Wednesday, February 23, 2011


The words are smudged pudding

Left like an expired coupon for
a discount colonoscopy or

gray corduroy elephant trousers

A wolf trapped in oil laughs

Through snow drifts, clawless
paws tickle the sky, teeth bloody.

Keep heads rolling from guillotines

A technique of consuming elite,
a natural art of pulling out
sheep’s eyes as they sleep

Born-again moles keep digging

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Bar in the Basement of a Decent Hotel

Cannibalistic rituals south of me,
perched on cushioned stools,

predators stalking prey.

Elders conversing about past lives
and future ventures.
Stories of a minor whiplash,
drunken fender benders.

Puppets’ strings being pulled
by entities unknown.
Dogs handled by guards sniff
for lies and deceit.

The cash register rings full so
we’ll put a few extra bucks
in our pockets for later.

A green dress with a woman in it
enters through a padded door.
Gems flake off as she walks.

The last known pay phone rings.
Who will answer the call?

Monday, February 21, 2011


We sat around for years
trying to grasp mainstream concepts.
Deities, faith, love,
genius, morals, sin,


They’re not toothpick-speared
cheese cubes waiting for
consumption, though

gluttons can find a home.

They’re not two-for-one drinks
during a horny Happy Hour, though

drunks may argue.

They’re not addictive narcotics to
be snorted, shot or swallowed though,

junkies still can’t seem to run dry.

However, sometimes, they’re like
twenty dollar prostitutes,
convenient when needed.

Or accidentally netted dolphins,
in a remote sea,
trapped in the views of others.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Paul mislabeled some of the pork.
He had marked them as beef petite sirloins.

His boss had to write him up and give
a verbal warning for the violation.

That kind of mistake could be deadly if
a customer has pork allergies. Plus,
there is a two dollar difference in price.

After Paul was informed of this
he went back to the cutting board.

Ten headless Cornish game hens stared
at their undertaker;
his heart just wasn’t into it

Paul’s fingers were not in gloves.
Between skin and nail
the red of blood mixed
with dirt and bone.

Thursday, February 10, 2011


I found an earring in a cabinet today.
One that you had while we were coasting,

Puerto Vallarta.

Wine bottles left by railroad tracks,
tequila shots during eight-ball.

Everybody’s friend Sergio
is instructing water aerobics, making
middle-age women wet.

A bed formed from two couches coming
together, a stadium for us to hide and
play in our blanketed cocoon.

Love broke away as a new day
dawned just east of the Pacific.


People only want what’s best.
They want to know what’s wrong with me,

that darkness on a sun-drenched Monday.

Their rescue unit was the one that originally
sent out the search and destroy orders.

The same instructions that kept me from staying
in the place where normalcy thieves the day.

I stayed away, hid on the side of the road,
waited for a singular surprise.

Fast living on the Death/Love Freeway
has dubbed me the pauper of absurdity,

the poor man’s P.T. Barnum.

A scene that brings such folderol,
fatuous optimism of the worse kind,
snickers behind the back of my mind
like the naivety of

curious children investigating their privates.

Wednesday, February 09, 2011

Soiled Township in the Midwest

This humid summer night has an unusual weight
sprawled over the city tonight. It’s like when
you stop to talk to a woman who runs
the break line at the local Winnebago plant.

Nervous sweat runs even over sunglasses.
Cats are jumping from roof to roof in search of

the rat that took on the moon.