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.
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
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
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
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
The American way?
Get off it!
In the long run
For what's done
Is until undone
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
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
Product hypnosis knows us
Knows we can't resist
The new spiral hula-hoop
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
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
And that's why
I'm furious with them
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
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
|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
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.
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
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.