this is nothing new

a dreary lament

the comeback-kid

gone so long

his voice alien

his clothes obscure

his signature laugh

a donkey bray

an echo with a long delay

tin men

Swivel chairs and neck chains
Sellers of cut-rate broken dreams
Auctioning dinosaurs and fodder
A slicer, an oven, retro booths
This Eldorado, that Babel
One cigar-mouthed phone call away

Equal Rites

Balance of power
Still wealthy weighted
Freedom of speech
Unmedicated tirades
Resolute men bracing
Against dire winds
Women children barren
Over-exposed adolesence
Equality to love
Bravely smothered
Integrated team skins
Losing streak perpetual
We speak our peace
But too softly
Die of natural causes
With no remorse or fury

Born on the Fifth of July

Out of the ashcans and tenderloins
Beyond obese, wandering buses
Past erratic, post-cultural taxicabs
Fields of concrete: Scarecrow’s home
Selling water, still wet from ice prison
Selling nickel bags for dime profits
Between red lights before dusk falls
The night brings fireworks
And hedge sleeping
And songs played too loud, too long
And whispers of what could have been

I ate the last of the Triscuits

I ate the last of the Triscuits
And deftly recycled the box
I can’t undo what is done
The attention cements facts
Like Colombine, now Charleston
The mournings remain fresh


it’s just a little reassurance

gentle days fading into night

sunsets and moonlight, paint palettes

always open, no narration

what is seen is grasped

a sphere for hope

an omen provider

in reverse: a pin-hole exposure

A Vermeer distortion

Of all that is

Of all that will be


Its the noise I wanna make
I wanna shake the walls
Nothing says cresendo
Like an apocalyptic heartbeat
It is the waiting
It is the downtempo
Calm, then storm
Breath, then fire

Cafe Of Mustaches

Old souls blaring vinyl
I’m killing time softly
Noises of the past
Caffeine commerce
It brings me back
Nostalgic corridors
That suffocate
With memory
Needless regret
And a nod to demons
For no reason