Sunday, October 31, 2010


I need a spoon...
to scoop out
this mess in my head.
And a bowl...
for my soul,
cause it's dark and it's dead.
Just a drill...
for the thrill,
do the trick...
'cause I'm fucked up,
and crazy...
and twisted as shit.
A nailgun maybe...
so I do it right...
although it
is messy
and might take all night.
A glue gun is better
to fix up
my head..
and fill up those holes
from words...left unsaid.

We've Got A Bleeder

If I bleed and spill the words from my soul...
let it fall upon the paper in crimson currents...
would it be enough?
Is there a knife sharp enough to cut out all the pain?
Must I rip through these scars to heal?
Ligaments and muscles tense, as I rip the flesh from my bone and brow.
Will the nightmares turn to daydreams?
Will dawn arrive on death's hand or angel wing?
Can the hot searing metal brand me as one of them?
Smoke and charred skin with the smell of burning funeral pyre like Viking funeral,
a Valkyrie awaiting her Valhalla.
Will a moment of misery arouse my demons and finally cast them out?
An exorcism of my past and present failings awarded by judge without jury.
Is the rapture just a step away for the damned?
Salvation is but a lie we tell ourselves...
to silence the shouting in our ears that none can hear...
except the walking wounded,
the lost and forgotten.
We are just characters in a Dickens play,
the lost orphans with chilled nose and frozen fingers pressed upon the glass.
Seeking feast on the inside, yet alone and cast aside.
The beggers in the street, the outcast, the forgotten and unforgiven.
Finding unity and strength in our flaws,
we bind together like packs of dogs searching for the one place of warmth to rest.
Shelter just a temporary facade in one place or another.
We face the new day alone in the company of our own heartbeat.

Fairy Tale

I watch at a distance, wondering at the miracle before me.
I see it, out there...
see them together...
the chosen few.
I see how he adores her,
touches her hair...
looks into her eyes,
and falls into heaven at her touch.
Her words unspoken,
brings him to his knees.
The angels sing
when he speaks of her.
Bliss and happy endings and fairy tales...
The promise of poets and beliefs of children.
He reaches for her, and she smiles.
Teeth crooked, hair unkept and body at least fourty pounds too many.
She is his miracle.
A being perfect to another.
She is unattractive to many...
but to him she is goddess.
Surrounded by Gold and beam of light.
She is a flame in his sight, fire in his soul.
Aphrodite at the laundromat,
Hunter Diana in the woods,
Mother Earth and her child.
She is all to him.
He breathes just for her,
with or without adornment...
she is his jewel.
I sit barren in this darkness,
while time envelops my soul like a shroud.
Dismissed like school child for summer vacation.
Wrong men or wrong timing.
Bad choices with bad boys.
Losers and liers.
Making mistakes or being one.
Lost men looking for their salvation,
With me, a temporary angel....
a respite from their blackness within.
My purpose just to give my heart to ones that have none.
As I fill their empty places that lay within...
and they leave me with canyons to deep for anyone to fill.


Walking in shadow,silence surrounds her.

The will of the wisp on midsommer night.

The only one, the nomad, wanderer.

A vapor.

Breeze in your hair and the wind that touches you, fingers caressing your face at dawn's light.

Oblivion and darkness, the crushed rose underfoot.

A vision in the corner of your eye.

The comet across Black sky.

The brass ring on the carousel, the lost doll in the dust at the end of the day.

An untended flower in the garden, now grown over, and strangled by the weeds.

Invisible, untouched, the forsaken.

The rusty compass with no needle.

The broken weathervane at the top of the abandoned barn, which long ago lost all direction.

A name tag still on the table, long after the party is over;

and all that remains is glasses of untouched wine and half-ragged streamers.

The uninvited and the first to leave.

Fog on a lonely sea, the siren that beckons sailors into eternity.

The one that got away.

The freedom you screamed for and the darkness that envelops you once you find it.

Only known by alias, and not known at all.

The great mystery, the enigma, the damned one.

The mirage on the distant highway, as you go on, unguided without map.

The unholy in the confessional, seeking penance and asking forgiveness.

The sinner and the saint.

The silent one, the still, the immovable object, the unseen force.


The guide to the other side, the boatman, the keeper of the key, last of kin.

Gifted with word, but not of life.

Hi-ho, the derry-o, the cheese stands alone.


Hand Out

Homeless not helpless.

Sharing food amidst sidewalks Grey and littered with papercups and other peoples throw aways,

society's cast-aways and forgotten begin another day of survival...

A token of kindness doled out in servings too small for many,

yet just enough and more, for the part of civilization that no one notices nor cares about; unless it's Christmas or some other reason to exhibit some sort of humanity.

Camaraderie between strangers of the street that share much more than most will ever share,

and see more than many will ever see...or care to.

The wide-eyed wealthy gleefully toss pocket change at the poor,

as if they were tossing coins into a fountain and wishing for more...

more than their over-decorated homes and fat stomachs will ever need.

People unseen like shadows on the pavement.

A cart of memories and poor man's treasures, broken hearts and broken dreams all in one place.

Tied up tight, as if to keep the remaining hope inside.

Bags of various sizes, full of bits and pieces of life.

Plenty of baggage here...but out for all to view.

Nothing left to lose because they've lost it all.

Speaking in whispers to each other in a language only they can understand.

I lean in closer and am touched upon hearing their conversation,

littered occasionally with profanity yet full of humor and brilliance,

profound views...street poets.

The lower classes exchange silent thank you's and goodbyes with a nod,

and move on to nowhere in their nomadic journey travelling across street and alley.


Random quote

"Unless it's mad, passionate, Extraordinary love, It's a waste of your time.
There are too many mediocre things in life, Love shouldn't be one of them."
Dream for an Insomniac - 1998

Don't settle.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Sit Down, Son

Dreamer,poet,artist,free spirit,the reliable rebel...My one true joy in life...
My eternal love.
My soldier when my days are dark,
who fights for me when the world comes down on me and tries to crush me.
When my heart breaks he cries for me...
Never knew I could love so completely.
Tiny hands that once held mine,now larger and wrap around my heart.
My friend,my rock and my reason.
The only man who has been a constant in my life.
"Don't fit in,don't blend,you know you're different and thats a godsend."
Women will fall at your feet to be by your side,others will cry to possess you.
A simple man you will become.Inner depth,heart full of empathy and compassion.
Mind of intelligence and higher thoughts.
An old soul in a baby's body.
Clear of mind and clean of soul.
My blood.
I see me and all that I was and more than I can ever hope to become...
All I need,I needed just one...
My only son...
My only one.

Frappuccinos and Fuckheads

Snap,crackle,pop...cracking knuckles and chewing nails...

tight as a noose around a dead man's neck,

ready to break like a twig underfoot.

Starbucks coffee in hand,

her in Pink flip-flops and pony-tail,

he in those important glasses,

looking so intrigued...

and vacant.
Oh so interested in her conversation(sarcasm),
as he puts chin in palm and leans in closer.
She talks of children as yet unborn,he talks of ones gone before...
attempts and quips of wit and wisdom.
Banal bullshit and analogies mixed in with vague apologies.
Making appointments to laugh and love and order carry-out Thai food.
Conversations filled with knowledge but lacking intelligence.

Damn Clowns

A slow parade of death,
This carnival called life.
Clowns weep for your lost innocence.
Acrobats climb the ladder to eternity.
The elephants...
memories that you cant forget.
The monkey you can't get off your back...
your regrets.
Tightrope walkers...
those chances you were too afraid to take.
There...the fat woman...
your greed.
Those midgets...
all your childhood fears.
Strong man...
what you tried to be.
The beautiful woman sitting alone in the stands eating popcorn...
the one who waited for you...
lost...due to your pride.
never again to meet another love like hers.
Ah, the lust you tried to cage.
The trampoline...
like a stretcher for the awaiting dead.
Gods and angels hold your ticket,
and open the gates.
Pagan tones play on the carousel.
Fire eaters and sword swallowers eat the sin and pain...
As all join in the circus eternal.


Sleep...Let me dream.
Of better days and warmer nights..
Of stars and love and beauty...
Of lovers eyes in mine..
Of touches and caresses
And things I can no longer see.
Cover me...
Let me lie here till eternity passes...
And my eyes no longer have to open to tears...
Wake me...
To beauty and sunlight...
Blankets wound too tight...
and pillows caress.
*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog* ( formerly "Visions")


She speaks of Byron and Van Gogh,
of poets and madmen and midsummer nights dream,
of longing and lust in nights of Black and Crimson skies.
As she bleeds inside and cries tears no one sees.
She speaks in lavish words of imagined lovers and hoped for love,
a doomed romantic in a self imposed prison...
of self doubt and invisible insecurities.
Amber lights like sunrise light up her night,
while the scent of firewood drifts from a glass jar.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Guest List

My soul worn down like shoes that have walked too many miles,
on dead ends and alleys with no outlet.
One way streets of crushed dreams,
possibilities of hope for happiness crushed out like cigarettes put out on the bricks.
A Catholic self-flogging of my inner sins and outer desires,
a bias of choosing the hard road,
the road less travelled along with Frost.
I have breakfast with Plath,
as she checks those cookies in the oven that final time.
Cocktails with Sexton at six,
as we talk of men and the perfect Red lipstick.
After dinner Opium with Lord Byron,
as he romances me with silver-tongued whispers of erotica.
Tales of random wanderings with Kerouac,
as Shelley and I meet in the mind.
Invoking demons with Yeats.
while I walk through the inferno with Dante.

Independence Day

Bar B Que and fireworks,

wet bathing suits and hot dogs with that "char-grilled" taste,

parades with tone-deaf bands and "declarations of independence",

shows of patriotism with panache.

Reds and whites mixed with the blues,
and one-too-many beers at the fest.

Kettle corn and kiddie rides.

Uncle Sam on stilts,
waves to the crowd in his cotton White beard,

throwing Gold foil-wrapped candy quarters to the children,

as they scatter like young soldiers dodging bullets.

Timmy drops his fruit punch as he runs to the front of the line,

and Johnny Boy drops to his knees on the front line as he takes one to the chest,

his blood flowing in cascades like Hawaiian Punch,

grasping his chest and the picture of Annie, as his dreams and his life slips away,

and he falls into the mud.

And somewhere far away...

carnivals with Gold-toothed carnies,
let your kid ride for a quarter,
on the freedom train.

Sunday, October 24, 2010


Shrouded in darkness,
Black shroud of darkness,
silence enfolds her.
No light,
just darkness...
and never ending.
Solitude a lover,
that never leaves her bed.
By candlelight and moonlight,
Black as pitch,
dreams written as vivid reality.
An unending script of madness encircling brain and body without edit.
And such is the dream...
Red-hot embers that glow like end of night's fire,
sparks release into midnight,
In visions he sees her, a distant dream,
He wakes in the middle of the night in cold sweat,
his succubus in the late night hours,
ever beckoning to draw him nearer,
siren to his satyr.
Ghosts in the moonlight,
rumpled sheets,
and sticky sweet,
her lips press to his in an open mouthed embrace of ecstasy.
Voices in unheard language and and other tongues,
speak in rhymes and sonnets in his ear at dawn.
Her nails in his back,
cutting crevices and tracing muscle along imaginary roads.
She is his dream, his muse and his madness.
He wakes from his dream,
turns to the silence that lays beside him,
and reaches into nothingness.
She wakes from her dream,
and turns to touch the empty place beside her.



Scrubbing, washing, cleaning,
folding socks.
Smiling pretty in family photos.
Packing lunch,
bologna and Oreos.
School bus kisses,
Sunday brunch and Mimosa's.
Clipping coupons and red tag days.
Afternoons of soap operas and Oprah,
Perfect life for the perfect wife.
Family of three and one to be,
picture of tranquility.
Once a month sex and once in a lifetime love.
Mini vans and Easter hams,
PTA and school plays.
Distant dreams and midnight screams,
nightmares at 1 a.m.
Kiss at the door and hope for more,
Errands and ways to fill the day,
grocery lists and chances missed.
Garden needs weeding,
porch needs sweeping,
pants need mending,
heart needs tending.
A smile and a kiss on the forehead,
good night, sweet dreams.
All is never what it seems.
Good night, sleep tight,
don't let the bed bugs bite.
All is clear, all is bright...
yeah, sure...

The Poet

They call me a poet and whisper in hush,
I talk much too little and think way too much,
my friends are all crazy,
like Byron and Yeats,
I sit home on Fridays and don't go on dates.
I hate society or so I am told,
withdrawn and broken,
or maybe too bold.
It's not called true art,
nor bought for your wall,
I look for life's meaning,
and hear when it calls.
I see the moonlight,
and write by the stars,
say what you will,
but I am life's bard.


This place of rapture...
spoken of at twilight in silent whispers and sighs,
Is it heaven's touch, granted by the divine,
blessed by Godhead and heavenly cherubim,
or the bane of man, the heart's crucifixion?
It damns the saint,
who would confess all,
on bended knee at love's sweet altar,
all for but a touch,
begging mercy and feigning purity,
at the expense of substance and soul.
It baptizes sinner,
in tears of sweat,
bodies entwined and twisted...serpentine, in the great mystery,
in black of night,
speaking in tongues of madmen.
It exiles the lonely man,
in eternal damnation of self and solitude,
heart, broken and bleeding,
offered up to the wind for silent ears,
for none hear his weeping.
The kiss of Canaan,
this rhapsody incarnate.
The union of souls,
a lighting of fire, the electricity.
Fingertips with touch like fragrant Lilacs that dance upon water at sunrise,
sweet with the perfume of Summer.


We drove from our city apartment along roads with white rocks.
I watched children with jeans clean and pressed,
creases as sharp as the tongues of the nannies that called them in from the heat.
Parents too bored to notice, sat in their White wicker chairs, unaffected.
Catalog families, like L.L.Bean or Talbot's...
Families that looked like a painting, a story of Americana and the good life.
Armies of men who spoke little, if any, English,
groomed front yards bigger than my neighborhood playground.
I was fascinated by a world I'd never seen.
We would get hot dogs or heroes and eat them in the car as we drove...
the scent of french fries mixing with the freshly mowed lawns in a Summer cologne carried on the wind.
Clean, and bright and beautiful and open air.
Different from what I'd known...
Dirty concrete and a closed in city...and so much Grey.
The stench of car exhaust and tar,
City workers fixing yet another hole on my street.
My back porch was my only yard,
the railing rotted with those nails sticking up; ripping my hand open as I ran up the back steps.
This drive, a special trip we would take a few times each summer.
The park with the beach,
and the huge rocks where waves crashed over them like a movie in slow-motion.
Pebbles and tiny seashells underfoot as we walked along the shore,
making sounds like the crisp crunching of broken glass.
The air clean like the smell of a tide far away from another place I've never been.
A bridge in the forest that crossed over a pond, a secret place...
where my brother and I would go catch frogs.
Fireflies dancing at twilight,
to be caught in our tiny hands,
sand under our fingertips and dirt on our faces,
we'd peek inside our clenched fists,
at a bit of wonder and a glimpse of magic,
soon to be released into the Summer night,
to rejoin the mystery of childhood and dance of dragonflies amidst the dusk.
A blurry vision of a woman, with a younger face.
Hair of chestnut, and dress, chiffon...
a Monet watercolor of blossoms that ran in the rain.
The scent of Gardenia's and a mother's love,
a soft perfume carried on a breeze to be remembered only in memory and my moments of madness.
"Evanston" published in the Spring 2008 issue of Black Oak Presents/ Black Oak Media

Keep Love Warm For Me

Keep love warm for me...

as I sit in this cold of Autumn,
leaves falling as another season dies,
Scarlet fire in each branch.
An empty heart,
in the approaching darkness.
I fear Winter and it's death
and the cold and Grey it brings.
The dark season, this Black slumber,
death of all light.
I grasped at warmth, far away,
it withered and fell out of reach.