Wednesday, July 27, 2011

dead crow

found a dead crow in West Point, Mississippi
lying on the side of a building,
a dirty dark alley
lit in sunlight

'died of West Nile virus' an old black man
limped up to me saying, 'isn't it curious
how large the world looks to us and how
small the world looks to a bird?

it can travel at will from one side of the
globe to the other, while we stay stuck
in the mud in small towns because we
are afraid to break free and find
the answers'


i think it's curious that we feel the
same way about death - fearing answers -
i thought, well at least now
the crow knows all the answers, while
the old black man and i will just be
sick and asking questions.


Corner Office in Hell

A friend died.
She was beautiful
with hair long like
yours used to be, mother.
She was like you. Lost. Misled.
Forgotten. Confused. So was i.

i found my way.
My will pushed me
through. You both died
the same year. On the same
day - the first. As much sadness
i feel, i feel more anger. Because

i could have chosen
to be weak. Like the both
of you. But i kept fighting.
Even through the bad times. Like
the messages on the phone that you
both were dead while i kept going. If

you think in hell
i'm going to hug and
forgive you. wrong. i've
been angry a long fucking time
so don't think the suffering of hell
is going to change it. My suite is on

the executive floor
there, and this mother-
fucker will be sitting in
that corner office waiting
to fuck you both up for eternity.


Bad Cat

Had it all, but it wasn't what i wanted.
i left my job with the Air Force to take
a job as a clapper in a mariachi band,
because i could really keep time.

Which isn't what i did with my first
wife so i left her for my second,
third, fourth and fifth to plead
silence on the truth of walking out

on my family on Christmas Eve.
Because i knew that fat-fuck
wouldn't be coming down our chimney
because i left our

smiles flying in the clouds to evaporate

under the hot son.
Who will come for me
one day and take my life
for what i did to him, his mother and his cat.

The bitch.
All she did was whine and eat,
and the cat wasn't nice either.


Advice to a Cheating Young Married Woman

trust is tough, no one wants
to give it and nothing is harder to earn.

binding her hands to the posts on the bed

nothing can weigh heavier over
a relationship than trust.

from parent to child,
friends and lovers,
brother and sister.

the blindfold pulled against her eyes tight.
she could hear the door open and voices whisper.

the higher the degree
of trust
it will build up
the magic
of the relationship,
taking it to levels
never imagined
and emotions that are explosive.

she could feel their breath between her legs.
ready to experience her own personal explosion.

imagine what God must have felt
trusting that man would do what they did to his son.
imagine that knowledge and control.

power like the flood she was feeling now.
muscles twitching and aching spasms.
filling the room with screams.
until her control returns.
with eyes watering she orders them both out.

"for the love of God"
trust can be reached on levels both known
and unknown,
and desires that are shown
and torn to the surface.

she lays naked on the bed
wondering what the hell she got herself into.
as I ask her
if she's ready for me.


Hen Eggs

She stood before me
that cackle rising to
bleeding decibel levels,
in that instant my hands acted
on their own
proceeding to crack
the egg that had
encased my madness
for the last few months

Aborted yoke runs through my fingers
a stream of consciousness
that had been shattered years before.
That little red head that i took
in the back of a
piece-of-shit car
to only find out that the fetus
had not been mine but,
i footed the bill
to be thanked later
by drunk laughter
through a pay phone,
a fucking pay phone,
she fed me with her
obnoxious high pitch laugh
that cackle that cunt
slumped over in front of me
lifeless in soft-boiled pools
of my angry memories
congeal together

somewhere below
my praying arms
covered by sticky hair
matting memories
that never wash away,
just sizzle inside my head
forever with that
goddamn laughter
a radio station that just
refuses to die
despite the poor signal.

The cackle of static
drags on forever.


Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Street

the street gives
beneath my long strides
under a cloud cluttered
sky, painted blue and white,
with froth and frost
and i know
somewhere you
are under this sky and my
pain returns
while the street gives
a steady pace of reality
that no matter how many
vodka tonics i swallow
and sad songs i listen to
and dollars i give to
those promising to
take away the memory
you’ll be there
mocking each step as
the street keeps giving
and my legs keep moving
and the past remains
behind me, so far away
like i wish
the sky would fade
and the street would
travel to that place
without  the horizons
of you


Trip Me

i stumbled hard yesterday
crashing as my hand
found the drawer in the house
holding my relief in
the guise of a white pill.
long before but
under a different
a doctor
told me at 16
if you don't stop
you'll be dead by 20
so i changed from Vicks and Crown
to Vicodin and Goose,
and with luck
my new stabilizing-solution
solved the
equation if only
temporary, but avoiding
the problem itself
instead appearing suddenly
again, to ask why
i continue to
slip and let myself
do nothing but
find more excuses
as my
intestines rot
and lose their
ability to control themselves,
much like their owner
whose means
grew along with his needs
he crashed on the ice,
cracking his
skull and with forced intervention
imprinting a desire
to control his passion.
until yesterday.
when for no real reason
i was left
like a toddler without an excuse
of why i did it.
i just knew that i did
and wished that
someone had tripped me
instead of
me falling on my own.


Walk Away and Remember

How can you say i walked away
when you just stopped walking?

Side by side. Together. Remember?

Maybe it doesn't seem so now. As it
seems you've forgotten how we

found each other in that cold winter.

On that bad bed in that fucking cold room
as i was drinking myself to hell,

for reasons i could never explain.

still you found comfort in that drunk
and that bed, keeping warm flesh to flesh

as i scribbled words between sessions

as you slept soundly next to me,
so afraid to be alone,

but you always seem to focus on

that i had to escape in that hot spring.
Tired of sleeping on that floor. Still drinking

and in need for a way to get out. Be more.

So i replaced you with another place,
time and yes, happiness, while you

remained where you were. Lost.

But, fuck, anytime you want to have a
drink and talk about it. Call me.

i'll be there. Misery loves company.

Especially when it's worse than its own.
Especially when it comes from the source.

Especially when it can get up,

pointing fingers that probe into
two lost lovers broken souls,

touching us as a distraction

only to then allow us to sneak out,
walk away, while trying not to remember.



thunderstorms explode up
rising from the earth
as marching acts of God
lined across the horizon
erasing the sun
dissolving the skyline
with falling water,
flashing lightning and
the freight-train sound
of the tornado screaming
down rural streets
yanking trees out
by the roots
rearranging the front lawn
into the kitchen.
above the howl of warning
horns mimicking the
sound of a terrified
child on a amusement
park ride,
that funnel keeps
spinning and touches
each life forever
and while all God's
people scrambled for
safety and pray for
God to spare them.
i'm rubbing my hands
thinking this
is all wonderful,
but what's my backdrop?
is the camera getting me
before i check my light
and makeup and lead-in
time wondering as
i read the copy if
the hotel has a bar.


writing books

i keep writing books everywhere,
my pocket, bedside, in my car, in the bathroom,
on the TV, in the kitchen,
like my words were so gourmet,
so incredible,
that they should
be everywhere because
heaven forbid this
pile of stinky shit in my head
doesn't get down on the page
for all my world to see what
a fuck-up i really am.


Wednesday, July 6, 2011


if only dreams were bottled
and sold in a store,
where they could be opened.
revealed. achieved.
and realized for all to see,
and breathe,
and hold.
if only dreams were bottled
so they could be given,
wrapped, and put under a tree.
in a box. pulled from a pocket.
and shown with a tear, a kiss,
a hug, and the reality of knowing

dreams are real.


Girls in Color Panties

'will you just grab me and make love to me now?'

she said to me as we met at this party
where everyone danced and drank in
their underwear.

her tongue was magnificent
in my mouth and i felt awkward
and wrong because all i could do was

hear those words echoing in my head
while looking around at all the colors of the rainbow
that paraded by me smiling

in thong panties and magnificent
bras that held such beauty.
my fingers stroked the underside of

her breasts and her breathing
grew faster. her tongue worked harder.
words still pounding with each pump of my heart in my ears.

the girl in the powder-blue push up bra
smiled and motioned with her finger

for me to come to her, but i couldn't
because the girl in a purple laced thong
walked by first and asked...



there you go,
hide in there
that darkness
afraid to show
your flaws,
afraid to face
your short-comings
terrified that one
mistake from
your past
will step forward
and reveal all
that is wrong
with you,
here, now,
and forever.
so go
and hide and
i'll act like
i don't see
for now.



because the illness has changed you,
there are no good days or bad,
all of them are mixed.

because you roll over and turn
from the day and hope that
the night falls.

because dreaming fills you with
who you used to be and then
your eyes open to what remains.

because being awake is a constant
reminder of why you fight so much,
you are known as a prick.

because you can stand in a mass
of people and still fall
into your dreams.

because that song you long for is
not as dirty or as filthy
as you think.

because you've fucked up and so
has everyone else around

because you're 'sick and tired'
doesn't mean you have to
stop fighting.

because you are who you are
and people still talk
to you.

because your eyes hold
secrets as well as
your lips.

because tomorrow really
doesn't matter as much
as today.

because you never stop asking
questions or pushing
ideas, just




a phrase
a group of words
a list under something
to capture a moment
a sound
a vision
that dances above it
with a cluster of
choice words to describe
a moment that is
supposed to last forever,
but in reality
is lost with a
turn of a page.


Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Escorts At The Bar

Two curvy young Puerto Rican escorts
asked if i wanted a good time
while i was at the hotel bar.

i want to ask what they think
is a good time.
if they think their lives
are a good time.
if that's what they tell their
families they do for a living.

selling good times,
but i simply shake my head
and they move on to
the next sucker.

it takes three hits,
but finally they get a bite
and two hours later
i pass them as they
get off the elevator.

laughing about the guys
small dick.
love is cruel.
especially when it costs.


Strangers At the Bar

that was a mistake
and she knew it,
an error in judgment
in sharing so soon
how she felt

about me, especially
as i took her across
my knee kicking
and screaming and smacked
her ass red

with embarrassment as
she bit her lip and
i slid my hand up her
skirt fingering and
touching a point

of no return when
you share those feelings
and don't know what
to expect in return
and all i could

think about was why
does she moan when i
smack, cry when i finger,
and tell me she loves me
when i buy her a drink.


A Short One

even in perfect health
i thought of it
so why is it so shocking
as i lay here falling apart
rotting that I still think
of it?
what else is there?
Jesus Christ, just answer me that,
what else is there really?
the end?


A Mouth Like That

she likes to have her ass spanked
hard and often and it
leaves her cheeks bright red
like a fresh strawberry

but she cries when i stop
or offer to kiss it to
make it better

she likes to scream so loud when we
fuck and sweat and cuss
at one another with the lights off
two strangers full of lust

and anger and 'Jesus Christ just
shut up and fuck me harder'
so i spin her around

to do all things she loves
fuck and spank

because with a mouth like that
what else is it good for,
except maybe to


A Late Night Touch

i touch you late at night
when you're sleeping,
stroking your hair, your back,
the shape of your ass...

'that's so creepy,' she said
crushing all the fondness that
was in the air, or in that
memory for me.

silly how a person’s natural
reaction can crush another.
especially when love is involved,
or sex, or lust, or the simple fact

that you offer a moment of weakness
to her and she smashes it
into the stands like Big Mac
taking a fastball deep.

for that brief moment as
i lay there in the darkness
happy she can't see my wounded face,
i think of grabbing the bat

under the bed
and really touching her as she sleeps.


a fool's joke

lost another scarred soul today
another woman in my life
who found solace in drugs,
pain and abusive men.

lost another one today and the
second this year, and i can't
figure out why my scarred soul
remains while theirs is lost.

why do i continue to struggle on
with my anguish while their light
has blown out?

lost, but still breathing to scar
some more as they are gone forever,
a fool’s joke to be heard no more.


Tuesday, May 31, 2011

the street

the street gives
under a cloud cluttered
sky, painted blue and white
and froth and frost and i
know somewhere you
are under this sky and my
pain returns
no matter how many
vodka tonics i swallow
and sad songs i listen to
and dollars i give to
those promising to
take the memory away
like i wish
the sky would fade
and the street would
travel to a place
without horizons.



Trouble is coming.
Going to crawl into your room.
Stand over you while you're sleeping.
Touch you in places that pre-teenagers
don't like to talk about, but yearn
to experience in the dark.
Fondling, stroking, and wanting
to discover whether the trouble
standing over them is as bad as
everyone makes it out to be.

Voyeurs at Lunch

Lunchtime at the park finds me eating
my pickle and meat sandwich, while
trying to hide my eyes watching
people, especially the women in skirts,
or the young couples sitting at picnic
tables imagining their conversations
of lust, and filth, and hope, and loss.

'i realized at 25 years she makes me
more happy than any other person. i'm
glad i married her.'

'Why do you like these pants?'
'Because i can see your panties.'

'My husband never licks my ass the way
you do.'

And as fascinating as those conversations
are, i'm more dazzled by the light
cutting through the trees.
The leaves whispering as the wind blows,
or the grain of the grass as it lives
below our feet, those feet at the end of
those long legs that reach up under

those skirts, like i wish my hands could
even as they read their books,
write in dairies,

or tease me with a shake of the shoe.

Because i know even the homeless guy
with plastic bags for a pillow can't
help but wonder what it would take to
rest our heads there. Under those skirts,
in that park, even with everyone
watching because we're all voyeurs here.


When Darkness Falls

i shove back the sunshine because
i need the clouds today

i shove back the sunshine and wander
down the ice covered street hoping
to slip and break

i shove back the sunshine because
i'm tired of hearing of peace and God
and love when all
i feel is hurt

i shove back the sunshine and swallow
glass because anger is a gift

i shove back the sunshine, but don't ask
me why, don't ask me to open up to you,

i shove back the sunshine and hope
when darkness falls
i won't have to think anymore


Why Won't It Heal?

A wounded soul cannot hide,
it cannot be soothed,
it cannot forgive,
it cannot find hope,
it cannot heal,
and trying to
show it,
share it,
discuss it,
reveal it,
only makes me sad.


Friday, May 27, 2011

My Creations

My creative spurts come at odd times,
moments of premature poetic
if you will.

At the bar surrounded by drunks while
scrawling on cocktail napkins. On a
packed in a coach seat

surrounded by angry late passengers
dreaming of traveling in first
while i scribble on

the back of a barf-bag. In a public
restroom next to a man sitting on the
praying to God that

he'll never eat spicy food again,
while i etch graffiti on the stall
in front of me.

During sex as she screams out my name,
her name, and her lovers name, while i
my thoughts across her

lower back. It seems my creations and
moments of inspiration are disposable
of genius, captured by

a mental condom, or the uneasy droning’s
of a very sick man.


lock the door

she whispered
as she took off her shirt
and asked more

'can you keep a secret?'

i nodded no and un-did my pants
as she slid her skirt down to
her ankles, but left her heels on

'good, so do you do this often?'


i managed to squeeze out
while watching her breasts
grin as she released them from
her bra.

i had so much to say, but her
blouse hanging on the doorknob
keep me silent, while her thighs
awoke my libido

'so you're a liar and a secret keeper?
good. i like that in the men
i pick up at bars.'

as i was about to speak
she put her nipple in my mouth
and i succumbed to the greatest
pacifier of all time,

while she road me for hours
and told me of all her
worldwide conquests, and how
shallow men often called
her a slut, but only in bed

'i am a slut.'

she proclaimed as if she
was telling me she was Christian,
or Muslim, or Jewish, and
it was only at that moment
i became aware of her torn

panties still in my hand
and the rough carpet burning
my ass and i couldn't
believe what i was doing,

disgusted with myself i left,
still only
after i was finished.