Monday, August 07, 2017

The Man In the Straight Jacket Whispered.

The Man In the Straight Jacket Whispered

The man in the straight jacket, whispered to me,
And said, “My eyes sleep in your dreams.
You dream of whipperwills and handbaskets,
Crafts and scones-dredged in silence, you seek of none.”
In my spare time, I walk to the grocery store,
Carrying a briefcase to put a case of eggs in,
And, talking to the cashier, I bring them back home
And fry them up in a frying pan.
Dusk creeps slowly around the edges of my living
Room, and ghosts speak to me, softly treading
Their footfalls on the linoleum.  The light goes dim.
A storm is coming.  Everything grows dim,
And it gets hot, and the hotness causes itching,
Growing quickly around my vision.
I wish I could escape.  I have nowhere to go.
I don’t have any money to go to a cheap-ass motel,
I don’t have any money to purchase alcohol.
I want to escape.
I cannot.
Where would I go?
I wander in my mind, looking for solace.  At last, I pull out
A book of poems and skim through it, words swim before my eyes.
Where does the loyalty lay?  In your heart, in your head?
I want something to eat.  My stomach growls.  I feel starved,
Naked, dead.  My eyes are dead.
I don’t understand anything but the aching in my stomach,
The pain in my heart.  I wonder where you are on this hot,

So hot, night, and the birds call to me, lonely.

Acquaintance With Time.

Acquaintance With Time

I saw her face, Time, so quiet and still.
I passed before her on the grass,
I did not know it was her until,
my watch moved slow as melting glass,
glass that I wished that I could fill.
She spoke to me; no words I heard,
for her beauty was bright to see,
 I could not speak but a word,
my mind fluttering like a frigid bird,
and then she walked away from me,

and I could speak again at will.

Monday, July 31, 2017



Sad people make me angry
            I don’t understand their terrible sadness.
Trapped in a drug-induced stupor;
Shadowed by their own selfish longings.
            I don’t understand the wicked ways
Of the world or their terrible longings.
                        I suppose a reflection would be necessary,
But not warranted.
            Take into heart the reasonings of all self-doubt.
I want to take a stand on the problems of the world,
            Like homelessness, or the feelings of being trapped in a loveless world.
I have become a sacrifice to the gods,
            The gods of men wearing thongs, the gods of greed-
Greed stands in the way of common sense.
I hope goodness is not trapped.
            I try not to stand in the way of anyone else’s burden,
But more often than not my confidence is destroyed, and I have to see the way
The world is the way it is.  Like, why war?  Why anything?

                        That is the entrapment.  That is the world in which we live.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

The World.

All this time I was wondering,
what promises will fade
on the forgotten shores of time.
In the early dawn, light twinkles close to shore.
My heartache is steady.  I am moving towards the west.
Where do I begin to explain the simplicity of this promise?
I am bequiled, like a forgotten land.  However few,
these words are broken.  Why is there a knot in the back of my
head?  Some people don't seem to understand the time it takes
to reflect on my burdens.  I have to survive in the wild,
alone, desolate, broken, in the mood of being nothing more
than a being surviving without anyone, anything.  Words are
nothing more than a broken promise, etched in time.  The pigeon
flies on sole wings, in the midst of despair, I am here, reaching
far out into oblivion, reaching far out in the midst of things.
Don't tell me you are jealous.  I am beyond reason.  Your reason
should be your god, not your menace.  I feel like a ghost is following
me, from room to room, down the road, etched in dew.
The dew falls on the grass, and the rain pitter-patters on the roof,
and I am long-forgotten, wondering about the world.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

A Forgotten Land, A Forgotten Place.

This is a forgotten land, a forgotten place.
That has befallen us to temptation.
Everything we see is bitter-the car in the driveway,
the hungry maid.  She sees what she sees.
Sometimes, we do not know where our loyalty lies,
in everything or nothing, and sometimes things are never
okay.  The loneliness is in a shred of doubt.
The master is in the deceit.  Everything is farther than it was.
Sometimes, we see things that are at death's door.
I wish I could be a butterfly.  I wish I could be a tugboat.
Everything I wish, and nothing seems fewer.  The lies are
in our deceit.  Everything is beguiled.  Take us not to temptation,
or fate us with what is fewer than the forgotten eye.
There are prophets.  There is death.  There is the life in after death,
and the next afternoon.  The car gets stuck in the driveway.
I see my life going before my eyes.  I feel a twinge of guilt.
Everything is less than certain.  Everything is death,
or the certainty of death.  These emotions lack certainty.
They are a part of the path of destruction.  How you help,
and why it helps, I cannot say.  What is there to say, anyway?
I feel like a dumb horse looking into a dumb horse's mouth.
Nothing is the same as it was yesterday.  Everything is new.
The grief is new.  I am a new man who sees the future,
and in it, the grass is brown.

Sunday, July 02, 2017

Nothing Further.

All alone, this path is mine, I became interested
in the monarch butterfly.  Fluttering in its wake,
it cries, and mourns the fallen star.  Everything we see-

what's left is right, what's right is left.  The light is
dimmer than the ear.  I fear, we fear, the heart is near-
and the shark swims, and swims together.

The star shines brightly.  Everything is bright.
The man in the room, the heart that is full of doom.
Tomorrow is blessed by the man.

I am tired.  I want to sleep, but the fireflies keep
me going.  Awake, and up, and awake, am I,
and I am despairing.  My last kin has died.

You think you know the temptation is dim,
and our eyes are vast as we can swim,
but nothing has gotten farther from the truth.

We are gone, and I am gone.  Gone.  Just gone.

Saturday, July 01, 2017


I am a poet who lives alone.
My mother comes to visit me, sometimes.
I go out during the week, to do the grocery shopping,
and come home, alone, again.  I am perpetually alone.
Alone, I feel, with the bitterness, and the tides that spew
forth tornadoes of hate-hatred that is the flesh, hatred

that is the mother.  Sometimes, a mother hen will lay eggs;
sometimes, a flock of ducks will fly across a highway.
The train comes by, chugging slowly.  Everything is slow
this day.  I am alone.  You say you are with me, but where
are you?

Your spirit does not dwell in my house.  I have been as
forgotten as these yesterdays.  The cellar door swings open,
revealing dust and bats.  I know you do not think I notice,
but I know you are gone.  You are not dead.  Just, gone.

It is my birthday, and I am alone-alone with my thoughts,
alone in everything, alone by myself on this day.
Perhaps someone will understand.

Saturday, June 17, 2017


When in doubt, my heart will bleed,
in times without, I will succeed.
All my sorrow, perhaps has proclaimed,
the stars will listen, as I cry in vain.
The night is listening, to my soiled tears-
and as I cry, I release my (perpetual) fears.
To dream, I will, and dream of rain,
my fears are burdened by my constant pain.
The piano plays constantly in the living room,
I cannot live without, for fear of doom.
To dream, I do, and dream of I,
my soiled tears are withered cries.
The crow caws constantly, outside my window,
and I see the rain in sheets in the street below.
How vain, it is, to think that I,

am hurt all not, and cannot cry.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

A Time Of Snakes.

Time flies over everything.  The sun is the moon and the stars.
I force myself to awaken to the song of everything.  I have been
moved by things that come before me.  There is a snake,
crying in the grass.  Her babies have been smothered by

the land.  She is crying for revenge, and the Indian hears her cry.
She slithers across the land, trying to find hope in the wilderness.
The tall grass, the bumpy mounds, the fat old groundhog
chittering away before wintertime comes.

The sun rises over the sky like a big goldfish bowl.
Temptation begins where hope ends.  The Indians travel by foot,
even though they have cars-Rolls Royce, Volkswagen, Honda.
Those are the cars of future's past.  In the end, time changes,

everything changes.  Nothing remains the same.

Monday, May 22, 2017

Moving Back to the Sawdust.

Moving Back To the Sawdust

The sawdust was left on the dusty floor.
She couldn’t see the side of his face-
It was scarred, just as it used to be.
The room was dusty.  Her mother wanted
To clean it-she was desperate, then.  She still was.
Everything cost too much money-they never seemed
To have any.

They lived on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.
Their father was dead.  A horse had fallen on him.
She was a waitress at a diner in town.  Her boy
Was a college student trying desperately to get out
Of small town life, his major was biology.

He didn’t like to dissect the animals-he was a vegan
By nature, since he was six.  His favorite was cottage

Once, he met a girl and fell in love-and they decided
To move out of small town life.  They left the mother,
They left the ranch, they left the sawdust that seemed
To be eternal.  

Everything seemed to be eternal but their love,

And one day they had a baby and had to move back.

A Love That's Ours.

 The night is gone, and I am cold,
This tender love is blank and old.
I am burdened by these lovely flowers,
And waste away these tender hours.

Words are burdened by the man,
As tender lovely voices stand,
Everything is full of rain,
But my love, is just too vain.

Take my heart, but do not part,
These lovely words are full of heart-
My eyes are bright and full of sight,
Let’s go out and dance tonight.

Dance among the swirling stars,
Dance among the world that’s ours.
Dream of times that sleep with thee,
As we hold each other tenderly.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Left To Wonder.

Ode to the wandering webs we weave,
where bitterness is what deceives-
the crying is best left in shame,
and the darkness is not to blame.

The land is like a forgotten morning,
and the wind is forever moaning.
The seed of temptation is not few,
when yesterdays are gone with dew.

I try to walk upon the mile,
where my belov'd has temptation's smile.
I cannot remember where I left,
when you have gone alone one day.

In the autumn of this coming May,
the sun will shine on eves of gray-
ode to the love that comes today,
the death is gone and will not stay.

Snow!  How you fall upon my face,
washing away a bitter place-
the sun comes from far away,
and so we're gone, and will not stay.

The Wizard.

The days go on and on.
It is like they don't stop for anything.
I can't relate to this shattered place.  The roads are paved.

I see the wizard walking-his arms are outstretched.  His magic
is like a woman's cry.  He says to me, "What do you say,"
in the most forgotten times.  The sun is rising in the west,

I see the roads ahead of me.  I am a wary traveler.  The song
is forgotten in my mind.  I do not hear.  I have not wept.
The roads are gone.  The wizard spreads his arm and flies

like the phoenix towards the sun.  A rainbow appears in the sky.
It is like the wind is sighing.  The devil's hand has left me.
I am crying in my wake.

Heart To Heart.

I take to heart when days will part,
and all the years are wanted yet-
everything is firmament,
and everything is heart to heart.

I walk upon the dewy shore,
and hearten'd at the tides of yore,
when nothing is once as it was before,
the light is light and billowing.

Some people go and then they come,
and wars are fought and then are won,
everything is just like morn,
rosy like the bosom's corn.

The Duke has gone outside his door,
to see the forgotten shores of yore,
and here where the Poet has kept,
his lover is gone and has wept.

Read thy lovely burrowing,
and the snow has become begone in spring-
the flowers are moving and they sing,
tears are shed and hearts will sting.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

What's Won.

I could not fly away with wings,
unto the most impertinent things-
with hats, and bats, and rats, and swings,
I move with grace and fly with rings.

Don't take outside what you can't get,
without going outside you'll get yourself wet,
I feel without the feeling's set,
and half an ass is better met. 

When you talk so far as far is gone,
and the night is now over and done,
everything is bitter at dawn,
and the grass is yet to be sung.

(And what's won is won,
what's gone is gone.)

The Stem Is Outward.

Temptation leads to temptation.  The ending of all things.
It is, at best, a mixed blessing-a crow in a field of tunnels.
The fields sprout dandelions, wildflowers, sunflowers-I am
at rest in the middle of a field.  Clouds fly high above me.
It is spring, and wild grasses nodding.  Sometimes, I see
a deer galloping across the grass, or bending down to nibble
a stem.  Sometimes, I read things-books, pieces of poetry
stuck to veins.  My arms are spread out about to my middle.
Nothing is born here but the darkness-the darkness spreads
outward, like a puddle slowly dissipating.  I am the dissipation.
In Japan, Africa, Taiwan, things are different.  There is more
suffering.  I have become the suffering-I am depleting it with
the will of the self.  This is the will of the Nile, the holiness
of it.  My words are sharp points like scabs.  The suffering
is minimal.  Today he had cake.  Tomorrow he will have
oatmeal-it will become stuck in his tooth, but it will not
become a part of his pain.  The littleness is what it makes it
all worthwhile.  Truth is in the pain.  I suppose everything
most suffer at some point, every twig, every grassy limb,
every photogenic flower.  I pull the stem of it-and, the stem
pulls me-outward, in.