Neil Kelly Poetry and other garbage

Faded Jesus

2012-02-02T10:56:00.000-07:00

RIP Don Cornelius

2012-02-02T07:19:00.001-07:00

Tough Decisions for Central Coast Living

2012-02-01T08:40:00.001-07:00

While cops were drinking beers and eating
sandwiches at Pescadero State Beach
you swayed at a wave’s speed, but never
quite able to achieve that crashing effect.

At the Henry Miller Museum there was
a small bonfire and coffee for a donation.
Motorcycles and RVs could have been
driven off Big Sur’s cliffs without notice

as that lost look in your condor eyes grew
hungry for something unfulfilling, something
that may appear near the end of the word,
something that failed to linger Cannery Row.

The stink of Monterey sea lions and salty
wood, the disgust of scammers and pushers,
the warmth of living fog from sea to mountains
all fought inside of you, trying to get out of

an migrant child’s last school year breath.

The Heartland

2012-01-31T13:04:00.000-07:00

Rusted tin cans sprout up
through the browning weeds,
on the side of railroad tracks,
behind a Catholic university.

Deer lick the last salt remnants
from the ground as a drunk,
frat-type, kid drinks piss for
twenty-five dollars and a beer.

Uncovered moments of disbelief
pummel common sense and freewill
creating a superstitious ability to

wander around wondering about
capability in desolate towns and find
that an inner being has ripened into
multiple truths and falsehoods.

Squeaks, pounds and screams surf
the waves that reverberate throughout
ear canals, their radiance externally

exposes their unforgiving trespasses

Wings Made of Walls

2012-01-31T08:54:00.001-07:00

Blocked from a world of caged birds,
little girl landscapes and atomic rays.

Kept safe from the pterodactyls that
never clipped their Cretaceously wings.

Gliding over volcanoes, orphaned
soldiers standing guard protecting

blood rivers flowing on meat factories.

With no windows to jump out of,
the descending caused by the weight

of wings made of walls left a crater
in a small town just outside of here

Incarnate

2012-01-24T11:45:00.002-07:00

Two Heineken 16oz. cans tumble from my
pockets, ricochet off a brass rail, and

tumble over themselves on a glass floor.
Reminiscent of Chinese acrobats or

Russian ballerinas by way of Holland.
The bouncing sounds like spoiled children

in clogs stomping on a hardwood floor.
They wind-up napping on a maroon,

ripped throw rug. Sprawled out,
it looks like a map of Minnesota.

The beer stains mirror a Land O’ Lakes.
Rough waters ceased to keep me away.

Mellencamp Said So

2012-01-24T11:45:00.001-07:00

An old brown rocking chair poses
in the August heat. A flannel shirt
drapes the chair’s shoulders.
It has perfect posture and a
multicolored blanket with various
golf-themed images for support.

The Who and a fan from Sears
makes life easier. With The Who
and a stationary rocking chair
one could wonder if rock is dead.

Mellencamp said it was.

Maybe he thought Keith Moon
should have listened to Queen’s
“Keep Yourself Alive.”

Walking Around the Neighborhood

2012-01-06T07:56:00.003-07:00

RIP Christopher Hitchens

2011-12-16T08:51:00.004-07:00

The world is a lot better off with your contributions!

Weddings and Vino

2011-12-05T13:17:00.001-07:00

For Kari Kennedy

It’s locked in a vault.
That distress signal
that adheres to the
side of a vessel when

the heat of pain rises
past the point of boil.

Like the time the car
was loaded up,
maneuvered down to
Columbus, Ohio.

Or to the vineyards
that bask in southwest
region of the wolverine
state with their grapes,
just beyond the table
wine of the Indiana.

The faces, with lips and
teeth stained red, in the
crowd laugh and cry
the ceremonial harmony
of false matrimony.

Identity crushed like
grapes under violent,
dollar-dance feet

Collage

2011-12-02T11:16:00.000-07:00

No rest until every moment passes
through mind travel of night and day.

Smile of death resides in a bungalow.
Close proximity of enemies turn up heat.

Talking to hidden friends out in the cold.

Sounds of angelic guitar feedback reverb
off the backs of dying millionaire shysters.

Scene, decaying in the test tubes, leaves
an aroma trail of embryonic afterthought.

In a corner like a coat rack, the black and
white road hits a dead-end roundabout.

Reservoirs surround each side of a vision,
protecting ideas from total destruction.

Fair Trade

2011-12-02T11:12:00.000-07:00

“Thank you for the cigarette.
It’s so much better than
the Marlboro Lights they
sell here,” she said.
“Your Camel Lights really
put me in the mood.”

Half-hour later, she comes
up to me with two Marlboro
Lights in appreciation for
the Camel Light.

“Two of these are worth one
of those,” she said.

“That’s fair, I’ll take it,” I said.

She bobbled off to another bar
stool, over there, way down
there. Almost out the door.

I smoked the two-for-ones,
silently, drinking beer after beer.

May 13th – 19th

2011-11-30T08:16:00.001-07:00

Its five days before, one of,
my best friend’s wedding.
I have to pick up the tux
on this black Thursday.
While I’m there I also
Have to return a defective
button-up shit. The scar of
an iron defaces the left cuff.

On these random years, such
occurrences happen.

1955
A wild crowd riots in
Jacksonville, Florida when
Elvis Presley said,
“Girls, I’ll see you backstage.”
Insane spectators cause the
first such rampage ever
triggered at one of the King’s
performances.

1974
Over fifty people, in
Washington, were cut, sliced
as fans fought the ground and
the walls with bottles. Shards
of glass leapt from beneath,
backflipped off cement
barricades. Points sharp.

The Jackson Five
played inside.

1976
North of London
Keith Richards, of
the Rolling Stones, wrecked
his car. Drugs were found.
A fine levied later. He still
continues to party.

1984
Andy Kaufman. Dead at thirty-five.

1998
Los Angeles was the home of
Frank Sinatra’s death. Heart attack.
Age eighty-two.

Seinfeld signed off, too.

2007
Neil Kelly got sunburned on
the whiffleball field. Wrote this.

Animated Consciousness

2011-11-16T07:29:00.001-07:00

An inside-out sensation watches me from within.

I feel like a Robert Crumb characterization or the
calm normalcy of one’s reflection in a cracked mirror.

Time goes around a coo-coo clock.

A grandfather-type piece; the thickness of dust,
a coating that would make a chinchilla envious.

The threats hang over thoughts as the corn ruptures
the soil, stabbing at the sun, the fireball of life.
Creating, scorching and prematurely aging the soul.

I need some mental sunscreen.
Blockage of padded silence
beating down like alien ray
beams probing noise.

The outside has now gone into the inside.

Like the girls of your insane dreams buzzing with
the humming birds, cast off far from shore, the wind
pushing all of them over the edges of their nests.

A New Joy to Carry

2011-11-15T15:38:00.002-07:00

For Kari Kennedy

Hum a song in an olden way,
one colored cherry.

An unknown pleasure escapes
with a current jones.

Names sit in a green box.
They still remain there,

where everyone left them,
so long ago.

Here’s a blue ribbon to reward
the most frightening frown

in all of the land and all of
the generic towns.

Sundays will never be the same.
Not even Super Bowl Sunday.

Oh Yeah, the Pilot’s Drunk

2011-11-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

Years after appearing,
the ugliest man hides.

Shadows life from afar,
dizzies those close, and
angers strangers.

An emotionlessness like
mandatory overtime.

Grueling labor brings tears,
self-doubt.

No time-and-a-half.
Definitely no double-time.

Where’s this plane heading?
No safe spots in sight.

The landing gear is stuck,
engines out, gauges spinning

Pastime

2011-11-11T07:45:00.000-07:00

There was a sound like a rush of flames
climbing a diseased femur.

It lasted the length of an exhale.

A pop, a scream, an orgasm,
a pain, a crinkled love letter.

Dandelions withered by the sun’s
radiance added to the cliché.

The smell of recently cut grass of
a little league’s infield and outfield
announced that it was time to play ball.

Social Contract

2011-11-09T07:56:00.001-07:00

The once ordinary advancement of
thoughts to actions cowardly sobbed away.
Transmutations growled while traveling
through songs of endearment and patriotism.

Misfortune slices softly like paper cuts.
The side effects are more humane than those
of prescription drug pushers.
TV salesmen telling you to tell your doctor
what drugs you want to ingest.

Happiness, but diarrhea, suicidal.
Normal urinary flow, but no erections.
Functioning penis, but migraines, nose bleeds.
Healthy ovaries, but miserably depressed.

Silver sopranos and blooming bassoons wail
injustices, slow economic paces pinned
between the market and Chekhovian examples
of human relations.

Windy City Beachfront

2011-11-09T07:50:00.001-07:00

Impotent waves from Lake Michigan
stroll onto the shores of Chicago like
tossed horseshoes from old men.

Children form makeshift castles.
Wet dogs smell like Lollapalooza kids.

The sun shines down on a crowd,
a lure sparkling enough to attract
a school of freshwater fish.

Boats on the horizon cut through vision.
Appearing as works of outsider art as we
sit, always too high, with mixed drinks
never out of reach.

The muscle-heads are out there cursing
the rising price of SPF 40, parking tickets.

Burn or wait for traffic to die down?

Slipping Away

2011-11-08T11:21:00.000-07:00

Similar to liquid drips from
the mouth of an alcohol sick.

Like a fading moral fashion
or a dying life breed, I expunge
the memory of things lost.

Lost. Not a polar bear island,
but a way of life that strangles
reason and logic.

Out beyond cubicle thought,
individuals dope out the maze.

In the center, the middle of it all,
promises of prize awaits discovery.

In someone’s home I rest.
The bats have the attic and
I hide where I can.

I meditate in a clothes hamper,
comforting a shadow’s flaws.

Days and nights have been
crouched behind a stained-glass
door listening to families drinking
and playing cards.

Conversations are lip-synched, tired.
Words mumbled as the last of
the vodka trickles down.

Witnessing

2011-11-07T14:48:00.000-07:00

Slept in the drunk-tank, just another cheap motel.

135mph in the car pool lane, alone. Playing
chicken with school buses, passing in the bike lane.

401k plans smudge glass ceilings.
Cattle farms sell their manure to the rich.
Recycled syringes pay the rent this month.

Stopped at a check point for not wearing a belt.
Suspenders won’t be permitted by the board.
Paint-thinner aromatherapy sessions
sold at the bed and breakfast on Sundays.
Coughed in a mahogany coffin afterwards.

In cat’s pajamas, howling at the moon, fixated on
the world’s revolutions paroled stalker’s bronzed
binoculars and sugarbabies work the streets, ya dig?

You’ve been instrumental in our search.
Bird legs thrive in the cloudy fishbowl.
Cocks-comb standing upright at dawn.
Heartbeats sent out as secret Morse code.
There will be no disappointment this time.

Bongos and horns at an autumn bonfire tomorrow.
Mesquite flavored mescaline passed out for free.
Fermented agave juice thunderclouds roll in.
Freon pumped through veins in the summer last.
Nothing matters in an anti-galaxy.

Noachian issues still penetrate ears in the town hall.
Please veto the Kick-in-the-Pants Treaty.
The doctrine to choose your own adventures.
Lyrical karaoke quoted in the school yards.

Reshape a tear for the sad clown sitting on the world.

Music City

2011-11-07T11:14:00.001-07:00

The wind rips through the buildings, the streets
as sound bounces off echoes. Mix matched,
doubled up, refried, intertwined.

It’s rock
It’s jazz
I’m happy

I want a steak, a bowl of lentil soup with a grilled
cheese or maybe a breakfast bagel sandwich.

It’s opera
It’s classical
I’m hungry

Homeless ragged and beat. I see them begging,
dumpster diving for something to eat.

It’s reggae
It’s country
I’m lucky

Cold steel beams atop rough concrete slabs,
asphalt covered bricks saturate the city’s landscape.

It’s rap
It’s metal
I’m angry

Moseyed through the tavern door, lost in the city,
grabbed a stool at the bar gulped flat draft beers.

It’s blues
It’s punk
I’m drunk

Punched Out: Finally a Vacation

2011-11-07T07:48:00.000-07:00

A glare caught the bounce of the sun;
ecstasy projected into unexpecting eyes.

Masses sundered from existence.
Their 9 to 5 mass transit revelations
began to wear thin.

Unknowns stumble over the dead,

young and old, stretched out, rotting,
in a solar downfall. god must’ve realized
that they weren’t useful.

A cornucopia of wasted wealth hidden
under a floor of some secure building.

One can see the possible improvements.
Sweep up the freak show remnants.

Barricade bars secure the park’s entrances.
Views of a filthy river never took the time

to watch a plain storm migrate.

As backs were turned makeshift landscapes
and saved blueprints on the hard drive of
a simulated reality

never kept the generational promise.

Submission

2011-11-03T07:46:00.000-06:00

I.

Caught between here and there,
the place where shepherds dream
of a dry New Orleans, where
paper dolls inject rubber cement.

Noises rape the void of sound like
loud cars with severed mufflers.
Confused screams chaperon
the death of a calm outside through
a viewless motel window.

Terrorized by the promise of hanging
from the eighth story’s balcony
as fire dances in the adjoining room.

Torturous lullabies haunt the relaxation
of weary travelers.

The world’s largest ball of twine
will sleep through the night.

II.

Dead clouds disguise the sun’s depression.

Waves of snow collapse with every
whip of wind that chaps the soul.

Winter has declared anarchy in the USA.

Moose, pierced septums, reek of dung.
Lassoed in Wyoming, by way of Oregon,
they herded their young while
trampling the old and weak.

Few escaped the rancher’s rope, even
less eluded the technological strengths

stunning the strongest of bulls.

Mountain Time or Where Nights Seem Like Days

2011-11-02T08:42:00.000-06:00

Almost everyone I know is either on
Eastern or Central Standard Time.
At night, they are tired when I am
ready for conversation.

Hours before I awake, they are in
cubicles overlooking cramped cities,
or maybe, the souls of fiends.

Who would want the night
to come so quickly?
Why would one want to be
so far from the sun?

Virgins from Utah and Wyoming
come to Denver looking for excitement
as I leave a message for a sleeping friend.

However, on the other hand, it is four
in the morning and friends in
San Francisco and Portland are leaving
me messages as I am dead to the world.

Shunting

2011-11-02T08:04:00.001-06:00

Exemplary, mindless, up to date epicene
figures shunting around each other into
the shadows, out of the sun.

Discarded people grumbling in long lines
left behind like junk washing machines,

(or “warshing” as my grandma says).

They stand upright with their bi-pedal
locomotion, thumbs, beautiful scars,
addictions, and imaginations.

Resting, propped up like old shovels
with burnt handles.
Car trunks held together by bungee cords,
red tape on the brake light.

It has been extraordinary hiding below
the belts of decency; the inhabitants
cry and cry.

Solace like picnics behind an unstained
privacy fence.

Glimpses of sleepy heads swimming,
splashing in dreams.
No coast guard for nightmares.

A beacon. A lighthouse by the rocks
lock a fogged vision. A turbulent
arrangement of horns and whistles for

the hellacious carnation monument.
Like a blooming moon pulling tides,

the water wrestles willingly, relentlessly
with lunacy and lust.

Signals

2011-11-02T08:02:00.001-06:00

The artist Lorie Leininger’s work sits
around the warehouse where I work.
The black ink prints lean, rolled in a tubes.

Outside there’s a vast amount of rays
bouncing from mouth to outer space and
then to the ears of the breeding deaf.

Mirroring each other, distorted twins,
twisted in a squelch, technological madness.

I look at a piece of hers titled “Baboon”
and think about human-kind.

I’m not sure why, it’s just
a solitary baboon sitting.

Maybe because it looks like it just lost
the lottery or had its APR raised to 23% on a
credit card that rests, uneasy in the damp
rear pocket of imaginary pants.

Or could it be that the baboon’s eyes seem
to lust for truth, redemption for what once
appeared to be so clear.

Only to have it all slither through man-like
hands, a paintbrush never applied to canvas.

Life’s a Supermarket with Expiring Goods

2011-10-31T07:53:00.000-06:00

A child quietly screaming, veins
pulse towards a motherly shadow.
Bruised face, red-purple, like
the discolored arms and legs of
heroin addicts from countless years
before and to come.

The child stares my way, an
innocent, isolated alien abandoned
three planets from the sun.

Token thoughts of the saddest kind
were given to the juvenile moped riders,
the helmetless children of pavement
and cement. A crescent raceway
designated for the speed and superegos
of calloused emotions, hard-headed
drivers of remote-controlled cars and
baby whispers.

I walk past normal spectacles of any day.
A confusion jamboree tornadoed among
the weak, dedicated, and elderly.

In the marketplace, in the produce and
deli sections, the dog of consumers’ souls
waits at the end of a rusted chain.
A slobbering guardian.

Jaw lock.
Kill

In line first, but forgot to grab a ticket
with a number printed on it.

“The line starts back here,” some guy says.

Oak Road Bonsai Trees

2011-10-31T07:38:00.000-06:00

As thick as an action figure’s arm and
branching in lightning flashes, it takes
form. A practice from Japan my eyes
have seen. I watch the snips, smell the
limbs clipped. Green crashes to the bed
below and will soon be composted.
There’s a miniature rake and shovel for
the sand, gravel and moss landscapes.
Manicuring hands prune like a barber,
daring chlorophyll fingers to transform
into an unnatural, unwanted life form.

Family Vacation in the Scorches of Heat and Drunk Sincerity

2011-10-28T08:57:00.000-06:00

Lightning tattoos a dead end night.

Before the alarm clock’s scream,
children are already awake.

Toys and cartoons lead the way.
Like the time alcohol brought
a spouse out from hiding.

Maybe it was St. Patrick’s Day or
Cinco de Mayo or Dyngus Day or
New Year’s Eve, but it happened.

Not the way your ancestors may have
experienced it, not the way animals
have instinct, although, you’ve dreamt
about getting mammals drunk.

No U-Turn on this highway.

Yield to your dreams for the sake
of others’ plans and punch life’s
timecard on schedule.

Like the time I left my rage
at the side of a peppermint field and
stumbled through the age of growing up.

Lazy bones sat with rolled cigarettes
and jugs of homemade wine.
They offered their outdated advice
and said phrases similar to,

“What’s the price of rice in China
got to do with American supermarkets?”

They fell down, assumed the fetal dance
and poured gasoline into flowerbeds.

Snowshoes

2011-10-28T07:28:00.000-06:00

I see all of the footprints in the snow.
Whose tracks are they? Are they yours?
Did you come back? Are you yelling
out to me in the backyard blizzard?
Probably not. You gave back your key
after all had been removed except the
sheets, the wine, a potato with eyes.

Jaywalking

2011-10-28T07:27:00.002-06:00

A week ago yesterday, uniformed toughs
copped Gene off Broadway.
Two teenage boys snickered and rode off,
one on the bicycle’s handlebars.
A small, wired haired mutt pissed on a bench.

“Gene never did nothin’ ta nobody!
Except fight in a war that was given to him,”
echoed throughout the tiny valley.

Lazy day sharply came to an end.
Tonight we toast and drink to him.
We think things are unnecessarily
unprofessional in critical times.

We cut off our pant legs to encounter longer
nails in plates of bacon and eggs. Broken arms
use hitchhikers thumbs to their advantage.

When will Gene join us? It’s been thirty
pounds of aluminum cans and still no sign.

Whores who don’t feel safer still walk around
after their naps. Detox centers are filled up
and Gene never returned.

Another example stolen from the streets.

A Wall as an Island

2011-10-27T10:57:00.000-06:00

After the giant tortoise was unshelled and
gutted, we mounted the head.
It hung next to an iguana’s.

For days after, the two heads seemed
to rest in peace; old friends from Galapagos.

Next on Dad’s list was the cranium of a finch.
They would be his Three Stooges,
a complete set in mint condition.
Who could place a monetary value on that?

Dad wanted to buy Darwin’s skull also,
but mom wouldn’t let him.

Church Postcards

2011-10-27T07:42:00.001-06:00

The black ice wind scrapes across
a tar patched sky. Like an old, tired
native, it weeps at the view of
physical dissemination.

From the depleted East the elements
pillaged conviction all the way to
the evening’s crashing sun.

The valley vibrates when creatures
clamber over mountains, into cathedrals.

Reminders of hope abide upright,
a Vegas neon crucifix beacon
to guide us all.

To others, the illumination could
have been the star of Bethlehem or
an orchestra of hyenas honing their skills.

Sets of rules bleed into open fields,
blossoms of childish purity refuse to open.

Mother Nature’s ghost glides like
wished upon dandelion clocks that
jettison toward a daylight moon.

Her apparition whispers a soft yawn
in your ear. The meaning is unpredicted
and surreal like a teenager whose teacher
went to school with you.

The portcullis is closed, the drawbridge
raised while crocodiles and piranhas
haunt in an autumn eclipse.

Wishful August into September

2011-10-27T07:41:00.000-06:00

Traveling from the Midwest,
diagonally to South America,
Chicago to Bogotá.

Motor a rental across the
Andes to Quito.

Wade in the Pacific,
saltwater rushing up to thighs,
filling pockets with crustaceans.

Always emotive like a great wave
rolling upon the dunes of Indiana.

Politics Isn’t Always a Game of Poker-faced Halfwits and Liars

2011-10-26T07:03:00.001-06:00

Machiavelli passage, a time and a place
for men to be good or not to be good.
A prince must have the knowledge of
being able to know the difference of
appearance and action.

He should be loved and feared in order
to rule more effectively. He must remember
that many people are not good. They will
need to be dealt with quickly, maintaining

the image of goodness amongst the people.
Appear more sympathetic than merciless.
The governed tends to respect those who they
believe is more willing to nurture than punish.

Deception to maintain the kingdom.

Keep the governed happy and content, but also
keep those (who may wish to do harm) under
the impression that one wouldn’t hesitate to
destroy those that are against the kingdom.

Certain actions maybe necessary to keep the
citizens fearful and thankful simultaneously.

Tax money shouldn’t be wasted on unused bombs.

Pressure

2011-10-25T15:31:00.001-06:00

The old man’s collar forces him down.
A splintered, wooden contraption,
heavy like a sinking cruise liner.

Translucent eyes scrape dismal lids.
Drooping purple, aging black.
Breath screams. Pops of blood debasing
the mouth like an old street whore.

The pleasure exits, drowns him out, and
down like rabbits in garbage bags,
sinking in the brown juice of a river.
Ear canals and lungs fill with tears.

Explode. Ecstasy.

Over a bridge there are bags,
yellow tie straps swaying lightly, under
sprinting clouds. They nap like a newborn.

The old man’s life a poisonous appendix,

fading away are thoughts of marmalade,
sweet bunt cakes and yesterday.

Swift Migration

2011-10-25T09:25:00.000-06:00

I left the concrete via turn lanes,
one-way streets, the homeless
suffering. An overpopulated mass
transit subway system; a pulsing
aorta of mortal vestige.

I hotfooted it like fleeing deer
from a forest ablaze; mosquitoes
absquatulating out of rippling water.

The city has me sweating more
than normal this year.
A wild time. Not the year
for lovers luck.

Static covers understanding and
conversation like moss.

Peat?

No, just a mossback.
A backwards pedestrian crossing
towards flooded basements.
Beyond the city limits, the brisk air
and whispers of deceased foliage
smash my face like a rubber mallet
against a Bondo dent.

A sparrow, or maybe a finch,
skims in the wind, dodging hail
and meteor particles reminiscent of
December dandruff on a black sweater.

Their wings brushing bashful.

It’s to the country setting I’m jetting to.
No bike lanes or parking meter readers.

Just the echoes of silence and
the smells of hogs and ethanol.

Obscure Metaphor

2011-10-25T07:23:00.000-06:00

Why spend all night refilling water balloons from the tap?

They smash like poems. The shrapnel continuously
rolling off leper’s tongues and trailer park sheet metal.

Real and fake, like Buffalo, New York, Monkey Wards,
Merrimac, Kentucky, Moldy Dead Guy Island,
Cat Crunch Meow National Park,
Monterrey, Mexico, Beirut, Lebanon,
The Caves of San Francisco’s Non Art Community,
The Idaho School of Veterinarian Medicine & Ethics,
Bogotá, Columbia, Lake Charles, Louisiana.

Hell, maybe even South Bend, Indiana.

Smash a beach, watch welts from a liquid whip bruise
a body made of granules. The sand mutates darker as
the water and the sun have their way with it.

The tide reaches for a lady, in a plastic folding chair.
Possibly, her thoughts are of the one who was here
and then departed. Broke onto the shore, only
to retreat back to nature, back to a tortuous horizon

Might As Well Jump

2011-10-25T07:22:00.001-06:00

I don’t know how it happened.
It just did.
The shit was random, original.
Life changing.

David Lee Roth needed a ride
to his storage shed.
It was off of Ironwood Rd.
He gave directions.

High kicks and screeches like my
dad’s Impala highlighted the way.
His cellophane pants melted.

We survived on Dramamine, oranges,
and flat cola in a plastic cup.

The cup reminded me of kegs, fights.

David Lee Roth said, “Quitting someday.”
He lit a Marlboro. The cerulean smoke
rose from the cherry. It was starving.

It swallowed him whole without regard
for the seatbelt or the law.

Broken Bottles Captured in Spider Webs

2011-10-25T07:19:00.000-06:00

Verbal monitory systems thrive.

The sound of rose petals falling
to cement, bees following downward,
from honeycomb castles, to imbibe
the last of the precious juice spilling
from testimonial warning razor slits
with cigarettes and coffee mornings.

Amish bump along the highways
in their black buggies, horses pull
bats out of holes in barns and houses

like broken bottles captured in spider webs

Alone Again

2011-10-21T07:35:00.001-06:00

No boring fetish kept locked away
in a musty closet or

a war-time footlocker that
once held foolish love letters.

No maid uniforms, leather whips,
handcuffs or hot-waxed nipples.

No choking, biting, smacking of
an ass cheek or two.

No naked lunches, no tropics.
Just cancer and capricorns

Outpatient

2011-10-20T07:45:00.000-06:00

She ran scantily enveloped in aluminum foil
as the rain ran down gray. A mindless taxiing

between bagpipe solos, lightning flashes.

A vision, the smallest bit of dead, of bent
necked swans taking flight from a lagoon.

A cross-eyed donkey perched upon the highest
stone to decipher the western wind. The low
lands have been stretched like medieval torture.

She spread the land like a gypsy.

Songs, theft, joy is what was sprinkled over
the pay phones, the waste water and sex shops.

The cricket warriors assembled, troops of
musical shields to muffle her gun shot laughter.

Trash Man

2011-10-20T07:44:00.000-06:00

I never wanted to be a police officer when I was kid.

I wasn’t taught to view the men in blue as guardians
or upstanding citizens hatched to serve and protect.
They’re just humans like the homeless.

I was advised to know my civil liberties, memorize
The Constitution and Bill of Rights, befriend
drunken lawyers.

I was informed of shady dealings, planted evidence.

My dad said, “Son, never say a word to anyone
without an attorney present. Recognize unjust
happenings and the prospect of disaster.”

However, my teachers said the opposite.
They said that the police were our friends.

The black kids’ eyes bloomed dark, terrified.
The Hispanic kids whispered immigration hymns.

Others laughed while the rest cried.

I didn’t have a badge or handcuffs growing up.
No Billy club to flog my brother with or
mace helpless, future taxpayers in their
ignorant, unaware faces.

I never wanted to have the legality to kill.
I wanted to be the garbage man.

The Racquetball King and the One Who Wouldn’t Be Queen

2011-10-18T07:27:00.002-06:00

The racquetball king strolls from a match easily won

His skill with a racket and rubber ball caught
the attention of many, but it was the girl,

with a dead heart, that he desired.
She stood in the middle of a field of fire.
Everything about her was stoic like
she had been caught in Medusa’s gaze.

The racquetball king just couldn’t stand
the view. He used his favorite racket and his back-up
to part an ocean from Hades of combustible lust.

In the middle of the inferno, the girl with the dead heart
laughed at the way he frantically tried to save her.

The back-up racket started to melt, rain came down
as if the mortal’s hellish battle had been blessed by Zeus.

The racquetball king bowed in acknowledgment.
The girl of his desires, dead heart not pounding,
gave the middle finger up to the heavens.

She then pulled a shriveled mass from her pocket and
handed it to the racquetball king. She kissed him on

the cheek, stepped back, collapsed, became soil.

And Then You Were Thrown Up On

2011-10-18T07:23:00.001-06:00

You and your lover are drunk on wine;

taking black and white photos
while listening to punk.

Black and white thoughts,
but gray where it matters.

A few snapshots later, you’ve
recreated all aspects of avant-garde.

Societal radiation emitting from
an imaginary anti-television revolution.

A staple pierced through the web of
skin between the pointer and thumb
stung with brilliant, artistic pain.

Anti-war poses were patriotic
in their American appearance.
Cushions fortified democracy and

a helmet on a cat protected children’s future.

After shared laughs, your lover climbs
into a cardboard box.

Like a cast ballot, folded,
trying to make a difference.

Welcome

2011-10-17T08:14:00.001-06:00

At the day’s dawn a fox hunts through
beer boxes, old electronics, trash bags
for survival scraps.

Two men wander the same path as
the fox. They rummage the same items,
scrapping metal for profit.

Fire burns on the top of the mountains
most mornings. Red, orange, purple,
yellow crayons melt on radiators of rock.

Berkeley Park runs quiet.
A rusty Pontiac waits in a
parking lot next to a karaoke bar.

No phones are ringing.
No false car alarms.
The fire station has hit
snooze on the siren.

Dogs lead themselves down Tennyson,
stride over children’s chalk graffiti.

Alphabetized authors were given the streets.
Yet literature rushes down the sidewalk.
Numerous sheets of paper, all different
colors, never knowing the story’s end.

The art galleries closed hours earlier.
Plastic cups that once held wine now
lay, with a hangover, in gravel.

A coffee shop unlocks its door.

Convict Poetry

2011-10-14T08:33:00.001-06:00

I got a letter in the mail the other day.

It was sent by a girl that was doing time in
a women’s correctional facility somewhere in Ohio.

She told me that she had read some of my poems
online and that they kind of moved her.

She also said that it was my fault for her current residence.
See, she was reading my poems online and forgot about
the meth cooking in a room off of her boyfriend’s garage.

The goods got too hot and went BOOM.

Neighbors called 911 and kids got out of school.

She then went on to send me one of her own poems.
It was a sentimental rhyming thing about her son.

It wasn’t very good, but I knew what she was saying.
I knew what she meant

After a Long Drive

2011-10-14T07:18:00.001-06:00

For Amy Dolinger

Silently standing, hoping that
something will happen.

Desperate prayers for the screams
of temptation to continue. Like

a box of dead baby birds,
unfortunate, but captivating.

It’s not enough to be warm
in a world that’s so cold.

It’s white lies in a confessional,
ghost orchids deep in a swamp,
broken squirt guns in the hands of kids,
daisies placed in a Jack Daniel’s bottle.

Still beautiful, still sweet.

Man’s Best Friend

2011-10-13T09:10:00.000-06:00

I sit addled by that dizziness
that creeps from the mind,
rests upon shoulders.

It crawls the scalp.

Like a black dog
tied to a dying crab apple tree,
the sun’s anger burning,
flies disappear its ears and
eyes, ants cut off its paws,
fleas taking it all in.

Too weak for suicidal daydreams,
wondering if there’s still bite.

The dog lies, belly down, and
waits for the sky to bring water.

I don’t think the dog has a name.

I lay with the dog,
tied to the fading past,

we’re forgotten together.

Loved By All Men, Cherished By Zero

2011-10-13T08:10:00.001-06:00

Watching over her children with a
loaded shotgun, a drunkard’s grin,
my neighbor waits for falling tear drops.

A police car drives past.
One taillight burned out.

In her ranch-style house
the windows have been exploded out,
holes decorate the walls,
an empty pill bottle
dances with the breeze.

Spinach spoils on the counter top.
Bloody toilet paper balls in the trash.

There’s been no sleep for over three days.

Wickedly entertaining behavior
that never wanted change.

A modern-day maternal outlaw.
An angel in love with the devil’s goodtime ways.

Not too Different

2011-10-13T08:03:00.000-06:00

Two screamers argue, cobra-faced,
about the shadows of sound.
Coffee and last night’s pizza pieces
sail back-and-forth.

Joggers drag on.

The head of a songbird pleases a cat.
Hot days have the lines long
for cold rabbit stew.

The reptilian couple stop.
Braced like beggars at dawn
biding their time before
the guinea pigs arrive.

Prairie dogs burrow deep.

The dance of termites brought
cheers from a group of caribou
studying abroad. A powerful

rain came down right after the crows left.
Earth worms came out for a cleansing.

They crawled for miles to get
from under a skin paved avenue.

Hyenas stopped laughing.

Prank or Maybe I’m Losing It

2011-10-12T13:00:00.000-06:00

A crucifix is laying head-first in an open oven.

A wine bottle is crusted to a kitchen counter,
black panties across a rocking chair.

Someone did this.

A note on the toilet says,
“Gotcha!”

The glass of broken snow globes decorates the tub.
Drawings of hearts on the mirror look unhappy,
suicidal cherub working a noose in the cellar.

Outside it is dark, people have taken to the streets.
Drowning will replace deep breathes,
realism conquers love, and once a year

a thought about someone will disappear.

As personality burns in the background,
the reoccurring shadow of Osiris rises
above mountains and falls behind trees.

Tea Bag Party

2011-10-12T08:10:00.001-06:00

Tight-lipped is the approach of gods
Old beings resurrected between brittle pages
A diaper full of burning thoughts

Do you want a haircut on Saturday?

Don’t go near the back bathroom
Daily do dead opossums rot

Ottoman stuffed full of Shar-Pei wrinkles
Beetle shell feet support on hardwood floor

The rats of March munch
on the face of monkey men

There’s never of a chance of a rain delay
in the vastness of a right-wing vagina
Making it a great place to see a ball game

Weathering

2011-10-12T07:56:00.001-06:00

The daylight life seems to be shrinking,
shriveled. Cancered thin.

We live nocturnal,

raccoon children with owl instructors.
I shot bullets into the sky as acknowledgement
of sexual conquests.

The stars get headaches; envy streetlights, neon.
No replaceable energy efficient bulbs up there.

I stopped under a bridge without my shadow.
Blizzards swept it off to float in Colorado.

There’s twenty-four hours of darkness in Alaska.
You get paid to live there.

Snowflakes landed on a drunk’s thumbprint.
There are a lot of them up there.
Falling fast without guidance.

There are litters of them here, too.
Equally unique, in chorus,

they fade from memory.

In the Beginning

2011-10-11T07:56:00.000-06:00

During a ceremonial fish gutting,
the local children swam through
the crab grass with fiberglass fins.
Spun glass appendages fastened securely.

The current can be a bitch,
but perception fares worse.

Adults ascended on a cedar platform,
raised above weathered tombstones.

The dais, a historical landmark, hosted
an orchestra’s wail while citizens smoked.

A distinguished looking man
raised his right arm toward the cloud
covered sky and relayed welcoming
from the heavens to the crowd.

The leatheriness of the man’s face,
standing atop the wooden stage, caused
a local animal rights group to heave buckets
of red, oil-based, paint upon his mug.

A wealth of facial hair did not help matters.

The cluster of people stood, watched
the man’s performance as if he were some
papal version of James Brown or David Bowie.

As the man danced in a triangle of fire
a little girl, with fiberglass wings, presented
a cake atop a white pillow to the man.

The heat from the man’s body melted
the frosting from the dessert.
The little girl reached into the cake and
removed a reptile of divinity.

Like how some religions drop the “O” from god,
the people swarmed to a blue-green Jesus lizard for

guidance and cosmic theological comfort

Lobotomize Me Already

2011-10-10T08:12:00.001-06:00

Caught up in another one of
those mental tug-of-wars.

Which direction will pull harder?

Who or what will have
the strength to control fate?

Caught up in another one of
those mental battle of the bands.

Which sound will carry further?

Will listening closely expose
the hidden meaning of the tracks?

Caught up in another one of
those mental boxing matches.

Which punch will land, which will miss?

When the bell finally rings will
the fighter be down or left standing?

Excuse Me, Sir, When Will I Ever Use This?

2011-10-06T10:33:00.004-06:00

School is great for those who know
what they’re doing, I suppose.

Some find the experience enlightening.
Faraway, realities inundate their bodies.

I wish I could factor myself right
out of this linear equation.

Here’s a stat for you. I knew 88% of 20%
of some shit I’ll never use. I realize it’s

the bottom-line that matters, but what
really is the sum? Seriously,

I’ve got to know the degree of
a polynomial in order to

write stories and poems?

***********************************************************************************
These past few poems are revised versions of older ones.

"Good, bad, I'm the guy with the gun." Ash Williams from Army of Darkness

Blinders and Ear Plugs

2011-10-05T11:05:00.001-06:00

Forever crashed, a footnote tucked away.

Chinese checkered life,
hopping over each other.

Formaldehyde brain theatre meltdown,

a sleep gyration,
a stapled crown.

A virgin parade promptly cycled
past the bank, the cathedrals, only to

revel in tomorrow’s crusted-over weight.
The way hell follows shadows sneaking.

Behind

2011-10-05T10:58:00.001-06:00

Can’t help but to look over the shoulder.

This fearful anxiety that infects knows
no time frame, weather pattern.

Doesn’t give a shit if the shower is on
or there’s reading in the ozoneless sun rays.

Doesn’t necessarily happen in alleys,
late at night, extra cash in wallet.

Might happen while sitting alone, when
the air waxes stagnant. The same emptiness

that’s been lingering for years.

He’ll Agree with the Dead Thinkers of Time

2011-09-30T08:48:00.001-06:00

Philosophy-man has a brain like child’s shame.

An internal balancing act,
squirrels poised on power lines.

I hear quotes of logic without thought, discipline.
A knowledge pack-rat reflects on the state of
St. Aquinas’s toilet.

Unanswered questions take their toll when
no one knows what the hell is being talked about.

Haunting words float like volcanic ash from
recorded accounts of people talking in their sleep.

Shared views are needed to believe in,
a bandage applied to a mental war.

The Year of the Rat scores the Roman calendar,
a raccoon’s yearning for things that shine
forces claws to remove kitten eyes

Fictive

2011-09-30T07:29:00.000-06:00

She was lost, unsure.
Smothered voice like
a dying bird

under the sun’s hand.

A hush fell over
the onlookers
as she parted
through their gazes.

She stared at her necklace,
remembered last
Christmas’s snowfall.

Ghosts or shadow people,
the group was gone.
They had vanished.

No more voices

Point Lobos State Reserve

2011-09-28T08:13:00.002-06:00

Sophism

2011-09-28T07:54:00.003-06:00

The rowboat is a haven for mammals.
The boat you wanted me to get rid of.

It hibernates upside-down like a bat.
Oars folded close, crossed for warmth.

It’s been lying dead since it cracked
in the reedy channel. I remember the way
it submerged like a mauled heart; perch
and bass instantly recessed there.

Algae begun to thrive.

I hauled it out with Jimmy’s wench,
ended up in a backyard burial spot.

I used to wander fields to abandon houses
and broken tombstones. I once walked there
through apple trees and badger dens.
The trails were laid down by deer, horses,
and Japanese dirt bikes.

Detach apples from the trees and put them in
the wooden box, the one with your head in it.

The one we used to make apple butter in;
glorious, award winning apple butter.

I left your eyes in a state of shock.

*************************************************************************************
This is a revised (hopefully final) version of an old poem.

Does Anybody Pay for Long Distance Calls Anymore?

2011-09-27T09:46:00.000-06:00

Somehow a clash had been waged.

Not the kind that is fought between
sisters and brothers, but
by the confusion of lovers.

An upsetting, discomfort
loomed in a fogged sun blackness.

Am I audible?

These words on paper.

Big Sur

2011-09-21T08:20:00.005-06:00

(path leading from Ferlinghetti's cabin, under that scary bridge, to Kerouac's beach)

Accepted (Updated)

2011-08-05T10:08:00.005-06:00

First, my poem "Elvis Found Dead on the Toilet" will appear on Gutter Eloquence's web site between Sept 1-5. This poem is now up on the site.

Second, my poem "Mason Jar Full of Dreams" will appear in Gutter Eloquence's Print Edition #2 and is due out late in the fall.

guttereloquence.com

Break Out the Champagne

2011-08-03T11:31:00.003-06:00

For Emily Hunt

Remind me that I’m still living and
taking full advantage of the fact.
Show me Big Sur and
I’ll show you bighorn sheep.

Get wild in Colorado, golden in California

Spill Jameson on our nipples and
lick it off with French fried tongues.
Share saliva in morning before
burning our mouths with black coffee.

Let’s miss the sunrise and sunset on a Sunday.

Find a typewriter and we’ll write
a screenplay for a puppet show.
We’ll write a part for a fool, a
hopeless romantic, soul searching.

Read poems and become curmudgeons.

Buy tickets for teeny, tiny planes
and land in secret cities at night.
Eat breakfast on an air mattress,
let the crumbs fall where they will.

Acquire blisters from swatting flies all day.

How about you put on a sundress
or a librarian’s outfit and dance.
Play the autoharp until your fingers
bleed while I’m removing my heart.

We’ll get lighthouse tattoos to lead the way.

Mr. Subliminal

2011-07-19T08:22:00.000-06:00

Read the fine print, read between the lines,
listen to the words beneath the breath.

Sneak past the neighbors who aren’t friends.

Send up smoke signals or carrier pigeons.
Float it in a bottle that’s been cast to sea.

Dodge the fragile coral that’s within reach.

Capture sound in an air bubble, pop it before
surfacing. Don’t let the laughter and cries escape.

Winds can carry wounds like old shotguns.

Kept secrets fester like the world of a runaway.
Whispers might as well be sign language.

Red Dawn

2011-07-11T07:44:00.000-06:00

For Emily Hunt

Don’t worry; I’m not going to charge you for sex.

Even if you add fog, nachos, ice cream sandwiches
or whatever goes on in Steinbeck country.

There’s always a chance that one won’t get a flight
especially if ethyl alcohol is in the Mexican eggnog.

Hypodermic needle dodgers in the community
garden have faith, need to know that they matter.

Watch as it begins to rain again and get carried off
to add our own sounds to compliment the thunder.

Her Spirit is Still Lingering

2011-07-05T19:48:00.002-06:00

Jah in a Volkswagen Bus

2011-07-05T08:32:00.002-06:00

For Amy Dolinger

Laying in the middle of a road that leads
to a lake that leads to the Chesapeake Bay
that leads to the waves of the Atlantic Ocean,

the vastness of distance seems thin.

Thin like the air in an auto shop’s paint bay.
The lack of oxygen chokes like saltwater.

In Jamaica, a dog gets run over, the machete
still swings, and the ports have cruise lines
finding new, unprepared homes to wreck.

In Denver, the cats keep coming.
Coming and going, as they please, day and night.

Crashing is the echoes of mountain thunder.

Found Jesusesque Head

2011-06-30T08:49:00.001-06:00

Self Portrait of the Virgin Mary

2011-06-29T09:38:00.002-06:00

For Cecilia Oleksak

On the east coast, my twin paints
children and the living of lives.

Oils spread out, form life, on a tight canvas.
There’s a face, an arm, maybe a heartbeat.

Possibly Ann Arbor, Michigan or
the East Race. Perhaps a broken Heineken
bottle collapsed on a corner of Clark St.

The texture is raised, the memory faded.

How about a portrait of a bar scene?
Capture another drunken alley moment.
Wrestle an Indian, fire a gun, take a hit.

Somebody’s missing hand covers
a dartboard’s plastic bull’s-eye.
There’s a mismatched set of Jesus sandals
on a pool table and a neon Grey Goose
is nailed to a stud on a bathroom wall.

Music that will soon be in a commercial
plays from a retro-looking jukebox,
crumpled dollar bills made it past the sensor.

On the east coast my twin puts away the paints.

A crucifix over a nightstand, rosary beads
on a floor and the cry of a saxophone fill rooms.

The scene is still wet, not enough time to dry.

Delving into the Backyard of Your Mind

2011-06-20T09:58:00.001-06:00

Have you ever taken the time to get ants drunk?

Maybe you once studied them
through a magnifying glass,
in and out of their little hole.

Maybe you once, while studying them,
accidentally eliminated the ants by
the swelled sunbeams hovering above.

Did you think that it smelled like chicken?

Maybe you once turned yellow
in the un-fun house’s memory mirrors,
half-baked, half loony bin bound.

Maybe you once, while trying to escape,
slipped on your own guts and slid
for a fortnight’s worth of delusions.

Were you screaming on your descent down?

Maybe you were laughing like
a tickled child on a its birthday,
bladder control disappearing quickly.

Maybe you were, as frightened as can be,
looking for that something that can
never be found by those searching.

Gettin' rowdy in the backyard

2011-06-16T11:52:00.001-06:00

Red Rocks with Rob Bucher and the dogs

2011-06-16T11:46:00.003-06:00

Mr. No Depth Perception

2011-06-08T14:41:00.001-06:00

My god, look at the orchards.
Look at the salamander’s hiccup.
Look at the hammer bending nail.

Sun shadows appear as mistletoe.
Who kisses under the heat of fire?

My god, look at the cowardly souls.
Look at the dragon’s scales.
Look into the microchip pupil.

My god, would you just look around.

The Reverberation of Amusing Animals

2011-06-03T09:32:00.001-06:00

Bleak conversations over coffee
to a shadow that’s not even me.
The dome on it is plagued, slumping
shoulders stares at the concrete.

It recognizes god’s bouts of solitary
confinement
while I wait for a Caribbean schooner
to usher me away from violent frenzies.

I wasn’t made for waiting around,
listening to omnipotent answers
to sinister questions.

In the murky swamp of my reality
leeches give me the news of trombones
playing for dying, egotistical, crickets
in an alley south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Free Agency

2011-05-25T07:40:00.000-06:00

There’s nothing like sitting at the ballpark.

Catching a game in the sun
or under the mezzanine
during a rain delay.

Slamming down hotdogs and
overpriced concession beers,
screaming your ass off
like a wild creature
as you cheer on your team
and pray for victory.

It’s the bottom of the 3rd, with no one out,
and Mason is up to bat.
He’s always a threat to go deep.
Jennings, an All-Star shortstop,
is on second with a 3 foot lead.

The pitcher looks back at Jennings,
sees daylight, and spins around
to fire the ball towards second base.

Well, the middle infielders
must have had their signals crossed
because neither managed to catch
the pitcher’s pickoff attempt.

Jennings was almost to Third
before the ball had even hit the ground.
He rounded third like a baby rabbit
running from a mink.

As he darted home he stumbled,
grabbed the back of his right leg and
crashed onto the white chalk of the baseline.
He screamed in torturous horror
while his career ending pain intensified
with every thump of his steroid riddled heart.

It was the complete ripping
of his Achilles tendon that caused him
never to play professionally again.
He did have a brief comeback attempt with
the Ketchum Rifles in an independent league.

At Lincoln High School he was considered
the 7th best senior in the nation and was picked
19th overall in the major league draft that year.

None of it matters to me though because
I was rooting for the other team that day.

Palo Alto Stories

2011-05-24T07:55:00.001-06:00

Palo Alto: Stories by James Franco

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

As punishment for not writing as much as I should be, I read Franco's book. It was a cruel and unusual punishment. After the 3rd page of the first story I knew that I was in for some serious pain and I really wanted to stop reading it and return it to the library. However, I perservered and somehow finished it.

This book would better off being used instead of waterboarding at Gitmo to get answers.

Shit.

View all my reviews

When the Sun’s Comin’ Up

2011-05-20T07:35:00.001-06:00

5:50 on a Thursday morning is not
the liveliest time of the day.
Not a whole lot of people hanging out.
No one’s really got any place to go.

It appears to be the last shift for the cops.
They’re headed back to the station,
blue and red lights flashing.

There’s a weird, white van backing up
to an old warehouse, done shadily and
on the back burner.

Not the kind that one would do
if they were an employee on the clock
with benefits, rules and regulations.

Oh well. I’ll keep goin’
on my way back home.

Should I take a left and head
through the heart of the city?

Zoom past the homeless shelters,
the post office, that sculpture
in front of the fountain that the city
shuts down in the winter.

Take a right and go over the bridge
on Marquette Street. Pass some art studios,
old apartments, two liquor stores
and fuck knows how many churches.

Or maybe go safe and take
the scenic route across the river?

Pass the maples that seem to made out
of concrete but are sticky and sweet.

Pass the brown oaks bombing autos
with acorn mortar blasts.

Pass the Douglas firs standing
with their deciduously erect cones.
Both ways will get me there in roughly
the same amount of time and shape.
It all depends on me and my mood.

But it’s difficult to choose because
it’s summer and the fountain is on.

The Air Was Filled With Seagulls

2011-05-11T09:00:00.002-06:00

For David Dodd Lee

Like the school of
rock bass swimming
in the lakes of
Michigan and Indiana

and minds,

we swam, some
may have spawned,
but, for the most
part, we made it past

the cranes, the water
rats, the doctoral
puritans, the undertow
ever lurking beneath

and weary fishermen.

The water is still warm.
The generations, that
survive, will come
back to the place

where they were born.

*************************************************************************************
The title comes from a line in David Dodd Lee's poem "Harbor Lake" from his book Downsides of Fish Culture.

It is Still Happening in This Town

2011-05-04T08:56:00.000-06:00

Long gone, hardly done,
and far from home
the naked man hitched
a ride from a bulldog
one too many times.

Magnificent blasts of bombs
suppressed reasoning and played
holy Sunday psalms in reverse.

I’ll trade in the shopping queen
for a half-eaten jellybean.
The ripened extension of gas
lines the veins of middle-class

Perfect secrets escaped
the crime in progress.
Latch-key runaways tongue
the dirt paths that cluster up
the country side.

Bulky, oxen-women’s fish fry
flopped and flipped fire
retardant mush morsels.

No one can seem to get a grip.

Brightly shaded cul-de-sac
is busy with bicycle traffic and
foot powder salesman.

Here’s a magnificent salamander for
the price of an amateur panhandler.

A microwave brain, locked under
full restraint, is set up in a toy store
waiting for holiday packaging and
nipples dripping with honey.

I’ve located a depressed monster
under the covers of a flower bed,
south of future radiation.

Loud Words, Quiet Thoughts

2011-05-03T12:35:00.001-06:00

Love vaporized after Mexico
like the Mayans and Aztecs.

Was it real or an escape to prove a point?

Tears have been encroaching upon
the swamplands of Florida as opinions
stir up chili-pot hurricanes.

The freakiest display eyes ever
focused on. A walking slot machine,
a monstrosity of nature, a recluse
entombing itself in a marble mausoleum.

Without even being able to recognize
names or faces, copulation ravaged wild.
Like a new breed. A mix between
peacock and crocodile.

Let go like a four inch perch or the
memories of kids smoking cigarettes
behind aluminum sheds of grandparents.

Monotonously snaking an abandoned
squiggle over raccoon prints, gravity’s
force stops every fall, empty eyelids peer
through potato field rainforests.

I’ve Seen the Jesus Before

2011-05-03T09:01:00.001-06:00

Malaria earthquake crisis sets in
Ravaged by the vices of others

We’re included for now
and maybe tomorrow, too

Pocket transistor has the static in tune
Eavesdropping on steamy conversations,
thigh lickers, toe drool drinkers,

only to find out it’s a vanity affair

Mirrored shadow reflection
spotlight finder caught your crocodile
tears passing through my alligator arms

Carried your dead weight all the way
to the purgatory crossroads

Your ride waited, seated at
the right hand of the driver

A wink of the eye informed me that
this was either a joke or dream

Inside your soul moved,
belly danced right up to the

cracked dashboard tabernacle

Moon Down, Total Darkness

2011-04-27T09:52:00.000-06:00

No flesh to embrace
calcimined bone

Oxazepam night screams
Laughter without a smile

Tears like dried semen

Speedboat waking under sun
Throttle driven, motor smoking

Surfing avalanches while
bighorn sheep drink

Panning streams for the
forgotten nuggets of golden

corpses shot in black and white

OCHO # 31

2011-04-18T07:17:00.009-06:00

OCHO took my poem Vulnerable Monkey People and it is available to view online or you can purchase a copy. My poem is on page 24.

http://mipoesias.com/

You can purchase a copy on Amazon.com

Haikus # 4

2011-04-14T07:28:00.002-06:00

Funeral death dance
shuffling down Park Avenue
Past manicured trees

Information flows
inhibitions stripped away
Pour me another

Fast food beer belly
ass crack exposed everyday
Refreshing draft felt

Five finger discount
mad middle finger salute
Good going thumbs up

Haikus # 3

2011-04-11T09:51:00.002-06:00

Beer bonging day has
approached this year once again
Locate a funnel

Palms drenched in nervous
sweaty insanity now
Waiting for terror

Wild boar attacks
innocent kids hourly
Fast fried bacon strips

Resurrection day
collided upon my shore
Lighthouse bulb burned out

LSD morning
throbbing muscular parade
Enormous pupils

Wooden Dutch shoe trend
style setter board walker
Bleached blonde and blue eyed

My professional
brew master godfather
Serve up the lager

Styrofoam cousie
slipped around cerveza cans
Kept cold to enjoy

Haikus # 2

2011-04-07T08:13:00.002-06:00

Marvelous spring rain
poured reluctantly outside
Boozed it up inside

Mix match tube sock drawer
ravaged torn apart destroyed
Ex-lover thrown out

One million fall leaves
captured technology scene
Mega pixel size

Ant colony war
magnified glass serenade
Sunbeam from heaven

Mistletoe mouthwash
attracted dental hygiene
Fluoride teeth treatment

Haikus

2011-03-29T14:09:00.001-06:00

Go get your whiskey
tavern regular barfly
Step outside to smoke

Breathing and fucking
are natural processions
Naked on fall leaves

Early morning time
butterfly dewdrop love song
Shotgun blast kaboom

Country stray dog mutt
paces stressfully in line
Oak tree shade keeps sane

Caught Daydreaming

2011-03-28T13:17:00.001-06:00

Sitting alone, at my
workstation, I began
to ponder the difficulties
of making a submarine
out of a whale.

Duct tape, a boat motor
and plastic wrap, of some
kind, will be needed.

I’d figured out how to do it
in about thirty minutes. I also
knew where to round up
the necessary materials.

Hell, most of them were
readily available in
my neighbor’s garage.

The only problem was
locating a large enough
whale for myself,
a small crew and still
have room for essential
equipment and supplies.

The nearest live whale was
one thousand miles away and
probably heavily guarded by
minimally paid and trained

people with bored guns.

Squirrel Bravery

2011-03-25T07:33:00.001-06:00

A Midwestern summer’s night
leaves so much to yearn for.
Humidity falsely governs wheat,
soy beans, and corn fields.

A pleasing thought tonight rests
solely on the fact that there is
a small black cage hanging
from my crab apple tree.

The cage is home to mutton cakes.

Small birds feed on a mix of
sunflower seeds, black thistle,
blueberries and cream cheese.

Sparrows and the like drop and
spit out what they don’t like for
mice and chipmunks

It is the presence of the easily
obtainable that distracts necessity.

Squirrels will climb for the cage.
They will even threaten hungry birds.

Next year grease will coat poles and
whatnot to eliminate squirrel bravery.

The a.m. transistor warned of
a marmot intrusion by way of
Chicago. Possibly through bullpens
and Indian burial mounds,
down Lakeshore Drive.

Burning of grass and freezing of
the fountain in Grant Park was
executed in order to control
the new varmint movement.

MiPOesias

2011-03-04T08:39:00.000-07:00

I have a poem in the new MiPOesias. Here is the link to the online feature.

http://mipoesias.com/

Church Postcards

2011-03-03T07:51:00.001-07:00

The black ice wind scrapes
across a tar patched sky.
Like an old, tired native,
it weeps at the view of
physical dissemination.

From the depleted East
the elements pillaged
conviction all the way to
the evening’s crashing sun.

The valley vibrates when
creatures clamber over
mountains, into cathedrals.

Reminders of hope abide upright,

a Vegas neon crucifix beacon
to guide us all.

To others, the illumination could
have been the star of Bethlehem or
an orchestra of hyenas
honing their skills on the meek.

Sets of rules bleed into open fields,
blossoms of childish purity refuse
to open.

Mother Nature’s ghost glides like
wished upon dandelion clocks that
jettison toward a daylight moon.

Her apparition whispers
a soft yawn in your ear.
The meaning is unpredicted
and surreal like
a teenager whose teacher
went to school with you.

The portcullis is closed, the drawbridge
raised while crocodiles and piranhas
wallow in an autumn eclipse.

Polaroid Parade

2011-03-01T11:31:00.000-07:00

Kids marching in costume,
open-eyed on a candy high

A circular saw
in the background

Marshmallow firecrackers,
foaming beer bottles, and

pots left boiling form the mind

City trees and country trees
burn as Halloween claws
at a November night

Trust

2011-02-23T07:19:00.000-07:00

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

Bar in the Basement of a Decent Hotel

2011-02-22T11:46:00.002-07:00

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?

Theory

2011-02-21T12:23:00.000-07:00

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

ethics…

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.