't concluded
Conducting their experiments.
No realizing, they have found
What they sought.
They'll keep going,
Until their flasks are cracked
And their Bunsen burners burn-out.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

A boy born with a rain cloud
Perpetually over his head,
Now a man content in the gloom.

With his scowl laden face
People asked constantly,
"Are you alright?"
And with a spit and a half-smile
He's just nod and walk away.

Despite his outward conditions,
He knew happiness in bad weather.
Never in the Sun's shine,
The overcast was all he had,
And he was accustomed to his world
Viewed through grey-tinted glasses.

There was even a girl, born on Christmas
Into a world frigged yet warm.
Her eyes reflected the twinkling in the dark,
And this she carried with her all her life.

In the gloomy haze, the boy would walk
Without an umbrella as his cloud poured;
He ended droughts and never grew thirsty
On these walks that benefited everyone
But himself and his soggy shoes.

On a Winter's day he walked.
A patch of rain fall that never froze
Following the man down the road;
Among the snow fall he felt warm.
The sound of precipitation pulsing
Against his eardrums was met by song
Sung by a girl caroling for her birthday.
He stopped, soaking, he listened.
Their eyes met, and although
She never stopped singing
And he never stopped scowling
She knew he was alright,
And the reflection from her eyes
Shone in his. For a moment,
The rain had ceased to pour.

When that moment of understanding
Passed, her song had stopped
And he let out expectoration
As a drizzle accelerated into a storm.
She saw this, let out a hum
Produced an umbrella, and sang
To the strumming of his heartstrings
As they continued along the same path,
Sharing shelter and warmth.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Pull out a serrated blade
And jam it your head.
Remove the cap,
And spill out your guts.

Draw two triangles for eyes
And a knock-out some teeth.
Sit on a stoop with fiery breath
Until your flesh turns rotten

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Major Life Choices

He came into this world,
Looked Death in the face,
And spit-up on the Reaper's cloak.

A smack on the ass without a cry,
His cooing was an ornery sign
Of life with his terms and conditions.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

This moment is real
Your clean and sober
But, God, what you wouldn't do
For a drink right about now.

You're looking ahead,
And past the drop,
There is nothing but space.
You have two choices:
Continue to float,
Or crash upon impact.

You choose the latter,
Because man can fly
For only so long.
So smoke 'em if you got 'em
And brace yourself
For the next step.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Birthday Suit Dry-Cleaning

Half well-worn and half dapper,
I feel comfortable in my skin
As I carry my body with ease.

             And when my Long Day is through,
             I will hang up my suit, lay down,
             And have a nice


Ode To My Friend

Hello my neighborhood pusherman
You're always there on your corner,
Keeping me going with that stuff you sell.
Substances you push gives me a little shove
That helps me through my day.

You push those uppers in the morning,
Just a little bit of an eye opener.
You push those uppers in the evening,
Just so I can last through the night.
You push those uppers in between,
For every other occasion.

It is the caffeine in my coffee
That you provide at dawn.
It is the nicotine in my mouth
That stifles my nightly yawns.
It is the fuel in my tank
That feeds my engine's maw.

Although you are not special
---Your kind is ubiquitous
In our addiction-riddled society---
But you still smile and say,
"Hey Buddy! What's up?"
With a wink and a nudge.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Learn Yr Children Well

The Wanting Parent, egoist.

A man or woman,
                            aware of
Their confidence in their ability
To be models of responsibility
In rearing their brood.
Success in their seminal investment
Should come with interest
In their own flaws, and application
Of lessons in self-improvement
When interacting with their child.
They have to have as much regard
For the unborn potential, as they do
For the sacredness of Death and resting

You should know when enough-is-enough.

Think about this when you protect
And propagate.

Monday, August 13, 2012

With the lights off and candles lit,
an orange haze filled the room.
Scents of salts and oils,
Lavender and vanilla,
Filled her nose and put her at ease.
In an instant the world was lifted
And her shoulders straightened
With its blades flying back
Giving her breastbone a crack
---Like a single knock on the door
That keeps her heart guarded.
It startled her to the point at which
She flew up her hand
And placed its fingers at the origin
Of the thunderous sound.
Her palm cushioned on the inside
Of her right breast, inclining her hand,
Straightening, and directing its digits
To that snapping piece of armor.
She found no chinks there.

Again at ease, she lowered
Into the source of the haze:
A cauldron of potion brewed in hopes
To cure all that ails her tender and bruised
Body and soul, taken in an act of purification.
As her feet slowly sank to the bottom
They drew the rest of her into the bath.
Her skin, seared by the water
Little-by-little, slowly, while gasping in silent prayer.
Her pores opened, creating a vacuum
In which all stress flows out one direction,
And endorphins flow in another;
Occurring until the valves shut,
And her body had settled,
Sufficiently flooded with pleasure.

Submerged, red-skinned, and smirking,
Feeling longer as her body decompressed.
The dead world with which she burdened herself
Slowly faded from her short-term memory,
Allowing a flow of thoughts reflecting
The physical pleasures of her own sphere.
Her hair dipped further into the water
As she succumbed to remembrances
Of lovers whom she had taken
And whom had taken she
As if in the act, there was nothing left
Of her to be found outside of the moment.
With these thoughts her perineum muscles
Flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed,
And just as the water drew out her stress,
Minute amounts of urine and ejaculate
Released from her body and into the bath
---The final ingredient in this brew,
One that dirties the bath
With purpose to be contrary.

When the water went cold
With no more room to run the hot.
No more topping off the night,
It was time to check out
And retire to a solid surface.
It was laborious to stand,
And when she did,
She felt reborn.
However, when the fluid was wiped
There was no smack on the ass
And there was no crying,
Just a slight smile shining
through the mist.

Monday, August 6, 2012

When I stopped talking to God
I found that I had little to say.
So used to bitching and wishing,
Hoping my words would fly up
And reach the deity's deaf ears,
I forgot how to talk to myself.

Leaving my spiritual nest,
I said, "So long!" to a father figure,
And I became my own angel:
With wings to take flight
And a moral compass
To find my way instead of wind
Blowing me in whichever direction.

My halo forged from chain-link fences,
I open the world to my Eden,
And show them that I've taken down
Barriers of ideology, tearing down
My holier-than-thou shroud,
Getting down to the dirt,
And let my blood and bones show,
Saying, "See? We aren't so different."

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Tattoos and a punk rock tee-shirt
Underneath a button-down, citizen uniform
---The prolonged death rattle of my youth
Making noise over a fast beat and short songs.
A last ditch, high pitched effort achieving
A sense of cohesiveness in this transitional time.
So take my hand as we slamdance into the sunset.

Friday, July 20, 2012

The most that I can do is create
And move for the improvement of this world.
Add to culture what it has been lacking:
All for those who will remain
And continue to remain.

Monday, July 16, 2012

At a quarter-century-old
She still believes in magic.
Standing at the edge
Of the forest, she pauses.
Afraid of what she might find
But could never possibly exist.
Ignoring the real danger, she persists
In believing the fairy tale dangers:
Witches brewing in modest hovels
And trolls, goblins, and gremlins--
Snatching souls and hatching schemes.
Yet this is reality, not her wild dreams.

So she must be her own hero.
Both a princess and a paladin--
Fairest in the land simultaneously
A bad-ass clad in armor and finesse.
Graceful in the dark and the light.
So mount up your highness,
And move with conviction.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

The Art of Writing Love Letters

Dear You,

Hello how have you been?
Let me talk about:
The sound of your voice
And how I miss it;
The things we have done
And the things we will do
(The Past, Present, & Future);
The scent of your hair;
The nape of your neck;
The shape of your legs;
An overwhelming longing.
This is what I write to you.



Wednesday, July 11, 2012

You wearing that picnic tablecloth
Sun dress, with polka dot ladybugs,
You say, "Let's create and on this earth,
Let's make our mark."
Throwing down our wine glasses, 
Turning stains into art among the shards.
There is beauty in your chaos.

With sunshine eyes you see what
Our time holds, cradling the present
Between arms of the past and future.

Proud of our surreal, visceral creation
You autograph with a signature smile.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Darlin you're no metaphor
Steeped in centuries of misogyny.
Not a delicate flower in need
Of the most demanding care.
No butterfly, wings pinned down
And matted, cataloged on the wall.
Not some elegant creature elusive
To the hunter, enshrined in nature,
An object of longing and conquest.
You're more than that.

You are resilient.
You have teeth and claws,
A sharp beauty.
No wings, but one helluva pair
of legs that carry you up and down
This country's roads, and yet stay
Rooted in love and family.
No flower, but a vine with tendrils
Hugging and moving along
Some of the most foreign of surfaces.
Graceful in nature and beauty.
But above all,
You are not a beast, a bug, or a plant.
Not a concept or an abstract.
You are human.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

Grounded Vacation

Come soak your toes with me
In this lazy river babbling,
While we laze about chatting,
Soaking up the Sun's sweet rays.

We grow green in each other's shade.
Our twisted roots, intertwined,
Curling up cozy by a spot of water
With just enough soil in the sand.

Oh! You and me honey nectar.
Oh, you and me with our little leaves,
Sweet on each other's sugar
Baked in enough breath and sun.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Life isn't just some jigsaw
Of a puzzle, waiting to be
Put together one rainy day.
It's more than that.

A mosaic of fragments
From other lives and works.
Falling in place after
One helluva storm.

Crafted with a little bit of care
And a whole lot of chaos. 
My brain shattered
On a hardwood floor,
I stop for a moment
To gather my thoughts

And hold each shard up
To the window pane
To let the light refract
Through, and thoroughly
See each chipped angle.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Taking such a hard hit last night,
You're still seeing stars in the daytime.
Spun around and woozy,
You're landlocked and seasick
On this waterbed, and not one
Piece of the fare kept in the hull
Of your bodily vessel.
So hoist the sails and set anchor,
You're gonna be stuck at port
A while longer.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

I knew a girl who
Moves like Japanese baseball
---The metaphors are intact
But it's so damn fast,
And I can't keep track
Of the plays made past.
The rules are a little different,
But you get the gist.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Santa Claus is not real.
There's no bunny with a basket.
No fairy with a pouch full of quarters and teeth.
And the only things going bump in the dark
Are your parents fucking in the next room.

Published first at Aberattion Labyrinth

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Never has his heart sank
As deep as it did than when
They turned out their light.
Dreams extinguished
At this crushing depth.
Before slumber he's left
Alone, tossing and turning.

Alone, his desire is burning.
That one of the light bearers
Hears his silent screams
Because in the dark,
There's nothing but silence
And ire under his breath.

And fire from his mouth
He keeps his own light
Shinning, warding monsters
Away, or maybe beconning
Towards, his bed tonight.
A sign for vacancy flickers
With those ominous letters:
N and O

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

We build up our days only so
They can fall at night alongside slumbering bodies.
We wade through the river of life
Although ultimately, we succumb to the current.
Strengthening our minds and souls constantly,
Yet we turn to dirt and dust in the end.
Striving for accomplishments and legacies
That will mean nothing when this rock dies.

This is our preference.

To toil and suffer one day,
Only to do it again the next
Knowing that occasionally
Something will shine
Through the darkness and
Lighten our load.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Carved Wooden Hearts

Baby I don't need no flash
Or anything like that.
Maybe just a little gloss
So we can make it last.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

It's when I break free
That I set fire to the sky
With sunset kindling
And a flint in my throat
To give it a spark
Against the heated steel horizon.

We break the glass silence
With hoots and hollers
Banging our leg drums
Against the blunt night, louder.
As we stomp and jump
Hot coals from hot wood.
Our dancing attracts attention
From wildlife, beckoned by
Our primal state when I sing
My songs always at night.

This is freedom found,
Glory be to our growls and belches.

The Beast and 1/2 of Death

"ain't no pussy
      like old pussy
              what know what it want
                           and love what it get"
     - b.a. green

Three volumes of the obscure words of some dirty old man, was enough to affirm me that you can continue being a smart ass, hedonist even in the shadow of death. Self-published volumes of assorted writings in your twilight years seems to make a statement saying, "I have lived the way I wanted to live, this is how I feel, and this is what I got out of living, learn from me, or at least be entertained from me." It is kind of an egotistical, self-imposed, life-of-the-party type of mentality, but in this instance, the bastard is likable and entertaining enough that no one seems to mind, and in fact, they seem enticed. Bernard A. Green seems to combine his love of black and blue comedy, twisting his love of the crude and sarcasm, with hints of feminism and philosophy, neatly packaged in lowercase letters and vernacular from half a century ago when things were still Modern.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Live Fast For The Moment Is Fleeting

The overhead projector in the back
Of the red, four-door compact,
Missing three of its ten transparencies;
What was a ten-point plan
Now down to seven.
The overhead's thrown to the front,
Among several pocket notebooks
Filled with scribbles.
He says he likes the simplicity
And human messiness
That is preserved
Through the analog keeping of information.
One brain with many tools,
Instead of two brains in symbiosis:
Human and the machine. He says,
There is too much room for error.
But, in reality it's just a frugal budget
Keeping him afloat poor,
In the four-door compact
With his tools of the trade.

She takes in the view
As well as him.
He told her he gave speeches
And presentations
Teaching people
About a better life.
Where he keeps his things,
She keeps child seats
And a bag full of snacks,
Band aids, and moist cloths.
She saw similarities
In the fact that they both
Were lecturers in their own right.

By the time they had ended
The clouds had moved
Exposing the orange orb
Of the Moon.
There was nothing magical,
They had met at a bar.
And in jest of the situation
She profoundly spoke
Over the soft sounds of a hat
Adorned with bells,
"The problem with love poems:
They're more about the idea
Than the subject."

Monday, May 7, 2012

Sometimes I think I'm real slick.
Everything's straight, in line,
Waiting to get knocked out.
I have a plan, some idea
Of what I want to do
And what needs to be done.
But now words cannot be found,
My arms limp like rubber not taut,
And my hands as soft as movie prop rocks.

You're presence and smile
Brighten up my grey day;
The one source of light
In which I find shade.
Thank you my friend
For slowing me down,
Showing me off
And introducing me around.

So maybe I'll stay for a while,
Kick off these weary boots,
And revise my ideas and plans.
It's time to chart a course
For a new place to take root,
Now that this plant's in the sun.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

When I send you a look
Of love, I wonder if you see.
The tender gaze
With a slight smirk and
Eyebrows raised.
These eyes I give you
When you give me
An attention grabbing caress
Down my spine, letting me know
You have my back.

Pictures of your pride
Act has brilliant beacons
Attracting the attention
Of this magpie.
I can't help but swoop down
With a song and squawk.

Sunday, April 29, 2012

It caught his attention
Like a shot in the distance.
The realization that it
Was finally over,
Overwhelmed him
Like the Sun moving
Across the daytime sky.
Slowly but,
With each moment
Passing, he gets
A little bit warmer.

Life is comfortable
In this well-deserved,
Aptly named,
Lazy chair.
Just sitting there
Waiting to be sat.

The next item
On this list of things
To-do and done:
"Toss out list"
With not a box
To be checked.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Swimming in a lazy daydream ocean,
Fed by a nine-hour tributary
Of nightly rest.
I now toss and turn in my head
And rock on my chair's hind legs
--My draft animal in bearing this load
Of my increasingly fatter ass.

Contented in my life,
I feel I've lost my drive.
Many muscles atrophied,
It's that time of the year
To get back up and ride.

Try again, with my new friend
In shaping something better.
Let's live healthier
And breathe happier.
Bask in this new atmosphere
With a little bit of haze
To block out the Sun
And give us some shade.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Great, Now My Other Ear Is Bleeding

Chained to this chair I sit
A junkie needing a fix for life.
Zoning into the soft blue horizon
With a thousand-yard stare,
Wishing with an itchy trigger-finger
That I could get my nerve up,
But frankly
I've had enough.

Wanting to bash my brains in
With this naked wall taunting
Me with its simplicity
Being fine with being barren.
But with my mashed up skull
I can pick through the bits of matter
And find the meaning like a jigsaw,
Putting together piece and piece
Getting the picture.
Finding connections with everything
Out in the open.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Buyer's Remorse

            When the shit was cleaned up, the blood wiped off, and the screaming had ceased, he got a good look at the little thing that came out of his wife. Newborns are never a pretty sight, the product of pain dancing with an epidural in the midst of crisis—Nero playing his anachronistic fiddle while Rome is up in smoke. However, he could just tell, this baby is going to be ugly, and will probably remain ugly. Such an assumption he begrudgingly made with guilt shooting through his chest.
            He asked himself how this could happen. His wife and him were by no means ugly people, coming from beautiful stock of ancestors with symmetrical features. This infant was the third begat from their union. Each sibling prior came out in a backdrop of glories, with angel trumpets, and cherub banners. Beautiful babies who will get by on talent and their looks. He loved their potential, speculating on the future. Yet, as much as he wished, and as hard as he tried, he didn’t think he could love this child in the same regards as its predecessors. Was he this shallow? He thought he wasn’t, but his dismay slowly grew into contempt with enough sunlight and water.
            Doctors and Nurses were congratulating him on such, “a beautiful baby.” Smug, lying, motherfuckers he thought of them. They were probably in the hallway snickering, while his wife was half-delirious in the relief from pain. The physicians knew he was going to provide for this child, keep it sustained in a world already competitive in over-population, like it was some sick joke. It couldn’t just be his eyes that were seeing this. He wished for his wife to be of able mind so he could say, “Look honey, look at this disgusting thing that came out of you,” but she was too relieved to think straight, so she saw double, swimming in hazy thoughts. And there he stood with this child he did not think he could love, rejected before it made any controversial life decisions. This wasn’t just some phase. Sometimes ugly ducklings grew into swans, but swans could be just as ugly.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

We're those things that go bump in the night.

Adults talking in the other room, making decisions
---The ones that shape your life while you're trying to sleep.

Those twentysomethings humping, smashing hipbones
After shaking them to a beat with the backing of alcohol.

Teenagers sneaking in late, waking the dog who's glassy-eyed
And intrigued by the scent of your marijuana and beer scented pores.

Kids sneaking downstairs on Christmas morning long before dawn,
Creaking on that one wooden step, as they shift their weight on the tips of toes.

Cats knocking over the butter, and breaking the dish on the floor.
Drops, leaps, and counter-top bounds knocking around noise in the kitchen.

Shadows back-lit by the midnight snack housed in the refrigerator,
Pickle jars and beer bottles clinking and yawning.

Keep that noise down, people are trying to sleep.
Mute those night terrors.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Early-morning brain clogs with a drain backing up water,
And the plumber wont come calling until after noon
With caffeine, a monkey wrench, and an exposed ass crack.

These kids say they're tired but their bodies are restless,
Bouncing off the walls, with their tongues moving faster
When striking against the hard pallet on the roof of their mouths,
Syncopated with short, fast bursts of exhalation
--These hypocritical children are either dishonest with me
Or their prepubescent selves.

I can't focus in this hornet's nest of chatter
So it's time to crank up the heat
And sedate these suckers with a filmstrip.
They've learned well in knowing that their desks
Make one helluva pillow.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Living a life chasing pictures in-and-out
Of the frame of perspective possessed
By the imagination of the individual
Depends on how wide the frame is made,
And how clear the resolution.
When everything is distant and muddled
It equates to presentation without interpretation;
Instantaneous information is synonymous
With no thought, and no resolution.
Nothing is gained in the constant obscuring
And overloading of information.
No sustained thought mistaken
For the fault of the hyperactive individual
Conditioned with bombardment
And blinders attached to the sides of their eyes.

Some people never learned to appreciate
The potential of a still picture.
Dissecting and assembling it,
Learning to move within it,
Learning to expand the boundaries
Of a frame with golden paint chipped.
Those people just look at it
Without question, and just move on.
Passing judgment in a moving car,
Thinking that person always drive that bad.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Notes From Departures

Little kids on a leash coming off a stuffed-monkey's ass
Attached to the hand of glassy eyed parents
With white-knuckle grips around their coffee and brood.

Tittering teenagers acting too old before they even know
What being out on their own is really about.
Mom and Dad's plastic is in their pockets, searing white hot.

Dead-eyed co-pilots with the Thousand-Yard Stare
When not checking needles and flipping switches
They focus on the clouds until they see white blots while blinking.

Heavy-tattooed hipsters catching the Red Eye latte
On the last flight out to some festival with a band they envy.
Their soon to be white skin burned black and crispy.
When the near-blind man converses with the drunkard,
He can only sorta see what that fool's getting at.
Pecking away at the night with pungent breath
And falling deeper into the blackness
With hazy memories and hopes of self-control
As the only lifelines he has.

But each handshake exchanged,
No fucks
No shits
Are accepted as currency---
Not even traveler's checks are taken
At this establishment with these social bureaucrats,
Who focus too much on social protocols and procedures.
Everything has to be in order
Before they get what they want,
And even then you have to make your appearance
Near the end of a queue, with a ticket in hand,
Waiting for your number to be spoken through a pane of glass.
Let's rot out our teeth,
And all fall down.

Monday, February 27, 2012

Pleas from a Service Worker, Onlooker

Parents teach you kids manners
Little pests buzzing about,
Bumping into corners and then
Crying their eye out
Hoping Mommy and Daddy
Can perform miracles---
It's in this want
Of instantaneous satisfaction
That indignation festers.
So there's no "Please" and "Thank you"
Just Me, Me, Me
Now, Now, Now
Mine, Mine Mine.
So parents please,
Save yourself some embarrassment,
And practice politeness
With yourselves and your children
So when it comes to model behavior
You'll fit the mold.
Thank you.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

For awhile I've had this bird bound by my rib cage;
A quiet little sparrow confined in my torso.
Once, always covered, there was no day and night distinguished
---Left alone with its silent song in between slumber.
Occasionally the night owl would come giving the time of day,
Cooing and hooting quietly through the sheathed bones,
Drunk on mice and its own sense of self-satisfaction.
The owl was the sparrow's only visitor (I was an absent landlord),
But one day it stopped coming, telling the time, cooing and hooting.
So the solitary sparrow sang sorrowfully,
Drawing my ear, pleading to unlock this cage.
So I removed the sheath, and loosened these bones,
Now, this bird has its plumage on display.
It can come and go as it pleases;
Flying freely, traveling with ease.
Hunting for bugs and seed,
Or perhaps some more twigs to strengthen its nest
Formed already between my two lungs, breath stolen.
Finally, in your Sun's brilliance, this bird's aflutter.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Bunch of barrel-chested motherfuckers.
Hands slicking back their hair,
Talking about how big their dicks are.
Spitting shit backed behind booze soaked breath;
Words slap your face with no politeness.
Apes lacking manners with their ego
Dragging its knuckles and beating
That chest, sounding the war drum.
There's no dressing up,
And no turning it down because
With tenacity they tug at you.
It's the nature of the culture---
We don't eat our young,
We let them devour themselves.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Hoarse Play

I lost my voice, but you found it.
You picked it up, dusted it off,
And put up posters on poles
With a picture and a number.
So I gave you a call,
But with no sound in my mouth,
I could not say what about.
However, you somehow knew
The nature of this call.
Putting the words right back
Where they belong.
Because even in silence,
You get it.
And without explanation,
You know.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Let's Raise Our Glasses of Hellfire

I never get jealous,
I always feel envy.
---My language reflects

Heathen at heart
I've got seven sins
And they'll kill ya.
I flirt with each one,
And on occasion
I make it a night.
Orgiastic atmosphere,
The prelude to Hell.
A menagerie of demons,
Ambassadors from each layer,
Possessing the mortal coils,

When I do that dive,
Plunging to the depths
The real party will start.
And there will be
All of my old friends flashing
Devilish grins my way.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Cupid's bow is bent back
In the shape of your lips
Stealing my breath.
But there is no
Trigger-happy cherub
Hovering above,
Just the dust kicked up
From under the bed.
When all is done
Not all is said,
So we lay there
Lulling each other to sleep.
You, atop a pile of pillows
Like an ancient princess,
And I at your side, a slave
Eunuch who didn't make the cut.

Monday, January 2, 2012

We are all ghosts
In the memories of people
We once knew.
Ever changing
While never present,
We exist as nothing
More than specters
---Given fleeting glimpses
In the midst of daydreams.

When we manifest
We unveil reality,
Showing those people
What has transpired
Since the moment
We last met.
It's not just always
How we look but,
What we can do.
Show 'em what you learned.