There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in the wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

I am so happy to announce the publication of my new book, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, available on Amazon.  I also read my poetry on my youtube channel.
Thanks to everyone for this great site.

Chess in the
afternoon sun.
Jazz floats over
the silky couch.
Backs ache, while
hearts break.
Bishop takes knight,
and France falls again.

The masks are all
broken under the
cerulean blue skies,
while she eats berries,
and smiles in her
pink polka dot dress.
The pawns are all smug,
and Queenie's on the rag.
Italy surrenders, and from
the grave, Charlie Parker
still hammers home
those soft amber notes.
I can smell her heat, and
I think they play
jazz in hell.

It's the little things that
drives one mad,
a snapped shoelace,
on your way to the
liquor store in the
driving snow.
A cockroach in
the cereal,
dead batteries, when all you
want to do is listen
to music.
Shifty-eyed people in
my house, quietly plotting
my demise.
It's the tree of
life, cut down to clear
space for a parking lot.
No love from my brother.
Another frosty day in April.
Cigarette prices constantly
rising astronomically.
Footsteps in an empty
hallway.
It's Just a hop, skip, and
a jump to the madhouse.

I used to go to
these poetry slams in
Des Moines.
Little coffee shops of
academia.
They were competitive.
I won a few.
I was homeless and going
through a divorce, life
had me by the throat.
I wanted to win at
living.
That was going to
be a long shot.

The patrons applauded
after the poetry was read.
And after the cruelty of
The concrete, the applause
felt nice.
But mostly, it was the
pretty posey,
the cute and polished
cat **** that received
the prizes.
The stuff with no guts.
It felt like I was watching
goldfish in a bowl.

Eventually, I walked out
of the coffee shop circuit.
It didn’t prepare me at all for
my debut in the abandoned houses,
writing words on the walls of those
mad January nights.

It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse is available on Amazon.com.  It's raw and gritty, powerful writing.

There is dust on
the wall.
I watch it hang in
little wisps.
I’m distracted by  
everything.
All of it.
The small and large
items of life have me
chasing my tail, and avoiding  
the pen.

I postpone writing, like I’m
ending a bad relationship.
I avoid the tough
conversation.
I dance with impotence and
procrastination, like they are
lovely women.

I need to write.
I must create.
But there is an  
antagonist at work in the
trivial details of my
existence.
It smells like copper.
It hides the ink from  
my mind.

It would rather I do
anything else:
promote
market
*******
dream
sleep
eat
watch TV
or sometimes,
just stare at the
dust on the wall.