the leaves’ shadows
shift across the red brick wall–
an unseasonal warmth.

And the way you talk it’s where
dreams and souls and lovers go to die
while all the poison coursing through
your veins boils up and you spew it across
the dashboard and the empty passenger
seat, heartless and soulless and coughing
and choking and driving, always driving
southbound like it’s some kind of metaphor
for everything you do and say but really,
it’s just the fastest way home. Then again,
who says that’s not the metaphor?

fall clouds
my grey
filled mind
knowing they
thought the
sun far
different from
a star
for many
many years
before anyone
knew the
two were
one in
the same

I have made the mistake
and read too far in to you junkies
and you perverts and you wasted
shells with epithets aplenty adorning
your maladjusted beings.

I can not know the things you’ve seen
because I can not know how you’ve
seen them, Rose-colored glasses or
beer goggles or haze or whathaveyou.

But, however you find your beauty from
day to day, it’s always a hard smile
with your teeth so rotted that way.

when you’re sanitizing your hands
in favor of rubbed-hair-free knees
and slouching in lay-z-boys
in lieu of pumping iron

when you choose low fat
over tried and true butter.

Hopscotch or leapfrogging
At once, sturdy on two legs, at another, teetering unsteady on one
Arms flapping headless chicken 
Over under over under, up top rock bottom, hair on fire.
Always why and never why.
Swings hinging back and forth chainlinks groan to glee.
Seesaws precipice fulcrums iambic meter
One foot succeeds its predecessor unknowing 
What heights and depths follow.
A rubberband, taut and slack,
Slinging emotions; elated and overwrought 
Deviation peeling grip from constancy.  

Awaken my memory; crisis or carousel, you’re near. 
But while he was still a long way off his father saw him 
You see me. 
When I’m distant, draw me close. 
Warm breath carries over sandpaper chin.
Let me listen closely to your words 
I will never leave you nor forsake you.
Synapses springing ethereal pulses between our bodies 
A father, palms as big as ribcages 
Trampolines me up and down, up and down
Moon bouncing on his belly.
A promise: Daddy’s here. 

on the port i met her
down a bottle of spanish crown
i was just a child of the ocean
she was a pretty satin gown
it’s been a while since
i said that i had seen
such a beauty laid before me
she said this one would be free

this is not a summer dream

You’ll hang on every word like
a coat on an out-turned screw
and you’ll know all the gossip and
what else do you need? Certainly not
truth. Truth only starts trouble and
makes people angry and you just
don’t have any time for that sort of
garbage in your life right now. So
explain why you’re turning out more
screws.

they can claim your focus in life was worthwhile
after all you made millions by the time you were
twenty two.

but really? you gave individual names to collectable
stuffed animals. and you can sleep with yourself at
night?

i’ll tell you this. i cannot sleep with yourself. nope.
not a bit.

and who doesn’t like millions of dollars? not me.
i don’t not like millions of dollars.

and you’re pretty worthless in a fight.
needless to say i wouldn’t worship you.

his god is money which is pretty to hold
and great in an Apple store but his god
cant fart. i’m pretty sure i dont want to
bow down to a god that cant even fart.
a god that has never experienced the feeling
of having run slightly too far and slightly
too soon after a meal and then had to stop
(a pause really) just long enough to make
sure the air that passes between the cheeks
will be fully dry.

if your god cant hold his liquor – rethink him.
if your god cant chew gum and walk at the
same time then what you live for is lame.
worse than a woman.

Dear friend,

I think you’re a sick joke from mother earth, and meeting you was my loss.
From now on, I shall endeavour to forget about your very insipid existence. But before I do, I wish you’d crawl back to your poor mother and seek her forgiveness. She shouldn’t be blamed for the monster you are. On hindsight I am sure she would have turned prochoice on you, hurling your satanic ass in a limbo. Then again the demon lord must have his dues, and you are it.

That said, if you must be a bitch of darkness at least put some effort in it. Do not just work a shady corner. Go global, go genocidal. Have a vision or something. That is my last advice as a friend. 

At least when you finally land in hell, you will be able to proudly say ” I have done fantastic work for you!” Maybe then will your master let you sweep Hitler’s ashes from the grimy bathroom floor while he unleashes his horde of minions upon you. Do not get all coy, let them enjoy your suffering as they showcase their craftmanship to you. I am sure their creativity will literaly blow your mind. Let the next fiend do the cleanup! 

I am sure down the ammonic hole, there will be enough cannibals more than willing to feast upon your splattered brain. Perhaps Idi Amin will do you the honor. At any rate, they will all have their turn as you explore together the meaning behind words like eternity and despair.

That being said, I will waste no further time on you, or keep you from your vile plans. I wish you nothing, but the worst. Do not keep in touch. I look forward to not hearing from you again. Kindly disappear. 

Sincerely, 
Go to Hell              

And he’s walked with a cane since the war
and there’s a click in his left leg
every god damn step he takes
there’s a click and the thud of his cane
and he keeps walking forward
just clicking and thudding ‘cuz
at the very least
The God Damn War is behind him

a love for theory ate away my ability
to problem solve into obscurity the
needs of your complexity

i settled instead for a lack of love of
the art you paint and while gazing
lustfully into an unplanned opus of
the written word created by a hand
a hundred years ago on soil near
to that which my cushioned chair
upon cement block is bolted into
the ground upon

my mind now occupied with concepts
and dreams of scenarios played out
in my imagination to solve problems
instead of paint pictures. with words.
like i used to.

There is a parking structure on the east end of town
goes up for miles and miles and miles, it seems
scrapes the lower parts of the sky that that the
skyscrapers don’t quite get around to scraping and
at the top of this ten-thousand car garage there’s
an old gentleman in a tweed sports coat
with bad breath and old leather shoes and
an old Singer sewing machine

(It has to be from the thirties)

that he sits behind
running all day by the pedals, making jackets and
sweaters and all the garments he can’t seem
to afford himself but he dosen’t charge much for them,
he begs a fair price at just a silver dollar a piece

(Nevermind that he only deals in Silver)

but the man has never seen a washtub I’d wager
and I’m not so sure he’s gone to Church or the like
so Brother you can tell him when you see him
that I wont’ be buying any of his clothes
until he gets himself a real god damned job
and a proper education

surrounded for miles
on both sides by cement
you ducks have come
from afar to inhabit
this bread-crumb infested water

for your standards have been irrevocably ruined

make a pile of
the wrapping paper
the faux snow
the illuminated reindeer
the green and red hershey’s kisses
the oversized candy canes
the inflatable snow globe with frosty and his wintry wenches
and send it all up
in a yuletide blaze.

in the ashes
plant
dessicated corn stalks
uncarved pumpkins
bulbous gourds
racist pilgrims and noble savages
turkeys unaware of their imminent demise
and let them all reclaim their fucking month.