untitled

i drive more slowly
passed cemeteries
these days
to look at the mirrors
littering the ground.

i know...
you see granite and marble
broken with history
and tears,

but all i see
is my reflection,
scattered and lost,
searching the fractured
landscape
for a hint of reassurance.

lately
i've been frightened
of flesh and bone and breath.

lately
i've been colder than normal,
and the pains in my gut...

i digress...

i'm boring you...

poetry is for living,
even as i hear
death cracking her
feeble knuckles
just out of the corners
of my eyes,
a shadow dancer
teasing me with a blown kiss...

my reflection
spins drunkenly
as clouds creep slowly
across treetops,
sowing fallow earth
with their bitter elixirs -

urine on the communion table -

napalm in the nursery -

and my reflection,
broken and twisted,
     laughs and dances,
          pleads and weeps,
     cowers and sinks
in the rancid mud
of illusory graves -

dysphoria in the cracked reality
of a mourning sun.

My newest tattoo...

Here's my new ink.  It's an owl that Sophie, my youngest daughter drew a few years ago.  Sophie literally means "wisdom", so it's fitting she went through a phase of drawing owls.  It is on my inner right calf opposite a sun drawn by my oldest daughter, Abigail, whose name means "father's joy" (the sun is a symbol of joy).  The two are my own little yin/yang - day/night, light/dark.  I am balanced.

"it's at night when we feed"

darkness - a twisted blanket --

whiskey and a blow-job

in raw light

of a waxing moon --

subtle serenade of cricket song

broken sporadically by soft rustle

of ground leaves --

[coyote circling perimeter

curious as scent

of lust and lush melt on the wind

ride into night]

a hint of semen on her lips

when she kisses me

whiskey fire

tongue on tongue --

now lying naked and drunk

in the grass

chasing stars across the sky --

poetry creeps

through shadow

and chews at our soul.

"the severity of the modern mind"

i had just sat down
for dinner
when the phone rang.


“hello?”
“to which god do you pray?”
asked the voice
on the other side.
“i guess to the one
with the best offer,”
i replied.


“excuse me?”


“well, pearly gates and eternal life
are swell and all,
but that one with all
the virgins waiting on you
sounds very tempting.”


“o.k., but you do underst…”


“you know how they
could make that more
appealing?
take twelve or fourteen
of those virgins,
slap bikinis on ‘em,
put ‘em on the beach,
or in front of a tractor,
and make a calendar!
now that would get ‘em
more business!”


“excuse me?”


“and their pitchmen…
have you seen ‘em?
they’re either skinny, dirty
pink-o hippies with sandals and beards
or fat chinamen smiling like
they snuck out a fart in church!”


“sir, i must…”


“you know who they should get?
matt damon.
now there’s an american hero
for ya!
good lookin’ too.
i’d vote for him!”


“uh, thank you for your time, sir.”


we both hung up.


“who was it?” my wife asked,
dropping a pork chop bone
to her plate.


“oh, just someone doing a survey
about who we’d like to see
run for president next time.
do we have any more
mash potatoes?”

My new book, Songs of the Smudge Monkeys, is now available!!

"Sometimes, It's the Only Word"

I was printing a poem when the paper jammed.  Notice the one word not messed up.

"it's snack time"

my daughter
gifted me
a crow feather
long and black
and bent
in a slight "s"
we surmised
it ripped
from his wing
by a hawk
mad dash
through the
sunlight
into shadow
and then
as if on cue
red-tail alighted
on a bough
across the street
and we
sitting in grass
amid winter bees
and broken weeds
watched it
pounce
mouse or mole
too slow
ot too engrossed
two wings
flailing
victorious
as murder
watched cautiously
from diminutive
scatterings
of january green
and i
squeezing
that feather
between
bicep and rib
took my daughter
by the hand
and retreated
for cookies
and purple soda

"contemplations"

the complexity
of a ladybug
is far more intriguing
than the simplicity
of a jet plane.


*     *     *     *     *


     oyster shells in a dessert
          are far more beautiful
               than sand in a sea.


*     *     *     *     *


moon 
can
survive
tumultuus
blue
but
sun
dies
each
and
every
night

"it's simple...you"

i need to devour your essence -

moonlight offers

a taste of ornate wine

sprinkled across your flesh -

                  i want to rest my head

on the cusp

of your pubic mound -

i need to absorb your breath -

moonlight offers

a taste or ornate wine

causing your soul to thresh -

                  i want to whisper poetry

where your torso

meets your thigh -

to fall away with you

through life -

                                                      [divine...]

to melt into you

in death -

                                                      [divine...]

a fire...

             burns its way...

                                        toward...

                                                        the starlit sky -