Saturn is in
line with
Venus tonight
but, nothing's easy
when you're down.
The clowns walk
around, dressed in
yellow; fast food smiles
and cheeseburger
souls, and nothings
easy when you're down.

The dancers with poles
and sadness, that Halloween,
fires burning, childhood
perfumed dreams,
kind of sadness fills the
navy blue night.
I can't find the North star,
and the jack-lanterns lie rotting
in the streets of Nebraska
and Kansas, and the candies
all gone, and the kids wait.
And I can't find  
the deep blue shirt I bought
at Goodwill, and Billy Burroughs
is filled with worms and earth,
and Bukowski looks at Satan
and says, "what do you
mean, we're out of whiskey?"

I've never been much for the stars,
and family and Thanksgiving are
painfully overrated,
and nothing's easy when
you're down.

the truest love: ask me about too perfect*

this I believe:

that part of we humans
that intersects emotion
& memory retains a video

not frequently reviewed,
placed deep in an unlocked,
unlabeled chest of drawer

surrounded by keepsakes, hidden
letters, scribbled napkins and
a less-than-handful of stills,
plain poems of raw delicacy

infrequent summoned, preceded
by a stray, strong thot asking
no one but you, why now? what
was the trigger synapse?

the love, the being, blessed, cursed,
known by its call letters:
TOO PERFECT…

“A poet's qualifications include common sense, knowledge of character, adherence to high ideals, combination of the dulce with the utile, intellectual superiority, appreciation of the noble history and lofty mission of poetry, and above all a willingness to listen to and profit by impartial criticism.”


Ars Poeti a (ll. 295–476).[10]

She had that
octopus smile,
always reaching for
something.
I was her small
fish; her handmaid.
I lived in her nebulous
world for far too long.
Inky confusion...

There's a reason for
your treason, said the
old man to the shark,
but Hem forgot, a beast
is a beast, they do
beastly things.
We all have to eat.

I'm done being the
meal.
It's your Ocean,
I'm just trying to
swim in it.

You're an oyster,
and I want your
pearl,
but I won't drown
for it.

Above all, 
God is an artist,
and His greatest
creation is us.
We are made in
His image, and so
we create.
Our creations pale
in comparison to
the sunset, the mountains,
and the oceans;
but we try.
And sometimes, we succeed.
And it is good,
and He is well pleased.

To sleep the sleep of
an artist is
the best sleep ever.
All the foes lie vanquished,
and I paint words with
their blood.
All the letters spent on
the paper in
ejaculatory fashion,
like ***** to the egg.
There is no fodder from
dreams to be marshaled,
just the birth of my
creation,
when I
awake.