Saturday, December 4, 2010

All A'Titter

This January morn’ at 50 below

‘cross one hundred years of fields

A nipple-pink horizon grows

On the edge of the great white lie

A blood-red centre bursting ‘bove the round

The timeless game of hide and seek

Drawing at my eyes to peek


The sky becomes

As I cave

And stare

And aware of it, the centre explodes o’er the everything

With deep yellow warmth

Weather and lace

In place

Of the truth.

This January morn’ at 50 below

‘cross one hundred years of fields

Living on the edge of the great white lie

I succumb again so typically

To the allure of the nipple-pink horizon.

Friday, November 26, 2010



I am at the half of my life

And wifeless; not strifeless
And it shows
 As I forage through the throws
Of life and it’s tribulations
And on trial for why I don’t know
But Oh! How it hinders my wonts
And in the cinders of my past I find
A rind of the fruits of my labours
And squeeze from it all that I can
in the hopes
That the dopes o’er which I mope
Will succumb and soon go.

There is life beyond asperity
And clarity beyond
And my yawnings are but the gage
Of my tries and my age
And the page that I’m at
Of this sordid story.
I’m Sorry.
‘Till the day that I die
I’ll live and I’ll try
The life that I choose
And you’ll lose for trying to stop me
From hopping on the gravy train

That I vainly proclaim

Is mine to ride.

Thursday, November 4, 2010


You and your bullshit
Up to your knees and up to no good
And everything you say and do
And you and the bullshit are so well suited
To each other.

You and your bullshit
I’m fed up to here and you and your shit-faced grin
In and out of my life
Like my ex-wife who you must know
From your bullshit past.

You and your bullshit
In your Abercrombie rags drinking pink martinis
In retro lounges
Alone, because in the real world
Your bullshit repels.

You and your bullshit
In a spanky new mustang you borrowed
to drive through McDonalds to share a Value Meal
with a girl who by now
wishes she was dead.

You and your bullshit
And your “love of jazz” as if you even know
Who Chet Baker is or that Elvis Costello hired him to play a trumpet solo
On his 1983 album “Punch the clock” on the song “Shipbuilding”.
(Anyone who claims to know jazz, should know that Elvis Costello
Hired Chet Baker to play a trumpet solo on his 1983 album “Punch the Clock”
On the song “Shipbuilding”)

So I call bullshit.

You and your bullshit
When does it ever end and who do you think
Believes any of it except you
And your bullshit
And your make-believe bullshit world.

You and your bullshit
Might change the world if it could be tapped
and used to fuel cars or clean water or
convince cancer cells to stop growing
(though the way you tell it, it already does.)

You and your bullshit
Was mentioned on the Discovery Channel yesterday
Because the janitor at the International Space Station
Smelled something bad and determined
it was you,
and your incredible, ruthlessly and unrelentingly annoying

Thursday, October 21, 2010



Under a full moon’s wrestling beams through cobby grey clouds
The village is ghostly
and mostly blue, like my mood.
Not so much eerie, as weird is the moonglow at 4 a.m. in January.


The world has stopped:
A short reprieve from distracting views
And news of who’s screwing who
and other non-truths.

The moonglow is happy-sad and peacefully disturbing.
Even dog-barks end in echoless stop.
Like everything in January at 4 a.m.
Under the moonglow.


In time, everything ends.
So the full moon is timely
The blue snow sublimely
Whispering the great unspoken truth.

Monday, October 18, 2010



How patient must I be to be
as patient as the tree ‘fore me.
He stands and stares and doesn’t care
(it seems) that I must move and it behooves me to say
his patience is trying mine.
I’ll stand here too and sometimes bend a little
Or thrash about or out and out scream at passersby,
But no, it’s not the same for me, tree.
I cannot spend one hundred years like you
To do nothing but defend myself,
Avenge myself, sleep and wake and never delve
Into other occupations;
I haven’t the patience or inclinations
Or subtle consternations as you.
Yet you’re magnificent and I am not
And ought to be so much more for my troubles.
I saw an elderly couple (almost as old as you)
Stop beneath your belly to admire your magnificence.
I desire of it,
Sit and stare and tire of it,
For I can’t ever hope to be
As great as ever you, old tree.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Not So Funny

Not so Funny

In great distress you tell me that the planets aren’t aligned
So I tell you that the problem is Uranus
And I laugh
But you don’t
So I moon you but you don’t get it
So I explain and you tell me I’m an ass
Which I think is funny but you’re mad
Because you said a joke without wanting to.

Funny how things have changed.

Friday, October 15, 2010



He keeps his regrets trapped in an old tin cigarette case
Which lies under a pile of worn-out socks in a dresser drawer
That sticks.
He coughs up blood and guts and spits smutty curses at Polaroids
He took of sluts who posed stoned sucking bottles of Wild Irish Rose
And pricks.
His breath reeks of lies and contempt and unkempt morals
Which wheeze over blackened teeth and dribble down his chin
Into a rat’s nest beard where his tongue reaches down
And licks the stains left by never-healing wounds.
 He curses his memories,
Rehearses his future and butchers his past
Then, for lasting effect: pulls the trigger.