Latest Poems


lately you’ve been sliding down
the wrong side of the greasy wheel
life scrunching
as if curling against attack

outside your meat sleeve
the dreamer explores the opposite of truth
thinking that experience
is the result of circumstance

the dream makes you believe that

the dreamer hangs on
as if for dear life
slipping but clinging to experience
thinking: my circumstances will cease!
never more will i …

details never end
they’re impossible to exhaust
wars raging
interrupted by future memories
distended weather
loves gained and lost

bars of gold wrapped in thin wax paper
tales of struggle not ending until later

the blaming way is the only protection
against all others
and then it’s not

cycling alone
against the massive undergrowth
the chute is open
but it’s broken

have desire, will travel
millenniums unravel

the dreamer starts
filling in the cracks
feeling wisps of peace blossoming
in the only direction possible:

displacing all dreaming
with one fell promise

to always be
to always

the hanging goblins of the pentagon

the structure is said to have looked like
centuries of mud brick after mud brick
fortifications and weaponry
guns, missiles, and tanks

an ascending series of tiered goblins grew above
mud brick after mud brick
topping the stronghold

the hanging goblins were purely mythical

yet they sneered
and people began to wonder why

they sat on the walkways outside all day
and hung in the doorways at night

as the days progressed into years
they never left

even when forcibly removed
they somehow escaped
and showed up later
each one holding two more bricks
dripping mud from each hand

deep inside
imprisoned in the vault of your being
something in you wonders
if this could really be true

a hidden wonder
that is touched upon
mud brick by mud brick

yet a wonder

space race

you’re becoming
a mountainous liar
depending on which voice you listen to,

she said to me
as she swished around pure grain alcohol
in an almost empty brown bottle

i know what you’re up to,
she said

her tits are bursting seeds
that drip down her belly
her lips look like a sweating sow’s
and her breathing reminds me
of an old jimi hendrix song

it doesn’t even matter,
she said,
same difference

let me stand
next to yoo fyah

the only thing left to figure
is whether you have anything
more to offer,
she said

i once had and itching desire
but i can’t even recall why now
i can’t even feel

it was a hoot,
she said,
it was like the space race

i didn’t stand so close
on the way out,
you see

i didn’t listen
to that voice


the bell in your sleeping hand,
though you dream of silence,
makes a noise like a blade
slicing open the room

feelings tones pour
out of the void
like cool, sweet rain

the puddles of your mind
dance in anticipation
of profound mystery
drenched in being

beyond seeing and believing
there is sacrifice in place

for you to realize
what, then, remains
to be undone?


you are not now what you were
said my self to my me
not matter
nor later
not psychically

you were ten minutes earlier
than you will by then be
what’s being

and ten minutes after
the same being may be
but you aren’t
what you were

yet you are what you’ve been
though you’ve changed what you see
not viewing
your past

you’re ever the union
of all that can be
the moment

bespoke opportunity tranche

i’ve wandered around this lackluster town
with a slug in my pocket
and my debts all around

i’ve taken to wearing a hulkbuster frown
with my rod in its socket
and a toe-tapping sound

i’ve challenged your word, you adjuster clown
with your now-empty docket
despite what i’ve found

i recently took all your fuck clusters down
exploding each rocket
while going to ground

i’ve certainly earned a well-mustered renown
though you continue to knock it
as truly unsound

i know that as soon as your ad trusters drown
you’ll break off your sprockets
from dollars to pounds

they’ll be nothing remaining no luster, no crown
with no one to hawk it
and a global melt down

just start writing

just start writing

you don’t have to do it, man
just put down the pen
lift the nib from the paper
you can do it all later

artist schmartist
who cares?
you won’t be needing this
who will be reading it?

will you text it to your honey?
will it make you any money?

these thoughts go through your mind
as you mull over the word “preamble”
which sort of rhymes with bramble

you wish you *could* put down the pen
but you can’t
you’ve never been able to

didn’t matter if you were doodling
unicorns pointing at flying saucers
with a bubble saying, “Swamp gas!”
in elementary school
instead of taking notes

or if you were capturing phrases
from a boring meeting at work
trying to fit them into cut-up verse

after all, you can’t help it
and you could be cursed
with dancing instead
and pirouettes or worse

your toes ache just thinking about it

but it’s not your call
what draws you to that white wall

be it dance or painting or writing or song
you know you haven’t got very long

it’s really only a few instances
strung together
that are your creative bellwether

your mysterious muse
that gives you so few clues

so happy new year’s
mes frères
have a few more beers

put some wax in your bramble
no more need to preamble

just start writing