Poem: Childhood

In the muck, every step is a trial

for oneself the jury, a thick wet slog

against the ease of suicide, there is no thirst

for the future will be as it was before,

you know well, let the page turn

to reveal a picture of you when you were ten,

or four with your brother

in the bathtub, before life bared

its teeth, joy through the eyes

of your descendants, technicolor wash

saying you could have died

right then, but that’s a lie

because you didn’t think that, is memory

in the end, fitting puzzle pieces

wherever you can, that little boy

is a mystery, only now is

the time to come, enjoy yourself

in the gentle smiles of those you love.

Poem: Childhood

Poem: Lackadazed

The sun ups and downs on the regular, shining a light

for all the money men and branded

bandit raiders, near as I can tell, the ones with stopwatches

tick tock at a trouble pace, I’m only an owl with eyes

to see the one hand washing itself, without soap

in a puddle, so the sickness pervades.


The news is a candy prison, but it’s tough

to determine the architect, through the dead eyes

in the mirror, staring nothing at all

right back at me, perplexed at my own seeming

callous nature, having seen it all

from my perch, I can’t even move against it.

Poem: Lackadazed

Poem: Sharp and Bright

Sting sweet, bush sticker, you’ve so rarely taught me

anything at all, because you can’t compare to the crusher

of an empty sky, I’ve come regarding you

fondly in a way, as if you were the toys

of adolescence, flippant with a buzz-off

regard, curling my face in reaction to the madness

of all the observable things, particularly stoops

under the open doors, speckled red dots

from life above, laying warnings down

so no one with eyes will overlook, tattoo’s saying

“NEVER GET A TATTOO” in newsprint

capital letters, lower back burning

the sentiment into my flesh, so I won’t forget.


Real pain has no homeland, it bites the ass

from two months, years, decades ago, but it is

you, as you are pain, it is both the effect

and the cause, recline on the sizzle seeking comfort

in chaos, a factory explosion spreading

disease all across, plague of genocides,

wisdom detracting distractors, an orange balloon

float farting over pigs and sheep,

listen as they scream a limbless rage,

see from their reaction how it’s best not to

listen to the negative, instead just open

your heart, let the sun burn in

because bursting is better than starving,

Poem: Sharp and Bright

Poem: Condition

can’t ever tell how fast time is

going, whether it’s speeding up or stopping

for good, because I can’t see it

from the outside of itself, knowing that

it’s shaped like an octopus, with each moment a pair

of eyes, seeing everything that teaches

nothing of use, but if I could see

the messages, filter them out from the sand

as gold, I would be thought mad.


My lessons spit on, shit on, burned

in the cauldron of a cloud, we’re all fogged over

forever from before we were even

born, if anyone could see the hand

before their face it would claw

at their eyes, probably, though it could be

just as they say, reality a conflict

network, balanced on a wound

screaming pinpoint, but I can’t see

shit tearing at the walls, assuming this is

just another floor, the top is a state

of mind, like life and death.

Poem: Condition

100 word story: Surprise Breakfast

There was a sandwich waiting for me on my breakfast table in the morning, so from the jump off I was amazed and energized.  I guessed she’d forgiven me, which was pleasingly ahead of schedule.  It was my favorite sandwich, eggs and sausage, but I couldn’t eat it.  I’d cheated on my wife, and the impact of this betrayal hit me in my soul, looking at the sandwich.  I decided that I couldn’t eat through the guilt, so I went to apologize, tearful and loving.  When I opened the door she tried to stab me, talk about a crazy morning.

100 word story: Surprise Breakfast

Poem: Record Store Clerk

“Nothing short of epic” was the name of their first

concept album, copyright 1978 RoosterPrick records,

after reaching #364 on the Billboard charts, they retired

undefeated, having beaten their new rival,

#365 on the Billboard Chart, a pop-punk outfit

from Spain called Salida Del Sol, which translates

into Sunrise, but what was I talking about?


Oh yeah, pointlessness is not an enemy, it’s three

letters in spanish, GOL.  But anyway, this was the band

that truly had no name, but think about that, or not.


This is the history of a Band no one ever imagined, or maybe

they did, who knows or cares about something they never

even saw, so the doomed do exist, lucky bastards.


Are we though?  Really?  Will we see ourselves, soon

showing us that leaflet binders are ballast, cast asunder

with unremembered passions, they are also unforgotten

clay bound bricks, because no one remembers

the orchestral circus, but the love in sound waves

will be diminished, not even by RoosterPrick’s

other touring band, The Beetles, who dressed as bugs.

Poem: Record Store Clerk