having the best of intentions,
but lacking good inventions,
and criteria I cannot mention,
'cause I lack proper intuition.

I missed the final right turn,
causing some bridges to burn.
I seem to never ever learn
to love one, instead of yearn.

I always throw the first stone,
talk to myself on the phone,
use language to cut thru bone.
that's how I end up alone.

having the best of intentions
but lacking good inventions,
and things I forgot to mention,
'cause I lack proper intuition.

Oh, how could I have been so careless with time?
Trying to catch hummingbirds with a hula-hoop.

All the un-watered whims,
planted in subconscious deep;
inside great empty tiger cages
that capture only the echoes,
and photographic negatives of dreams.

With a knapsack chock full of stars,
and clouds, fully reviewed then abandoned
at random. I have been spinning separate
from the world; wearing time capriciously
on my wrist, fully reviewed then abandoned at random.

Maybe only clocks are careful with time . . .

Luscious ruby red lips, tell me white lies,
gorgeous supple ****, there I hide my alibi's.
My eyes can't see anyone else anymore,
my life isn't the way that it was before.

Her womb welcomes me, her sin invites me.
She violates me, and I, hurt her too, willingly.
Her warm tender fingers ****** what they will,
every touch is the chilling goosebump overkill.

Feet fall on golden cobblestones, never alone,
'cause I always know just where she is.
Luscious ruby red lips, tell me white lies,
gorgeous supple ****, where I hide my alibi's.

Please don't tell me you know the rules,
when you don't play by them.
God knows not to listen to me,
I am but a foolish speck.
In a galaxy of specks.
In a universe of flecks.

Got plenty of room to live,
If only I could.
Even God don't see me.
He knows not to listen to me.

Please don't tell me the rules,
I won't play by them either.

...tick, tick, ticking, aloud, whilst silently brutal,
in it's cadence, rhythmically severe, and futile.
Pounding out these infinitely deviating days,
seeping through this blurry persistent haze.
With rhythm matched to the human heart,
in it's seconds, the years all come apart.

Ravaging alike, flesh and fragile bone,
endless, ethereal, always ticking drone,
leads men to dust, metered without power,

...tick, tick, ticking out these minutes and hours.
A continuous knock at our existence's door,
til' it will cease to knock, forever more.

We all leave in a darkling, of seconds quick,
silently redundant, it marches on, tick, tick, tick...

“Sleep with Angels,” she softly said,
In this life so unevenly spread.
Do our souls ever truly find rest?
Probably only at heaven's behest.

Sleep with angel's softer ways,
an endearing sounding phrase.
Your shadow may really be your soul
following you from pole to pole.

The dreams you've seen are real!

Someone collect all the hatred,

and all the vehemence too.

then don't recycle or reciprocate it.

turn it all into something else,

rich and green and full of kindness.

distill it, remove the impurities,

coagulate it away from it's cold

tungsten tensile titanium.

some of us only have to try,

it can be done. Einstein said so;

and Mother Teresa and Gandhi,

and Martin Luther King Jr.

Someone collect all the hatred,

and all the vehemence too.

then don't recycle or reciprocate it.

turn it all into something else,



rich and green and full of kindness.

distill it, remove the impurities,

coagulate it away from it's cold

tungsten tensile titanium.

encase it in concrete and steel,

bury it with the radioactive waste.

let it lie for it's half life,

in over 40,000,000 tears.

I know how easy it is to **** us,
but don't let people hold you down,
get to the stainless, lose the rust,
do the whatever, not the must,
stare at the sky, not the ground.

I'm not a cheeseburger in a bag,
I'm a gangster in gentleman drag.
Onions come in 9mm and .40 Glock,
all time gets bent on broken clocks,
fresh grilled lemon peppered ****.

Fake **** they got us all watchin'
Kim Kardashian and ******' Snooky
all the while they're pressure cookin'.
They feed us what it is they want,
they don't really want us lookin'.

I know how easy it is to **** us,
but don't let people hold you down,
get to the stainless, lose the rust,
do the whatever, not the must,
stare at the sky, not the ground.

Get a lil' money we feel we really livin,
restin' in a piece of our own oblivion.
Never realizing how malleable we are
and how easy it is to **** us.

I know, how easy it is to **** us,
but don't let people hold you down,
get to the stainless, lose the rust,
do the whatever, not the must,

stare at the sky, not the ground.

You planted all the vices in my psyche's synapses,
maybe it was a plan, maybe it just happened, perhaps?
Made a chart of mental topography, a psychotic map
to traverse my mind as it snaps like a thunderclap.

Is it just the world's irreconcilable consciousness of fate
the deciphered encryption of our collection of hate.
'Tis said for all good, and true for bad also, we must wait
for our time in eternity to step thru insanity's gate.

You planted all the vices in my psyche's synapses,
maybe it was a plan, maybe it just happened, perhaps?
Made a chart of mental topography, a psychotic map
to traverse my mind as it snaps like a thunderclap.

On a steamy island sprayed in melodic days.
Dancing in rhythm as the porpoise play.
Some hymn and some pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.

Languishing in canopy of young vines rope,
as passionate couples intertwine at *****,
below the emerald silence of mountain *****,
heed the joyful herald of fountains of hope.

As cool and winding shady green rivers distill,
hear the tropic's aviary song, sweetest minstrel,
thrashing and dancing in seas azure blue crystal,
as the softly salted winds conjure in Ol' Mistral.

Drift away drinks of colored Caribbean ice,
air scented of cinnamon, mango and spice,
as we hymn and we pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.

Little tiny notions and bigger thoughts fly
above our gracious and small ways try's.
Like little pictures drawn on very big pages
that flash before our half blind sore eyes.

With our little red eyes bugging wide open,
yet missing the minuscule things that occur.
With our crackly little voices barely even spoken,
and our Big Ideas in the way, as we try to confer.

The million little hands we try so hard to teach,
and millions of little minds that we'll never reach,
amid all the somber voices crying without speech.
The short little lives that are spent on the Big World.

All trying to be worldly, wealthy, and so very wise.
Millions of little faces hiding behind a big disguise,
here where little is said, and even less is done,
to save the Big World, under the bright, bright, Sun.

Little tiny notions and bigger thoughts fly
above our gracious and small ways tries.
Like little pictures drawn on very big pages
that flash before our half blind sore eyes.

With our little red eyes bugging wide open,
yet missing the minuscule things that occur.
With our crackly little voices barely even spoken,
and our Big ideas in the way, as we try to confer.

The million little hands we try so hard to teach,
and millions of little minds that we'll never reach,
amid all the somber voices crying without speech.
The short little lives that are spent on the Big World.

All trying to be worldly, wealthy, and so very wise.
Millions of little faces hiding behind a big disguise,
here where little is said, and even less is done,
to save the Big World, under the bright, bright, Sun.

I give you my life, it's all I have,
I'll walk with you, down life's path.
I'll give you the secrets of my mind,
and share with you all treasure I find.

I'll give you the works of my hands,
and all my thoughts, dreams, and plans.
I'll give you all I own, piece and part,
and let you be the keeper of my heart.

I promise never to cancel or revoke,
any of the things of which I spoke.
In times of sunshine, or times of haze,
I am yours until the end of my days.

well, beauty is only a shallow promise and life is just a game,
it's all in how you play it, not in how well you lay the blame.

there should be a reason to the rhymes, I would like it to be so;
truth is there is no real reason, it's just the ******' way life goes.

whatever we all do today will inevitably become our past,
remember each and every day was never ever built to last.

life is just a game, and beauty is just a shallow promise . . .
. . . and shallow promises, do sometimes get broken . . .

Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination.

Winds that billow in bellows of blue balderdash,
that hides these vague souls in the elephant grass,
as white horses run for an unconsecrated pass;
I sit sipping lightning from a small green flask.

I cannot see beyond this collision of cataracts,
sitting in a puddle of Alzheimer's and absent facts,
hard to predict parlor tricks' and posthumous pacts,
metamorphosis of those we ****** on, lies intact.

Veins constricted from catastrophes and contradictions,
synapses sinewed by audacious biannual addictions,
misdemeanors of malicious misnomers and maledictions,
breathing in the beneficent bleating of benedictions.

Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination

Love happens at random moments in time,
her chemical pheromones mingling with mine.
It is forever spontaneously combustible,
everlastingly irrational, and irresistble.

It happens to me, and to her simultaneously,
often it sneaks up unreasonably erroneously.
Wrapped in a perfect breast full of intoxication,
and supple red juicy lips of inosculation.

Inoculating my impaired brain to fight off reason,
her drunk tongue in my ear ultimately pleasing.
Her unseen warm places so wickedly entice me,
her cool intrepid breath so willingly invites me.

The bright stars radiate from her musical eyes,
like elaborate pyrotechnics on the 4th of July.
She has questions to answers I already bought,
feels subliminal messages I already thought.

Love; its that strange apple we've tasted before,
locked deep within our emotional repertoire.

These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.
Unremembered by morning's light
filtered by reality's coldness,
leaving only colored shadows,
we must walk alone through.

Shadows that sullenly settle
like colored chalk dust,
covering all,
but easily blown away.
These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.

We are the dreamtesters,
recorders of our life's events
to be read by God.

Upon our day of reckoning...

Call me when the nukes fall,

Call me when the nukes fall.

Tell me what I should wear,

And how I should fix my hair.

Tell me why there's no air.

Call me when the nukes fall...

Or, don't call at all...

Confined to this space, where nothing is clear,
suspended under the blue canopy of stratosphere.
A window stands between time's span and space,
unearthly wisdom derived from heavenly grace.

We fly on through like spray across the sky,
with our broad wings open to stifle the cries.
Above the equations, riding rivulets of jet streams,
we catapult into tomorrows, on wisps of dreams.

Soaring expanse of blue fluorescent universe;
There are times in solitude, we all feel the curse,
of fortunes missed, loves lost, or led astray,
concurrently violated by the vices of yesterday.

Confined by infinity, another day, another year,
suspended under this umbrella of stratosphere.
A window stands between time span and space,
unearthly wisdom furnished by heaven's grace.

this daily labyrinth again begins,

hot coffee and a titanium cigarette.

enduring memories of absent friends,

liquid sorrows and gaseous regret.


never far enough from the daily grind,

fondly reminiscing dark corners of mind.

gaps in my synapses with ghosts between,

chewing on matches and sipping gasoline.


got emotions to ride, and moods to bend,

all the corners turn 3 sheets to the wind.

flames from the gas seem to null the din,

so far from the daily labyrinth, I prescind.


words spawn tornadoes from test tubes,

psychedelic dreams morph from simple cubes.

read the thought conveyed, not the word,

ever cautious of whisperings unheard.


a free range wooly black sheep

living the nightmares of trouble deep.

oft to ride the daily labyrinth again

after leaving the confines of my pen.

above the immortal sea,
all the stars seem to dim.
the stairs swirl upwards
and the tread is sloped.
55 years of ever forward,
behind an invisible plow.
in an everlasting drought,
saving whatever love's lost.
tilling wisdom and music,
as sprouts shrink and dry.
I live on vicarious why's,
threshing memories in time,
as time turns each to chaff,
winds blow in hurt and lust,
dormant souls return to dust,
as coral in the immortal sea.

I spring to life some mournings,
only to feel a hint of a warning.
In the cool crispness of the air,
life and death are never fair.

With some passion in my pocket
and a sprinkle of time in a locket.
A suitcase of care, a bag full of fears,
home grown doubt watered by tears.

I spring to life on certain mournings,
only to feel a touch of the warning.
In the cool dampness of the air,
that death and life are never fair...

(a short lesson on being a man)
be true to the falsehoods of lies (realize the lies)
even the ones you tell yourself.
be mostly unfoolish, (never overtly wise)
brew your own personal brand of bliss
sell your soul to Love (for the price of a kiss)
know reality was yesterday (tomorrow a dream)
you make the dreams real (one, by one, by one)
listen intently to others (you'll hear yourself there)
watch every little thing (overlook nothing)
and roar like a lion (but, listen like a mouse)...

broken men fill their cracks with memories,
and forests of fitful dreams, only scenery.
Their temperament changed by the montage of time,
amid the accumulation of real and imagined crime.
finding pieces of their lives in old movies,
old cars.
hidden dreams in crown royal bags and
miracle whip jars.
old men have family taking, forever naps,
never forgotten...
and secrets buried deep within groom lake.

We sleep, but can never really find rest...

I am where I have always been.
between serenity and madness,
one day of happiness,
and two days of sadness...

I am where I have always been.

be true to the deception of lies (recognize lies)
some never see them, they refuse to analyze
be mostly unfoolish (never overtly wise)
always brew your own personal brand of bliss
sell yourself to love (for the price of a kiss)
careful whom you choose (whom you dismiss)

try to watch everything (attempt to overlook nothing)
listen to your whole environment (at all times, always)
listen intently to others (you'll hear yourself there)
know that reality was yesterday (tomorrow's a dream)
tomorrow's a dream that does not have to come true

know too, you make the dreams real (one by one)

The poets pen, is skilled in hand,
writing down what his soul demands.
Ink spills from head to heart,
the fire of spirit plays it's own part.
On cold early morning's dim light,
he sits alone to solemnly write,
futile messages, to the Earth of men,
lightening hearts, quieting this din.
Meandering thru a life's malaise,
honing skills, and sharpening blades.
Quietly observing the life around,
feeling all, and dwelling on the sound.
No man common is Poet, for sure,
uncommon sense of thought so pure.
His ink spills from head to heart,
fire of his spirit plays it's own part.
Words escape the emotional instinct,
forming sounds, both lyrical and succinct.
Spiced tidbits of wisdom and proven truths,
to be judged by it's merits, and it's fruits.
In the search of the mystery and the magic,
his life in this mist, is very often tragic.
Spread his truth lightly, in verse, and rhyme.
Then He stands it alone, thru critic and time.

in our drunken speech we tell the actual truth,
in old age we notice the power of our youth.
where we've been, is not where we're going,
what we've seen, hasn't always been showing.

I've lost things that I'll never find again,
youth, love, beauty, and some pain.
stood in the dark alleys of imminent danger,
found the best conversation with a stranger.

everything is not always what it seems,
sometimes from rain the sunshine beams.
happiness lives down the road from pain,
loss; it lives in the very shadows of gain.

everything is a contradiction of things seen,
kindness is just the very opposite of mean.
which makes it oh so very ******' easy to show,
if you know half, what you think you know.

in our drunk speak we tell the actual truth,
in old age we'll know the power of our youth.
where we've been, is not where we're going,
what we've seen, has not always been showing.

I lived my every day's from summer to autumn,
felt my loving Mom baby powder my bottom.
some of this ******* I really can't remember,
from these Neveruary's to the last December.

on some tombstone is where I'll tell my final lie,
a fake, “I'll always love you”, and a final goodbye.
you never loved me, cause you never understood,
why I was here, and there's no reason I ever should.

I've lost things that I'll never find again,
youth, love, beauty, power, and some pain.
stood in the dark alleys of imminent danger,
found the best conversation with a stranger. . .

there's a sadness in your eyes today,
that doesn't match the love in your heart,
and it shines through all the lies.
music in your heart that no one hears,
as you walk to a gentler cadence,
because you realize the earth is tainted.
music removes the weight from shoulders,
music is life, it's the soundtrack to it all.
dodging raindrops of the blues everyday,
the pills and the poems no longer help.
in this afternoon of Armageddon’s afterlife
contemplating an end to the situation,
it all comes down to tears in a plastic bag,
just light a candle and say a solemn prayer
of the lost living and the forgotten dead.
and those smitten, and betwixt.
all we living, in here's immortal dread.
wipe the pages of your mystic mind clean,
forget what you've done and what you've been.
purge the ballast from the submerged tank,
ponder what's precious and begin to thank
people you love for the poems in your head.

a vehicle of the family of man;
who say what cannot the mass.


mapmakers of the human psyche,
topographers of the human morass.
culling small order from the disarray,
trying to sow joy in infertile topsoil.
redolent the music on the mind's wind,
sacrificing sleep and self, for creation.
with all the monks within his head
praying for so many antithetic things,
notions and trinkets, truncated by dread,
oceans and skies and flutterby wings.
writing the songs of the solitary deaths
of the incomprehensible connections
missed by humankind's transient passing.

somewhere in Afghanistan,

at an unspecified location,

is a Special Ops soldier,

with a classified vocation.



and we'll never get to see,

time will never tell his tale,

the fate of his brothers and he,

scouted an untraveled trail.



never made extraction point,

and never did make it home;

now buried in a granite tomb

the one that's marked unknown . . .