Sunday, December 6, 2015

This sea of madness

Sunday, December 06, 2015

I always come back to this same place
Where the shores of oppression are awash
With the scattered empty shells of the sea’s most hapless,
Beings snatched up by the savage jaws
Of the ever-devouring winged beast that dominate the air,
Each justifying its existence in this strong over weak world
Where any thing can be rationalized as long as one side wins,
Right and wrong, good and bad, mere labels to post on flags
So that one might explain and moralize the slaughter
As something other than eat or be eaten,
When the weak are most often the least able to eat
And are most often eaten to bloat bellies and inflate egos
Of those powerful enough to do what they wish
Without consequence or conscience.
I have spent most of my life wrongfully enamored with this sea,
Seeing justice and fair play where there is only chaos and greed,
Once believing that everything evens out amid the ebb and flow of waves
When all we get are the washed up bodies of those unable to compete.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Power play

Saturday, December 05, 2015

They crave it like cocaine
Petty Napoleons plotting world conquest
On the backs of moist bar napkins and old pay stubs
Living in the shadow of their great fathers
Whose shoes they can barely fill,
Yet whose fortunes they squander
As if they earned it themselves
Feeding on some need even they do not even know,
Some unfulfilled ambition they see in other people
A fountain head of misguided logic
That paints them as a glorious prince
Hiding their lust behind masks of self-righteousness
They way Dorian Gray hid behind his portrait,
Too scared to ever show their real face
For the horror it would reveal about their dark soul
This craving, this ache for power, this need to be

Something other than merely petty.

Friday, December 4, 2015

Private Eye

Friday, December 04, 2015

They hate it when you give them
All the dirt they could ever possibly want
And they can’t use it,
Because they’re looking to fit you into a mold
But you’ve already made one for yourself,
Avoiding the typical white hat/black hat
Film Noir these guys like to create
In their attempt to create myths
They can sell to their clients,
When everybody should know
There is no distinction, just gray haze
Through which all people stroll,
Trying to avoid the pitfalls and the petty traps
Laid by vengeful, overly ambitious men
With Napoleon complexes
Who get frustrated and dangerous
When anyone gets in-between them
And their petty schemes,
Sending fedora-wearing detectives to stare
Out from the darkened doorways
Across the street, looking to find
The right kind of dirt for the right kind of trap

And all you give them is dirt to bury themselves with.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015


Wednesday, December 02, 2015

He aches all over,
Back bent from leaning down
Inside his box,
The hidden little man
With gnarled fingers
Bleeding from where they
embrace the strings,
His voice fading into the non reality
Of puppet voices,
He must make up
Because puppets do not have voice
Of their own
Or brains,
And yet he so desperately needs them
To say things, he cannot say for himself,
A gnarled man inside and out
Full of illusions he creates
And then comes to believe as real,
Keeping things in motion his only goal
In a life where strings get tangled
And he is constantly struggling
To unravel them so that the fiction
Might go on,
His whole life lived here in this box,
where he can control every little thing
Except himself.

Horror movie

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Eddy Murphy said it best;
When the ghosts says get out
The monster never stops,
Its claws clutch even to the last,
Desperately clinging to last
Vestiges of power
Even when the end of near,
If you can ever get it
So near the end as that,
The monster never stops,
Ruthless in its ambitions,
Always sly,
Sneaking up in the dark,
And unlike the ghost
Eddy Murphy quotes
It never quite says
“Get out,”
until it has its fangs
in your throat,
by which time
it’s too late to do anything
but try and survive.

Monday, November 23, 2015


Monday, November 23, 2015

The leaves rattle against the side of my car
As I sit here to wait out the first true chill of fall,
Each degree causing to shrink a little inside,
I want what I’ve always wanted, but can never have
On fair days with warm sun, I feel less its loss,
I am always losing something and finding something else
I’ve lost before when searching for what I’ve lost this time,
luck and ill luck tied together so I always get both,
I’m chained to the ground, a perpetual prisoner of my own life,
Condemned to the slow decay time brings, like an old leaf
Listening to the rattle of leaves already turned brown
Or lingering at the edges of limbs they are too weak to escape,
Moved, but unmoved by each gust of wind,
Lost when I finally break free to roll across leaf-strewn streets,
With no real purpose or direction, finding no company
In the piles of other leaves only indignity of rubbing shoulders
With strangers when all I ache for is to return to the tree

To turn green again, when all I can do is rattle.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

This side of the Hudson

Sunday, November 15, 2015

I walk near the water
Chill air bellowing around me
As a chill stirs up inside
This budding exhaustion
Making my step drag
Even in places like this,

I always ache for water
When I feel this way
When the world seems
Madder than the average hatter
And the only answer to anything
Is more hate
The distant shooting reverberates
All these miles away
Recalling the smoke that once
Hung over this place
And if I stare hard enough
I can still see the smoldering
Of towers that now live
Inside my head

I ought to be home in bed
Curled up under a blanket
Seeking refuge in dreams
Where such things do not
Occur unless I let them,
And a backfire is just a backfire
Not the end of the world.

Friday, November 6, 2015

This one’s for you

Friday, November 06, 2015

I live my life in myth
This sifting of sand
That blows through me
Like a sandstorm
I never have experienced
In real life,
Fogging up my eyes,
And clogging up
By lungs
So I can’t breathe,
Life is so complicated
I can’t describe it
Except in vague ways
As if each time I put
My pen to paper
The wind comes along
To blow the words away,
Making me think of that
Old song,
About dust or sand
Getting in your eyes,
But knowing that even
In the midst of all that,
Even when the wind blows hardest,
And the sand gets rough
This one is for you.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

A drift at sea

Thursday, November 05, 2015

The water rises and falls
In this place with the moods of the moon,
Slapping at the shore of stones
With each passing cargo ship
I am lost in the tides like a small boy
Who has been cast out into the wide sea
Desperate to feel a bottom I know
I can never reach except by drowning,
And I am already way over my head
Each breath filling me up until I can no longer
breathe, or think – floating in this place
as helpless as drift wood as I cast my gaze
around for one desperate glimpse of land
knowing that if I can put my feed down
on something firm

I can survive.

Sunday, October 11, 2015


Sunday, October 11, 2015

We bend our lives these days
Like strong men bending steel bars with teeth
Tough never tough enough
And your eyes like unguarded gates
To a tough soul so tender
If brings tear to my eyes to look at
No secret passages contained inside
Just a maze of curiosities,
The mysteries of the universe
That ache for something bigger than the turmoil
That engulfs the world
Tough but not tough
You filled with passion for something more
Something real or pure
Powerful in the way the ocean is
Drawn out when a summer squall takes shape
Each wave washing over the world
Reshaping it, while you almost seem
Unaware of your influence
The way the moon is unaware of hers over
These same seas
We sailors riding these passions
Until we either find land
Or sink deep into its perilous flow
Filling our lungs with something
So rich we cannot help but feel satisfied.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

I wear you like silk

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

I pull you over me
Like a silk sheet
Cool skin growing
Warm with a touch
Soft on every part
As I move
This sleep we sleep
That is not sleep at all,
Shakes us at every turn,
We making and remaking
This bed we lay on
Finding excuses
To ruffle it,
I feel you around me,
Tight the way
A glove is tight
But it is not a finger
I press inside,
Easting in and out,
The ritual that wakes me
And also puts me
To sleep,
As potent as any drug,
We strolling leaf-strewn paths
In our own waking
And in our dreams,
Hear the hoot of trains
That have long ceased
To come this way,
Leaving only the soot
Of their passing
On dark tunnels below,
For us to explore,
And the soft touch
Of silk around our limbs
This pace we exist in,
Real and unreal
Made up each morning
By the made service
Of our rational minds
To become ruffled again
By passion that has
No reason,
Only ritual and release

Monday, September 21, 2015


I dream of flower petals
The soft stroke
Of tender fingers
Across my brow
Or cast across my path
Like pink snow
I ache for the just turned leaves
Autumn’s lips
Tips dipped in bits of red,
I ache to kiss
I live a Wizard of Oz life
The scared man behind the curtain,
The cowardly lion
Stumbling and bumbling
Through a landscape
Of Freudian slips
Over which I constantly trip,
Never able to say
What I need to say
When I need to say it
My head so full of haze
It might be cotton candy,
Or the faded pink
Of a faded movie,
With me
Always aching in mid step
To stop and dive deep
Into the midst of pink,
To spread it
and taste what
Lay beneath,
To kiss the red tips
And tender lips,
Each pedal a special gift
Too frail to touch too hard,
But I always do,
Me, lost in this maze
Of my own making,
A bumbling, tumbling
Head of straw
Knowing my brain
Can’t cure the pain
A metal man searching for a heart
That is already broken,
Each joint stiff
With the fall of rain,
And still the pain
Comes, the ache pounds
Inside me as if I am trapped
Inside my own chest
A phony wizard
Needing to drown myself
Once and for all
In pink.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

End of summer rain

The water drips from your chin to chest
And I lick it up,
The rain drenching the world
With its cool touch,
And I need to taste
Where each drop goes
In order to know it,
I believe nothing I see
Needing to feel it,
Or taste it
Needing to take it inside
So that it blossoms in me,
Seeds carried at the core of it
The way rain drops
Carry specks of dust
Each bit a hint at a place
It has touched,
So I may touch it, too,
The taste of that place
Lingering on the tip of my tongue
Until I swallow,
All of it consuming me
This romance that devours us all,
One unable to consume
Without being consumed,
All this union, this push and pull
These drips of drops
We learn to know it all.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Rime or reason?

Sunday, August 16, 2015

I don’t know who you are
Lingering on the edges of my world
A strained violin note
Stretched out inside my head
Until I can’t think
Or breathe
Feeling its vibrations
Pounding up from the core of me
A stranger’s song
Until it becomes
An earthquake
I can’t escape,
A melody
With no rime or reason
I can’t stop

Sense of sense

(date unknown)

I weave my finger through you hair
It feels like water and I wonder
Why my fingers are not wet
This touch, a rush inside me
I cannot fully explain,
This need to feel it
Whenever I look at you
To taste it and to know
All there is to know

I kiss your lips and lick
It with the tip of my tongue
Tasting all there is too taste,
Needing to feel deep inside
So as to know exactly what
You really feel like,
Knowing that I can never
Really know you until I
Know you from the inside out

I lay beside you in the heat
The sweat dribbling from us both
As we breathe deep
I can see nothing in the dark
But I still feel you
And I still taste you
As we breathe deeply together

This sense of sense
Not at all lost in the dark
Though with my eyes closed
I still ache for more

Saturday, August 8, 2015

I float

Saturday, August 08, 2015 (written earlier)

I float,
Lungs filled with air
I dare not let out
Filled with your air
But also empty
I cannot breathe
Deeply enough
To fill the cavity
Inside my chest,
A cough brings up,
Each memory
The lingering touch
I am desperate
To feel again,
The kiss I miss
Yet so filled with bliss
It keeps me float,
Like a life preserver,
On this insane sea
We all must float upon
And flounder in,
Each soul bobbing
Between the ripples
Of waves,
I float with you
Inside of me
With a memory of me
Being inside of you,
I wear you around me
Until you become me,
Or I become you,
Even when you are gone
Surviving each storm
By merely staying afloat
My lungs filled with air
I stole from you
With each desperate kiss,
Knowing then
As I know now
That I might never
Get another chance
To breathe you in.
I float,
Feeling every inch
Of what I felt then
Every curve, every valley,
The friction and head
We drew each time
We made contact,
Electric, atomic,
The scene of it
Lingering in my nostrils
So that I can breathe
Little else,
Part of this endless sea
I float in
And which over time
Will finally consume me
As I once consumed you,
I float,

But not alone.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

You move; I move

(date unknown)

You move and I move
Like sheets of Teflon
That creates heat
Without friction,
This heat boiling up
From inside
To burst out
And subside,
Our lives bent around
These volcanic eruptions
Needing the feel of it
As we stir up the lava,
And the bliss of it
When it all breaks free
Each phase
A perilous adventure
We might not survive,
The climb to the top
The sacrificial plunge,
The lost moments
When we cease being
Who we are
For whom we become,
Broken on the sharp
Shards of loved and lust,
Then reborn,
Like a phoenix
We rise from our own ashes
To repeat it again
And again,
The insanity of pending death,
Defying feat we need
To perform in order
To feel as if we are alive
You move, then I move
Then we both move
Somehow managing
To find moments when
We can feel inside
And outside
As we stoke up
A fire neither of us
Can control,
Or would want to,
Learning that the best part
Is when we have
No control at all

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Getting a grip

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

I sweat just to think about it
This climb up and down
With nothing more than
Fingers and toes to grip with,
The lip of it hanging over me
Like a cliff that might tumble
Down at any time,
This life of risk,
this grip on the tip of it,
Both hands too moist
At the palms to keep me
From slipping
and still I climb,
Pushing myself up
And into each crevice
Feeling the fabric against me
As I move one precious inch
After another,
Aching over progress made
Fearing a back fall so I cling
The sweat dribbling down
From brows to eyes to mouth
So I taste the salt of it,
Get drunk on it,
And the pursuit of it,
The ache to over come
And keep climbing,
Often with no other purpose
Than to see what lies
over the other side,
To see if I can reach it,
Knowing that there will always be
More of it to climb
And stare over
When I finally manage it.

Monday, July 20, 2015


Mystery wraps around her
A mummy with only the glint of her eyes
In this dark placed filled with phantoms
I cannot make out,
Her shape the brightest
As if death’s second life
Has already consumed her
And we live with the blaze
Of her existence
Feeling it scorch our bones
We, the unnamed masses, who
Get buried in the glorious tomb
As tribute to who she was
And who she will become,
Our lust for her life meaningless
Against the praise we must cast upon her,
And do so out of some deeper
Compulsion we cannot resist,
We consumed by her flames
Slave to her life
Chained to her fate
Stumbling into our own doom
Just to heap praise on her,
We foolishly believing
We have wills of our own
And might – if we wanted – do
Something other than what she demands
The whole time feeling her flames
Engulf us.

Morning dew

Beads of morning rain’s residue linger on the pink lips of the meadow rose petals like tears half cried from an overnight storm I only dreamed about, the aftermath of this shaken world filling me as I stroll the meadow path.
The air is heavy over me and inside of me, my thirst barely quenched from sipping these lingering leaves, the pink petals spread to expose their yellow interiors while all around green and purple thistles make it them impossible to touch.
A kiss brings me blood and bliss to my ever hungry lips, and still I sip the tips of leaves to linger and look at, but not to touch, blistered of thirst on my lips, instead of a kiss, as the pink flowers drip.

Study hall

 (date uncertain)

Her long blonde hair
Drips over the back of the seat
In a study hall that is not in a hall at all
But in an auditorium
And we seated like spectators
Waiting for a movie to start
That will never start,
The tips of her hair dusting my knees
Like a tease,
She is so pretty my eyes ache
Just to look at her,
With me so shy
(when I was still shy)
I can barely speak,
But study every move she makes
As if she was my text book,
Catching glimpse of her lips
Or eye lashes each time
She turns to talk to this friend
Or that friend
On this side or that,
Her lips so pink they make me bleed
Her eyes so blue, I drown
She is not a mirage
For a boy stumbling from a dry
Dry desert,
I could touch her if I dared,
I would kiss her if I could,
I’m just too scared to ask,
And so I nearly explode
When she turns to me
And wants me to take her
To the dance,
Me, the shy kid from study hall,
The long-haired beatnik type
Not her type at all
In a school full of cool kids
And jocks,
She a dream come true,
Long hair framing a perfect face
And my head filled with visions
Of being so close
I might embrace,
She asking me to meet
Beyond this hive of echoes,
Beyond a study hall
That is not a study hall at all,
Me, the kid seated behind her,
And she reading me

Like an open book.