Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Another Vacant House

I had a neighbor from rural Indiana.
Her license plate tells me so.

She was a single mother who was
always accompanied by weird,
construction-type men
who drove pick-up trucks.

They radiated of stereotype.

Six crying children constantly
getting knocked over
by a Chow-mix
tied to a forgotten apple tree.

One President’s Day, a boy,
say 14 or so,
walked into a small,
white shed;

the kind for skinning fish.

He closed the door and urinated
out the tiny window
framed between
his penis and nature.

Right before I moved to Chicago,
she packed up a moving van and
was gone. The house foreclosed,

yellow stickers adhered to the front door.

A repo-man knocked on my door and
asked about her Ford Focus. I told him

that they had moved out.
It only took about three hours to
pack their belongings.

At night, the rest of the neighborhood
picked the tulips and roses

still thriving in the recession.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor

In the spirit of Carlin's death I thought I'd put up some Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor clips. David, don't worry, these aren't blurry.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Goodbye, Mr. Carlin

Another important icon is gone. I'm so glad I got to see and listen to his brillance live a few occasions. Thank you, George. You will be missed.

Seven Dirty Words

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Get Your War On

This is my new favorite comic strip. It's so dead on and hilarious. Please check it out!!

Monday, June 16, 2008

Not Working Today

A glare caught the bounce of the sun,
puked ecstasy
in my eyes.

I stumbled over the dead (young and old).
Stretched out,
rotting in solar downfall.

Masses sundered from existence, their
9 to 5 mass transit revelations.
Intelligence pounded into the ground.

I take in the improvement; look for a broom to sweep up
neck ties and pantyhose that barricade bars, park entrances,
views of the river on one side of town.

An couple overdoses during autoerotic asphyxiation.
A suicide in a cemetery has the neighbors worried.
The ice-cream trucks still play

“London Bridge is Falling Down.”

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Kurt Vonnegut and Joyce Carol Oates at The Connecticut Forum

Ayn Rand Mike Wallace Interview 1959 Parts 1&2

When the Dead Were Young

For Frank Stanford

Walking through a city cemetery I stopped to read every one of
the hundred or so weathered headstones.

A small airplane buzzed the horizon,
just close enough to panic the leaves on top of the trees.

I picked up a stone and threw it towards the sun,
poked at the eyes of a decomposing bird.

The gravediggers watched me while drinking beers and smoking cigarettes
on their lunch break. A station wagon drove up a gravel drive

to wooden marker shaped like a fist. It had a sad lean.
A boy and his mother exited the parked car. They brought flowers and

a goat’s head to the site which had no name or dates. I remembered
that one because I had almost tripped over it walking to the outhouse.

The boy removed toy soldiers from his pockets,
positioned them on the banks of a puddle.

The woman cried.
She looked deep into the sky above, made the sign of the cross.

The boy spotted me, smiled and jumped into the puddle.
Splashes of water hit his mother, dripped down

her bare legs.
I looked around, but the gravediggers were gone.

The two got back into the station wagon and headed to the road.
I was left there, living alone.

***This is supposed to be in couplets***


(Dear Editors, if you were sent this, please feel free to look at the website and solicit work.)

Actually, I’m not about to
write like it’s
National Poetry Month.

I write in melted crayon
on acne-faced musclemen.
A canvas of oil and bumps.

I submit absurd poems
to various
literary magazines.

Imagination and drive,
locked in, like hopes
of an unexpected kiss.

or the time I kicked the shit
out of a Pulitzer winner,
signed his forehead for luck.

I felt like a literary
Ali without being
The Champ.

Even though I’m more like a
skinny, white version of Tyson,
these days, you encouraged me.

Who would have thought that
National Poetry Month
would leave us feeling so inspired?

Back to the Basics


Headache: not from doing taxes, not a drunk hangover, not
an inane lovers’ fight. The wrenched sensation of spilled blood
from tender ears as we try to grasp explanations of the why.


Naked: like chapped, red skinned babies free of diaper rash or
a weird old man who wanders wilderness trails in search of
extinct species, his own reasons for being.


God: not divinity or grace. Damning the confused, emaciated race.
No more money removed from paychecks to help the poor, but
happily given to continue murder and war.

A Poem about Going Crazy before Your Time

During the evening hours of a Midwestern spring
metal and plastic buckets sit upright. Earthworms
sleep under the containers,
crawl like cancer when exposed.

Like the time I spent hours laughing outside of the carnival’s gate.
The elephants shot water from their wrinkled trunks,
runaways slept in the house of mirrors and I cried one hundred beers as
the bones of woolly mammoths heated the heart of this dirty city.

The rains of April wash away dog shit as I count the crickets’ pillow talk.
Little black bugs, horny as all hell, repeat synthesizer sounds of the 1980’s.
It feels like living in Seattle or London or a under a heartbroken teen’s tear ducts
the way heaven’s showers wash away lucidity from my detached body.
The smell of dust on roses or the weight of an anvil umbrella
subdue me like an intentional overdose or a vision of

the devil raping doves before the birth of summer’s heat.

Listening to Indiana Screams from the Ears of the Wind

As the coffee sits in the pot,
the brew cycle now over,
I add up promises, minus lies and
find that the sum equals gibberish.

As similar to the mumbles of a heroine on morphine or methadone
there’s an unaccounted essence of time and space. The kind
that materializes when masturbatory mothers march in,
slouched south.

Tonight a needle and spoon mix whiskey and java.
Time waits,
sailing around in my head,
for more rejection to attach itself to my body

like fall’s dying brown ivy at Wrigley Field.

I seem to have chosen the short part of
a broken wishbone perjury.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Save Your Money and Get One of These


Oh Shit!

Why is the Navy and State Dept. looking at my site??????

I'm going to have to utilize the Freedom of Information Act before Bush/Cheney/McCain take that away from us too.

Nervous Writer's Block, Bordom and Education From Chicago

I've put some videos and and random quotes on my site because I can and should.

Hunter S. Thompson on George Bush's War and 9/11

Jack Kerouac - William F. Buckley's Firing Line (1968)

Oh, the beauty of the times.

William Burroughs interviewed by the BBC

Pay attention to the Cut-up section.

Charles Bukowski Quotes

“Sex is interesting, but it's not totally important. I mean it's not even as important (physically) as excretion. A man can go seventy years without a piece of ass, but he can die in a week without a bowel movement.”

“Some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must live.”

“If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose.”

“Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink.”

“You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.”

“There is a time to stop reading, there is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass.”