Poems

I Have Seen The Best Minds Of My Generation Destroyed By Madness

Too many people stomping around—
fractured herds mucking the rivers,
shitting the highways,
killing the grass.
They think they know when they don’t.

They rode lame in a hot race and wept when their HellCat lost.
Now they cry from twit-faces in their concrete castles filled with Eisenhower plastic,
drowning their DTs in anger
and lamenting that their cultivated habits didn’t make them rich.

Money for the populace is the reason Owners obsess over property and selfhood.
They muck the rivers,
shit the highways,
kill the grass,
and count their dollars made of starvation, suicide, failure, death—
Illusion.

Dusty professors moan that I speak Ginsberg—
tragedy reduced to numbers big as vagina
while the world riots to muck the rivers…
eating the life from their own butchered bodies
and lamenting that their cultivated habits still don’t make them rich.

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Poems

Car Hysteria (Seduction Revisited)

Earlier today
shopkeepers seduced pot-bellied old men
with sleek
fast
brand-new cars
that rubbed and kissed their trousers
and guaranteed to stop lonesomeness

Erstwhile minds backpedaled on leather seats
where stale memories surfaced and breathed new air
striking deals in brown cubicles
under the breath of fresh coffee

What she feared most
kicked and scratched
and wanted to grow big enough to crawl
from the backseat of a yellow Pantera
and seduce her all over again
while her husband and she waited
for his father to sign the lease
as wordy as Shakespeare but lacking any color

She stayed away from the thing of her past
that once bit her crotch for the taste of her sex

Some memories are the turmoil
of a soul knotted like hair in vomit
where forlornness and tumultuousness sting

Photo Credits:
 Tiko Giorgadze
 Matt Glm

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Poems

Dream Voyeur

When I sleep
you hide paralyzed in the shadows of my bed
where your courage to live vanished long ago

In your world of mocking corpses
you rub against me
in wingless dreams and knitted walls
and empty stares
that run from the drum of my heart

You bleed broken knuckles
against your hidden door to empty stairs
that led you once to a girl like me

You bring me fists of her dead flowers
and promise me a future of your past faded worlds

You wear her memory around your neck—
the noose of every man hanged by rejection
to bleed broken
among all the eggs of the future
dead

But you live your death
in these halls of feeble footsteps
outside my room
where your twitching fingers bleed to open empty cameras
and nail me to the windows of your eyes

Photo Credit:
 Alex Boyd

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Poems

Dreaming Fear

I dream fear in radical light
shape and shadow—
our night sun
and day moon know
the blood sky
the bone wind
the muscle and flesh rain
the earth-weight traps and prisons
where our slippery slopes are built too high
on circles of madness
which I journey to often
aching
needing companionship
when I’m alone
and feeling suddenly small
and weak
caught in snares and detentions
frightened to an undesirable conclusion when I sink too low
to awaken and shift quickly into high
pushing fear behind me
if only for a moment
if not for a day or more

Photo Credit:
 Dmitry Ratushny

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Poems

Good Books Are Dreams Come True

I journey often to faraway places
many anew
others revisited
spent with treasured friends
rare and unique—
life is clever with good friends around us

First-run journeys take me like a child
perhaps across rustic bridges
perhaps beyond orchard ways
likely to places to be seen with new eyes

Favorite books are second homes
built from the beauty of artists’ souls
of colorful worlds for us to live in when we choose to

Good books stir me like lovers in the night
with their generous foreplay
tickling me to roller-coaster climaxes
and breathless denouements

Love me with a good book’s
romance
passion
thoughtfulness
and soft caresses of purpose
or not at all

Photo Credit:
 Pj Accetturo

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Poems

War (Eleventh Hour Ebullience Revisited)

Late in the valley at a house with her name on the door
I writhe upstairs at the hall’s very end
beating my pillow and lowing her name

It does not matter—
her departure haunts me with the ghosts of our past
and the angels that rode her for the devil she became

I dream of love while she burns hot in the hate zone
drawing lines across my name
shutting herself in the ruins of the last war she fought
for followers of solitude
in the flickering light of their new Precision Tower

She breaks promises and scatters their bones across internet headlines
where rich and powerful seductresses stroke her ego
like a harem of baboons picking lice from her hair

She strives to stand tall
but her paraplegia is the nearest thing to being dead

Her maestro composes wartime symphonies like a hero at Olympus
to silence my lullabies of love and peace between us

Her war bends and warps my stance by the weight of her macabre dance
that extends the fuse to the bomb in her brain

She is a proud soldier whose enemy hides behind the mask she wears

She rides hard to be my villain
galloping over her war-torn ruins
in the valley at a house empty of its past

Photo Credit:
 Paul Volkmer

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Poems

When I A Child (Revisited)

When I
a child
when I could

I voyaged out into your cool company—

The coldness of boots pulled on at the doorstep
before walking that large solitude
of no cricket
no owl

Walking with silent snow feet among birdless woods
tossed among the taste of echoed blood
at such a time of the coyote
invisible and dull by the snow

My secret ice-making ice-haiku poems
driving me to the warmth of your breath—
letting me dream my dreams of romance
written at twilight by fire
in the hidden garden of no ordinary lovers

Letting me feel again the enticing light
that secretly guided me like the slow slipper of moss
to the doorstep of your excited hands—

when I
a child
when I could

Photo Credit:
 Drew Coffman

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