With the eyes of a painter

I find beauty in the trash heap

While musician’s ears

Put bird melodies to traffic rhythm beeps.

Scribed by writer's hands

Spun off poet's lips

Captain of my vessel

In a sea of ships.

Harbors abound

Past storms and doldrums

Passing the loaf

Opting for crumbs.

Saving the sun

For the rain.

The next season

I stood alone

Among the mangroves

In a dream zone

Away and at home.

A place kind of cozy


All too familiar

Where you can leave and be still there.

It’s a peculiar kind of comfortable

Slung among the stars

Hanging in energy hammocks.

Humors and exosensuous

They hold us in

The intergalactic synaptic highway mosaic

Of sound shape color fields

A genetic hook up to the macro micro zone

A series of time grove mazes leading

Back to the beginning

Again and again.

Chocolate Covered Disaster

They sat that beauty

Is in the eye of the beholder

So I plucked it from his head

And said

Look at your beautiful eye beholder

Tell me what you see

Is it ugly?

Is it pretty?

Are you where you want to be?

I’ll tell you what I see

I see a blind man’s painting

I hear a deaf man’s song

I see the black and green teeth of a one eyed Jack

Snacking on reality

As cactus lined highways

Vanish behind me

The iron clad network

Looms out

Over dusty land




In the tradition of

Our father’s fathers

I see my bridges

Burt behind me

By my brother’s matches

Now I see me

Off in the distance

Stone and alone

Like a pillar of salt

On a plane of pure pain

But it’s true, what they say

No one goes to Hell anymore

No one has to

Hell makes house calls.

You Know You Have A Problem When

Eyes drawn back

Blinded by insight

The deafening silence throbs and beats

A screeching serenity

Bustling with void

Shakes loose security and

Questions the mirror

Spitting up chunks of words

Pieces of thought

Muttered then denied

Dirt under nails reveals a

Long hard crawl to fall from

Mud vacuumed down

Stuck in suction




The last coherent thought

Echoes of sanity

Sprawled out on the floor

In awesome array of

Beautiful patterns

All drawn back to a vortex




Pulling you in

Drawing you closer and

Closer to that point

Where infinity becomes tangible

Now you can see it

Reach out and slip off

Shrinking into the abyss

All while standing in line

At the seven-eleven.

In Poet's Boots

In poet's boots

I make my stand

Up to the man

Defending my land

Against popular demand

To exploit her

For profit

The American way?

Get off it!

Start today

Don't play

That way

Don't pay

In the long run

We pay

For what's done

Is until undone

Or not

And we've got

To pay the bills

For the fat man's thrills

It chills me to the bone

Living out on loan and

Paying interest on it

Losing it quickly

Feeling sickly and stuck

In this rut of shunned

Losers, misfits, and bums but

Mums the word or

Haven't you heard

Only respect the employed

Law abiding & tax paying citizens

Participants in the system

That's selling them short

Despite our best effort

To explain their game

As lame, mundane and insane

Stepping on those they blame

Trying to reach that pie in the sky

Unaware it’s a lie

Putting down others

Climbing high

On our brother's backs

Now harnessed like yaks

These mad packs can

Attack and trample with ample force and

Of course the high and mighty

Have a long way down to

The ground they stripped, kicked, and sucked dry

As a bone all alone on

A plate they hoped would be dinner

Now getting thinner

They start to see

What it means to share

So before the land goes bare and

We go down there

I will do what I can

I will make my stand but

I will do it

In poet's boots.

The Red White and Blues



Blood on their hands and

Blood in their eyes

Blood is their tool

Blood covered lies

Drive the money monsters

Cover up conspiracy

Cult consumption

Condition brainwashed

Product hypnosis knows us

Knows we can't resist

The new spiral hula-hoop

Slinky-Twinkie automatic

Peanut butter and jelly in one

Two for one, half off

Buy one get one free

For a limited time only

Financing were available and…


It’s like that

We're sold

Down the river

To feed the beast

So it can hide its blood covered lies

And we don't have to see what happens

To those who can't keep up or

To those who turn to


When there is no more blood

They leave us behind

To die

And that's why

I'm red

I'm furious with them

Yes them

The they

The ones everybody talks about

But nobody knows

Who they are, why or

How they came to be but

One thing’s for sure

Murders run the world

That's why

I'm white

White as a sheet

Scared like a rabbit and

All that jazz

It gets me down

When I look around and see

The scales are tipped

Justice is blind

And the hang man just got a bonus this month

Now he can get his kid those new shoes he’s been wanting

I see it going down all around me

While it seems there is nothing

I can do

And that

That's why

I'm blue

That’s why

I’m red

That’s why

I’m white

That’s why

I’m blue

That’s why

I’m blue.

Confessions of a One Eyed Monkey

Laughing black on it now

I see a parade of shadows

Poking through shards of sunshine

Flashes of reality, abducted by the night

Between here and the truth

I see long evening shadows

Cast across the dusty land

Fluttering and fading in and out of perception,

The dull drum of distant machines behind me

Belts running, gears grinding

Whirling wheels and whistles accompany

Buzzes clicks and beeps in the assembly of

Plastic laughter and circuit circus smiles

A manufactured maritime haunts the horizon

As little girls in curls circle me on tricycles

Consecutively ringing their riding bells

One by one the curly cute clones

Pass with a ring some sort of warning

Or perhaps a plea I hear gears engage

The girls stop and smile

The shadows stop dancing and

The seen begins to drip and smell

I run

Realizing only then that the street

Is a conveyor belt whose gears I heard engaging

Running in place is all I can do to avoid being pulled into

The machine and its nest of darkness

In its shadow I will grow old and fall but

Not before my race is run.


Golden yellow glowing freedom taunts from the other side of mellow eyes. The prize is one slick pig in a pen of mud and grease waiting for the butter gloves. The dove’s love, a push becomes a shove as the edge moves closer and the feet grow colder. Can a bolder dream known under more dusty potential as a vision unseen?

Clean but barrowed shoulders hoist tomorrow with old ropes, pull your pants up. Suck up the gut and strut, stomach in, chest out. Wait in faith for a way to make it –work while they jerk your chain and you’ve a stain on your white heart poking fun at the thought of a fresh start.

Withered spoons and Hallmark cards leave tracks in the snow, melting precision, courting us with a suitor’s song, like death does. Hangers and old tinfoil wads warm solemn drawers and wait. The dog sleeps curled up on the naked floor awaiting the return of his beloved Jesus. Flowers with roadmaps to salvation in their back pockets, panhandle busy strangers, rockets and glass, pain, pills and bliss, wonderment, confusion and a fist full of love, a twist of fate in a stiff drink shaken and stirred. Wild and free she waits in a cage while upstage the pop show goes on draining blood and money from pilgrims and soothsayers. Prayers go up in smoke and he wonders what’s not a joke?

Green lights and placid somber sounds jump twist and shout out greetings and salutations, congratulations and instigations. Free crimes rhyme and jive to upbeat links slinking past graveyards and citrus groves decked out in Christmas lights and dry wall mud. Wantons and pearl onions, spare change and pints of ale carry on the traditions, singing petitions and lobbing for small arms and gift baskets. Grease monkeys look into open heart surgery while junior varsity linebackers build up a stock pile of pastimes. Green horns bloom large and in charge whittling away the meantime just in time for the new moon. Coal miners and pre-owned car salesmen haggle over leftovers tossed to the wind, cries Mary. Tom, Dick and Harry hang out at the corner bar, shooting the shit, passing the pit, welcoming disaster, walking the line and stealing time. The slime tastes as good as it smells. Free basted bones grown and plow fields of salt and raspberries. The feeling of being sneaks up on blue nuns and intolerance. So, what’s up with black strap heals and white stockings anyway?

The Quite Pandemonium

Behind closed curtains

Cubist eyes glare

Greeting Shakespearian tendencies with reverence

Outside some weary sidewalk café at dusk.

The smooth tall cold drink

Asks for another round as she

Touches wet glass with fingers of reflection.

Thoughts, ducklings parade through the rain.

She sends pictures to the graveyard

And pretends she bought him off.

Breadcrumbs and wine feed the slip.

Mashed potatoes stick to the fork.

Tattered pages unfold in daydreams.

No new news here,

Only the past with a knife.

Letterhead reveals a trail of three star hotels and sand bags.

She spins the ring around on her right hand’s long thin finger

-Dry in the water.

She examines the table’s surface.

Smooth and rough she touches her face.

The day glides by on skates.

Elizabeth is hooked to her seat.

A stationary observer and guilty bystander,

You can’t even see the scream in her eyes,

Blood and bone caught in a mortal clash,

Passions and past disasters lurk around every corner.

Scars and roses pave the path she walks.

Broken heels and gravy-stained dresses furnish her closet.

Sandy Crane Island seemed like a get away.

Soft drinks hard liquor.

Warm dollars bend in the twilight

And the wind takes her prize.

There is an heir named to the evening.

She glistens like dew at the notion.

Her smile sprawls open like the road.

Her chin points to distant skies.

Take me you legless bastard

She cries out in all directions.

Life shutters in recoil and plans an escape,

Hobbling home on broken crutches and a dream.

Share your plan with disaster Elizabeth.

Take me home under your coat.

No one will know or freeze the lines.

Can you take off your shirt?

Promises deck the halls in pieces.

Lakes of fire blaze across flaming drinks.

Scotch and brandy lead the way.

Tulips wash us away from home.

Granite rocks-on in sheltered hearts.

Mother’s words tragically washed out to see

The shadows magic sinks its teeth in.

The owner claims no responsibility.

How humble are you? She wonders.

Do give on Sunday or rattle your cup on the corner?

Why do I care? She wonders half heartedly,

Lost in what was, despite tomorrow.

Hang your hat at the door and come in.

Stay a spell and warm your bones by mine.

Have a hallucinogen and see yourself

Lying by the fire naked and shuttering, quaking with fear.

Home is down again tomorrow.

Which way is it to the dragon?

Do you bleed or carry a lunch?

How many have you crushed beneath your boot heel?

Tainted patterns can lie quaint against an autumn dawn

But it’s spring and they’re foaming at the mouth.

They dine in broad daylight just a table away

With lemon yellow fur coats and shots of Thorazine.

She tilts her cup and sips,

Noticing that when she swallows her ears pop.

Her left elbow begins to itch and she scratches.

She puts her glass down and stares at the sky.

Why do I think she thinks?

Then she lowers her head and slips into a stoop.

Some one is grabbing her drapes from the inside

And she won’t let them go.

Jazz and Warm Eyes

I was there.

Where were you?

Sleeping with time?

Warming up to the abysses; clawing?

Feeling a cold peripheral?

Why don’t you do something?

We can beat it!

Go ahead and shoot me then.

Shoot me if you don’t believe in Jazz!

In Search Of

Hand me down.

This old tired dawn needs a new one.

There is an infinite drift on the horizon placating the weary.

Gravel and lingerie hold together the third floor in the midst of reason

While tired burdens beat against the shutters, shaking us to our foundations.

Frustration hankers for more, outside, behind the tool shed,

Lying in wait like a secret admirer hell-bent on seeing you theirs.

Watch the tides roll out and in again.

Harbor sanctuary in your pocket.

Hold time hostage in your lost disaster.

How do you feel inside without breaking the egg?

Wet feet get clammy and clamor revolves around the rising of the dead.

Walls falter and tremble at the sight of pain.

Will they hold on to tomorrow or let go of the dream?

Fear won’t be pushed out of his square and onto the sidewalk without papers.

He met with temptation for breakfast over an age old fire planning a rescue.

In humble trenches they carved out their initials in driftwood;

Hoping someone might see their voices through the haze.

Clandestine poets sift trough the twilight looking for survivors,

While happenstance guides the skyline as we pull up along side.

As deep as she is, I think the sea is onto something.

Flotsam and jetsam emerge from, and then recede

Back into the shadows cast of rippled waves skating wake.

Blinking, shrinking and swelling on this glass slick surface,

The dashed platform of progress is set adrift as scattered remnants,

Moving to an old song’s rhythm; a new born chance in the dark.

Let it not be seen behind cold boardroom doors but on the front desk,

In the eyes of egger dreamers and lost prophets,

A home for tomorrow and a shelter for the past.

Blood Song

Uncomfortable melodies float over tranquil bones to the accompaniment of a dysfunctional rhythm. Jason writes a check he hopes he can cover and Kimberly looks into unavailable options. John waits in the car with the motor running, rolling the radio dial in search of something other than what’s there. How many glistening fruit juices have been squeezed for head stones? Where was Wal-Mart when my mother left me? Did you know they planned to have you killed and succeeded? You were laughing like justice when they threw the switch unaware the face under the hood of the condemned was your own. They put us away and say we did ourselves in but they showed us the button and they told us to push it with a Christmas bonus on the line. Alligators and doves swim in each other’s blood. Wouldn’t it be cool without all the rules rewarding fools, gold for backstabbers and hackers trapping their brothers for furs and selling the hides? Throw a dog a bone like a lone against his home and send her wondering through the darkest part of the haunted woods alone. The morbid tooth of decay slips in under the covers and gently caresses the missing lovers. The white horse mingles. The dawn grows weary. The sky is falling down and laying-it-on in waves while the slaves of circumstance fight in complacency for diesel duelies and doublewide contracts. The bulls are running for office pushing the mass’s offensive, scared animals, desperate with horns, killing instinctively like mail carriers on the brink. Here the public squelches wisdom like an aggravating nuance, a hindrance and an obstacle, easily crushed by the stampeding mob fighting to be first in line at the white sale. Just turn on the TV and wait; soon enough, they’ll gut liberty and sell her bowels to the jubilant zombie crowd as it clamors for a piece of the action. Big tires roll on and who is going to do what about it. The powers that be have an army over us and with no knife sharp enough to cut their iron sides, we get no shot, no fight, only subjugation.

I met a man, this old tired fighter that had lost his arms in the war and now has nothing, nothing but this, this bone dipped in ink-scripted scream.

Settling the Village

Jump squirm and shout

Just don’t get excited

The British are coming

But don’t let them know

You’ve seen it before

Never before

Hold on till your

Horses run free

As the sea’s breeze blows

Up nature’s skirt

Under her shirt

Licking her snow capped peaks

Then down to the valley

Out over the sea

The wind blows wild and free

There’s a storm on the horizon

The villagers are restless

Their crops are dry as their wells

Jump squirm and shout

Just don’t blow your top

The rain is on the way

Keep your cool and wait for the day.

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