1.2.3.

eyes stray
to the black ceiling,
strain to focus.
slowly the blur halts.

head sways back
and forth. you know
the drunken weave
i tell of.

god damn. sleepwalkers
open unlocked doors
of neighborhood houses

dirty little secret

admirer of my thoughts.
mystery writer holds
the advantage.

a stranger with
ideas of their own. feed
me with what flows
from your pen

as this blurb
stutters out of mine.
soak this psyche
in a bath of

euphoric words.
outstretched hands
beg for the internment
of my soul

in the crevices
of your mind.

Drilling for life

Everything has
a short history
perched on lips
just waiting to
be spoken.

It starts as
a hollow buzzing
but intensifies
until the stars

are blinking in disbelief.

eye pollen

i blew you off
like a dead dandelion
floating on a stiff breeze.
lying to ourselves

about wanton desires.
we're dry timber
just waiting for a spark.
lightning never strikes

the same hearts twice
so i walked away.
made your argument
against deaf ears.

you can't see that
we're helen keller,
trying to traverse
a great divide with

none of our senses intact.
just let your fingertips
slip a little and
we'll both be free.

testing

i swear you miss
worming around in
the consumption of
your blinking eyes.

somewhere in the distance
windows into dead souls
escape the inconvenience
because it's not

for answers but
recognition and attention
what these thoughts are.
mocking intonations

opened a door
when you weren't around.
chopping anything in its path
i don't know what

kicking rocks into
tired and zoning silence
drip slowly away.
i felt cheated.

ensemble

a balding, white-haired
man sits in the dark
until 3 a.m. with
his eyes lightly shut.

his head bounces
softly to the sounds
of miles davis. tomorrow
this old soul's heart

will beat it's final
beat. premonitory vision
of impending death, perhaps
mere coincidence.

flash forward to
a bright day.
the aroma of freshly
excavated earth lingers.

tears stain wind
burnt faces as a
trumpet blows quietly.
miles' final farewell.

learning everything over

suicide sounds so good
in times like these.
ingesting gasoline
and sleeping it off.

clenching fists in
a spasming slumber.
hallucinations of holding
you in my arms.

even in this state,
i'm dying to hear
you call my name
just one more time.

how come you sheltered
me, shattered me?
i'm broken now...
unrepairable.

who are you
to tell me where to go?
sharp stabs between
ribs; bitter barbs

cutting out my
heart. dissolving
security envelopes
my mind and chokes.

the great depression

justification is a bitch,
indeed. the world seeks
clarity of facts.
cynical drunk that i am;

i wonder how to go
about the process
of defying acceptance
by the masses.

if anyone should find,
on a trip to the bookstore,
a ratty copy of the Cliff's Notes
on life, please purchase

a copy for me
and my bumbling, drunken soul.
charity is accepted
along with this large

ball of swallowed pride.
waking up in a world
that holds only
shades of grey;

where does the next
drawn breath through
clenched teeth lead?

stop buzzing me fool

repugnant bitch is
at it again. yeah her.
ass. manager. more
personalities than

sybil. wash your hair,
looking like a baglady.
i swear you miss
a dozen genes

from the dna
ladder. must be
the first stillbirth
to survive. normalcy

evades you. it's too
slick of an
eel for some.
shockin ya would

be nice. karma seems
to not catch you.
must be in bed
with Him. go fuck

your electrician friend
that you made cry
butting in where
your snooty nose

doesn't belong. back in
the day, kings
would have you
beheaded.

cro-magnon disguise

square pegs in
round holes
don't fit. but
you are ingenious

man. so you try
time and again.
ugh! grunt and
force. "me make

it fit." a messy
situation. look man,
you need assistance.
someone to direct

the most logical
of thought processes.
mezmerized minds,
get a clue.

why must I be
the brain of
a hundred
ignorant consumers?

little lost sheep
but I'm not your
fucking shepherd,
find enlightenment.

masochistic tendencies

drinking three day
old re-warmed coffee.
an oily film
clings to the

rim of my cup.
cold chef boyardee
on stale toast.
the burps, are

enough to induce
vomit. the hangover
of a twelve day
bender resonates

not just in my head
but the entire
apartment. the walls
throb to the same

beat as my temples.
a caterpillar has
replaced my tongue.
worming around in

my desert mouth.
a knock on the door
of the apartment
across the hall,

cracks my skull,
or seems to. I can't
escape the pain
which ironically

enough. I've chosen
to inflict myself.

garage floor

too much to drink,
I stumble down the
steps to the garage.
the hum of

fluorescent lights
breaks the
midnight silence
of my small town.

the click of my
zippo, light a
smoke. drag.
my vision

is blurred, my mind
hazed. I have to piss.
badly. no smoking
inside. her warning

rings clear. the
only thing. I eye
the drain that sits
squarely in the middle

of the oil stained
concrete. unzip my
pants and let go.
aiming for the tiny

holes, missing the targets.
I piss on the snub of
my cigarette. it hisses
in anger. at my

drunkenness or lewd
behavior. I'm not sure
which. I chuckle,
amused. trip

up the steps
and open the door.
eyes adjust to the
darkness inside.

the humming ceases
as my hand finds
the switch. the door
latches, closed.

in search of

a well traveled path
taken by many. cold,
wet leaves upon bare
feet. walking along

with no destination
in mind. the only goal,
to clear the cobwebs
that litter the many

thoughts that
criss-cross a mind
that long ago
lost it's way.

hoping to regain
a certain dignity.
the funny thing
about pride,

is the all
enveloping nature.
the consumption of
all else, eating

everything it can
get it's green
hands upon. no matter
how carefully we
plan the route

something always
goes awry. whimpering
in the night
at imaginary monsters.

only to awaken
to a reality that
is far worse
than any nightmare

could ever be.
the last tear dried
upon a windburnt
cheek, so long

ago. emotions
are a requisite
down the road you
tread. cautious nature

threatens to break
apart the tightly
wound cocoon we've
spun. cast off your

shackles and
dare to breathe
a free air, to
taste purity.

Bite your lip until it bleeds, it will stop the tears.

A lone picture frame
is all that remains
on these barren,
nicotine stained walls.

You left me long
ago, with only one
memory.

Vivid, like it were
yesterday

that you sat by my side
with your hand in
my hair.

Whispers in ears, warm breath
and goose bumps.

Something grabbed
hold,

of both you and I
and ripped
us in two.

We had a chance
but you chose
to fly.

Confrontations
always made you cringe.

I wake up every
morning, hoping to see
your blinking eyes.

The thought
sends shivers streaking.

Nothing without
you.

Only a shell
of hidden potential
and nerves long ago

frayed.

I lay awake
wondering
who he is or will
be.

The one who
makes you smile
now.

I hope he knows
just how much you
can hurt even when

you hide behind
those sheepish eyes
and wolfish grin.

dead air

the freedom of being
the people we are,
slowly being ripped
from our not so iron

grip. ultra-conservative
personas overflowing this
gigantic melting pot
of a nation that we call

home. too much apathy
from the left wing liberals
while the right wing
crazies seize control

of your entire future,
soon to be a lack of.
proposals to amend,
guised as a well-placed

banana peel. surely leading
to a treacherous slide
down a nasty slippery slope.
how many years will

pass before we're
no longer in control
of our own destiny?
can only close our eyes,

hoping that a nation,
democratic, thinly veiled
as such, will awaken to
the reality that rights

are meant to be given
and not taken away. it's
difficult to imagine
a regime so repulsive

as to cut the cord
on the bill of rights.
still...shepherded in
that direction we are

bound to be shorn of
every single dream
that we can conceive.
stop hitting the snooze

button! it's already
getting bad. how can a
people so fast-paced,
not see the urgency?

polly want a cracker

two yellow feathers
float slowly down
to rest, upon a dusty
hardwood floor.
they land silently,

the dimly lit room
is quiet, almost devoid
of sound. purring starts
to interrupt

the peacefulness that
had settled in so
nicely. soon the room
is filled with an almost
deafening roar

of a contented kitty.
licking her paws and
washing her sleek coat.
looking around, guilt
mars her face.

transgression

two oxen pull grass
with yellowed teeth.
chewing lazily in
midday sun.

light dances off golden
stacks of wheat. sweat beading upon
brown brows. I cannot tell
from here, if they are farmers
or slaves.

a man and a woman, side by side.
backs breaking under
the weight of their travail.
the frenetic pace never slows.

the man swings the scythe.
the woman with the hitch
in her gait, gathers the
freshly mauled grain.

swatting the oxen as
they pull at the golden
treat. a man and a woman
kick off their shoes. tilt hats

over their eyes, lie back on
a pile of hay. sun dancing,
sweat beading, they fall asleep.
the only place that they
are free.

trappings of a questioning boy

walking from cloud to
cloud, drunk, watching
the condensation forming
above the world.

furrowing your brow, puzzled,
because you can't quite
make sense of the chores
you see performed

so far below. questioning
the reasons why so many
muddled lives are allowed
to roam freely.

why can't someone just rein them
in? who had the brilliant
idea of letting us destroy
ourselves this way?

fingers cannot point at god
he no longer exists in your mind.
abandoned long ago by
this benevolent being.

it's odd, how quickly you're
able to spiral out of control.
sliding down the ladder
you worked so hard

to climb. someone knocks
you off. never reaching the apex
is the motto that has
been tattooed into your

mind. your only hope is
to find a cushion to comfort
the blow. only naive people
expect more.

walking crabwise through a desert dries my mouth

the abomination of my existence
was generated in the uterus
of this fucked up orb
we call earth.

this long journey
can only culminate
in a long fall. stepping
off the edge of my world.

with every trudging stride
of my blistered feet, my
body becomes tremulous. sweat
beads upon my brow.

the scorching sun
envelops my hope,
burns it alive. a
conflagration of my
creativity

leaves little hope. the
migration of my mind
ends abruptly. dexterity
of thought, will be
acceded to no man.

prisoner of ignorance

she slips the book
from a shelf, needing
tiptoes to reach.
the spine cracks

as she opens the
cover. unfolds a realm,
previously figmented in
her mind.

the austerity of her
imagination, about to be
shredded. absorbing
written enlightenment,

letting the power of word
invade every functioning cell
of her long ago lifeless
remains. once devoid eyes

begin to spark as
she reaches climax.
scanning page after
yellowed page. her

frantic search for
comprehension is
unquenchable. kneels down,
sucking the marrow

from the surface.
exhausted, she reaches up
to replace the book
on tiptoes.

hands waver, her body is
feeble. she has grown ancient
in this euphoric place.
the book slips

from her grasp, falling
dreamlike into the abyss.
somewhere in the distance,
a cell door swings open.

hindrance

I sit here,
flipping through life.
3 x 5 index cards
determine my existence.

the recipe of my future
penned in ink.
unerasable. I cannot
change the immutable.

yellow sticky notes
litter the hallway
of my substinence. reminders
of aspirations

once possessed. pausing,
to pull out
the card that bears
my name. disbelief

and disappointment
smear my face. my mouth
hangs agape. the misfortune
of my predetermination

unmistakable. like every
good soldier,
I march on. my head hangs,
chin on my chest.

broken.

That awkward moment

She asks for a cigarette.
Graciousness follows
the exchange.

Introductions soon forgotten.

She talks and asks questions.
I listen and nod. More talk
than a cigarette deserves.

I drag a little harder
on my own burning smoke,
trying to escape.

She babbles about life.
Her's and how
she meets a new person
everyday.

A nod in my direction.

I could never
make these kinds
of introductions. Desiring
rather, to be left alone.

My mind begs
for the cigarette back.
Not going to happen.

I snuff mine out
before it's ready.
Turn to walk away.

"It was nice to meet you Brett."
A nood at introductions soon forgotten.

screwball

I sit on this stool,
broken by obesity.
not mine but
someone else's.

my spirit is bogged
down with expectations.
sunday, a day of rest
and yet here I am.
facing the obnoxious,
the ignorant.

work is a 24/7 adventure
customers interrupt my
every thought. spewing
sorry cliches and ridiculous
questions that they ask
on every visit.

I despise them almost
as much as I despise
my life path. desperately
needing to choke the last
gasp of air from
their blackened lungs.

glazed eyes of stupidity
stare at me incessantly.
windows into dead souls
eating at my sanity that remains.

I want to scream
at every person I encounter,
to pelt them with acid balloons,
to burn them
at the stake.

an itch, to call someone
to talk to someone special
but I fear that my anger
my animosity toward all
of humanity will frighten her.

no escape. no outlet.
I cannot get away
from them or my feelings
of servitude. I'm an emotional
slave and I want to die.
or for them to die.

nothing happens. and so,
I sit on this stool,
broken by obesity.
not mine but,
someone else's

terminally void

I'm a no good son of a
bitch. don't dare
tell me otherwise.
men who walk through
these doors lose a
little something.

a gigantic fly floats
on throughout my house.
he can be heard. wings
buzzing crazily. or maybe
it is not his wings
at all. perhaps the buzzing
filling my head comes

from the tiny fly
mouth these words again.
I'm a no good son of a
bitch. let me show you
why I was beaten

down so long that
I cannot possibly rise
revolt against anything.
repulsiveness is a forte
finely crafted after many

years ago I killed
a man haunts me
stalks me. jerks me
around I go.
flushed.

good n plenty

I gobble them up quickly.
I swallow one after another.

My throat is dry but
I force them down.

These little white
and pink pills fill me
with extreme feelings
of euphoria.

Which

only comes before
the tolling of my
euthanasia bell. ending
doesn't seem so bad

after all, consider
how fucked up this
pearl has become.
contracting esophagus

pushes down a pink
pill. lazy eyes drooping
as sleep settles in. right

before consciousness slips
through my fingers
like the yolk
of my life.

train

we stand huddled
outside smoking
and shooting the
proverbial shit.

look there, across
the street. inspiration
comes in all forms.
the sick lady no one
knows what's wrong with.

electric wheelchair
sputtering. she crosses
the parking lot comically
towing a wagon, kid

heaped beneath
piles of warmth.
manuevers inside to buy
more cancer. she can't

escape the inconvenience
or the death,
haunting her and the
silly boy she parades
around town. he stares

in wild eyed wonder
as we all do
at the befuddling and
hilarious spectacle that
remains her life.

burning blue hair of alexander graham bell

I place the phone
upon his coffee table
pick up my burning
cigarette and drag.

the pbr is almost
gone. pisses both of us off.
he's an alcoholic, i'm
almost there. sniff

the air, funk
but disregard it. mindless
chatter broken only
by the flare up
of searing plastic

burning up the phone lines.
flushed flames. dial tone.
still works. we laugh
because it's not

funny. crazy people
never were very
good at logic. he eyes
my pbr.

the last pbr at least
in our existence. which
is the only
one that matters.

pathetic.

shadowy facade

nervous. the crowd
about to deflower me.
staring eyes,
expecting...

the unknown.
am i two-bit?
or am i...
legitimate?

they'll never tell.
applause is
a courtesy. kind souls
but i need to know
the truth.

mouth is dry,
hands are sweating.
ironic, isn't it?
how situations
of the imagination
can drive the sane
to the very edge...

of psychosis.
i'm ripping my hair
out inside. screaming
for answers but

they have
no tongues
to speak from.

lost

today i came across
another blog titled,
desolation row.
and although i never
figured that i was

the only Dylan fan,
i felt cheated.
as Bob must feel,
when cheap
two bit poets like
me use his titles.

now i sit here
and i feel empty.
like i've sold
my creative soul.
fingertips churn
tap tap tapping

on the keyboard.
my eyes are burning,
lacking sleep and
anticipating threads
of insecurity.

someday

the ashes of my mind
drip slowly away.
the soles of my shoes,
made of quicksand.

i'm sinking deeper
with every step
that i take. screaming
for help does no good.
no one can save

a lost cause.
reaching up, i struggle
to grasp something.
anything.
the only thing to brush
my fingers, is a foreign

concept. lost in my mind,
swirling around
with no outlet
in sight.

Adrenaline

Tired and zoning silence
fills the car.
Only Modest Mouse
can be heard.

Midnight.

Traffic is heavy,
oncoming. They come
within a foot
of killing me.

Something snapped
me out of my trance.
I jerk the wheel,
avoid the asshole.

Barely.

Almost lose control
of my speeding vehicle.
Wide awake now.
He almost killed me.

Something must have
made me aware. Not Him.
Must have been
Modest Mouse.

She didn't see
them veering. Staring off,
lost in thought.

Contemplating

how well the car
was running.
Must have thought
me crazy. Are you alright,
her query.

I laugh hysterically
and wonder
why i jerked the wheel
at all.

Frostbite

The night air is crisp
and clear.
Fall is settling in.
The exhaled smoke

mingles

with the frosty breath
of my lungs.
The moon is nearly full.

I realize that
the man
in the moon is,
indeed, crying.

He feels her pain,
as I do. It is my pain,
the same as it is hers.

Unsure of the next step.
It could lead
to a free fall.

Hope that something is there
to catch us.
Not knowing is frightful,
yet exciting.

I walk the edge
kicking rocks into
the abyss.
I contemplate

leaping.

Bad Puppy Chow

My dog sits
and stares at me
intently.

I ignore him.

He tilts his head
from side to side.
I can sense his
disappointment.

He expected
greater things
and I've failed him.

I don't know what
to say to him.
I mean,
he's a dog.

His frustration mounts,
boils over.

He trots over and pees
on my leg, then
walks out.

Canopy Lights

It's bright outside
moron.
Turn off the lights.

Her rotten brain
functions slowly. It's sad.

Voice is a blender,
chopping anything in its path.
Teaching her kids poor
english and worse
manners.

Someone should sterilize her.

fatty

breakfast is two butterfingers,
four packs of chocolate donuts,
and a five dollar
instant.

lady, you're already
pushing 400 pounds.
enough is enough.
another scratcher bites the dust.

Ass. Manager

She's two-faced and
rat like. Mid thirties,
she looks forty five.

Pock marked like
Edward James Olmos.
Atrocious.

Nice to your face,
she talks evil demon
spewing things about you
when you're not around.

She's silent this morning,
creepy as always. Man beats
her, everyone can see why.

Doesn't make it right
but gives the
rest of us

a little
piece of satisfaction.

She's hated.

The Redneck

He walks with a limp.
Sleeveless tees are his staple.

Drives along in his
pick-up truck.
Back window plastered
with white trash euphemisms.

Hip hop blaring from his
high end system.

Money better spent on
his five starving kids
and battered wife.

I'm confused.

The man appears
more Hank Williams
than DMX.

Hopalong, mullet man.

Jesus Tomatoes

He died for you
sitting on my patio table.
Good people, good intentions.

They must know we're sinners.

Save a soul or two
everyday God damn it!

Labels scatter across
empty space.

Only He has heard
the blasphemy.
Nails in the yard.
Let them come save us now.

Enlightenment

Opened a door
to nowhere. A dirty
old man sits in a corner.
Jesus. God.

Whomever.

Piles of riches.
Insane laughter
fills the room.

His mouth
remains motionless.
The fools still believe.

Faith.
Faith is for the hopeless.

He winks,
I wake.

Dictionary Slut

Writing, not caring
whether it's good
or bad.

Just flows.

Have to do it.
Insatiable.
Pen is a nympho.

Fucks paper
just to fuck.

No feeling of pleasure.
Plenty of pain.
Enjoyment comes,
only occasionally.

More often the pen
is left unfulfilled.

In this never ending
search,
my pen becomes a whore.

yellow walls

an ashtray,
an empty wine glass, two pens
sit on my desk.
mocking intonations

screaming from each.
canvas is blank.
still nothing done,
deadlines passed by.

wine glass shatters,
mock no more.
pounding temples and voices
aching to escape,
to be heard.

click.

start writing.
thirst of the pen
is quenched.

canvas overflows with
literary brushstrokes.

summer days

wake up early,
sit on the front porch
share a pot of coffee.
friends pass by

stay to talk awhile.
the air is getting warmer,
sun tickles your skin.
look at your watch

but your wrist is bare.
it's summertime, man,
there is no school.
out on a first date,

sharing Chinese food.
there is no place here,
for contemplation.
june, july, august
for the here and now.

toss around a frisbee,
crack open a beer.
just as it begins,
the end draws near.

too much left undone,
but the sun has set.
sigh and shrug,
there's always next year.

writer's block