Your time is now over.
Your death will be slow,
and cruel.
A vulture picks
at the corpse of a fool.

When greed is worshipped,
all compassion fails.
Dogs eat dogs
and chase their own tails.

No one reads books.
No one understands law.
Might becomes right
and all succumb to their deepest flaw.

**** is entertainment,
and fantasy, addiction.
Degradation is beauty,
and cruelty, conviction.

The sun is now setting
on the city dying
Darkness begins
under a red moon rising

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.

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.

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.

This space in my heart
Flickers with a glimpse of you
I’m looking at your face
It brings me back to this place
Here we are together
I hope it’s forever

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.

When I was
younger,
I had to learn.
Sit and wait to
write.
I  would get
impatient and force it.
If you read it,
you could tell.

Now I’m quite a bit older, and
I quit trying.
Fodder seems to be
everywhere.
I can write about
the most mundane
things.

Today I’m at the
library waiting for my
girlfriend to
finish up at the dentist.
She’s getting her
teeth cleaned.
All my drinking ruined
my teeth.
When I got them
pulled a year ago,
there wasn’t a
healthy tooth in my head.
I have dentures now, so
I don’t have to
worry about how much I drink.
I know this isn’t a
good poem, but
hey,
there she is
all shiny and bright…
and sober.