I want to be cool  
chain smoking drunk with trash bin
filled with rejection

Unkempt hair sunk eyes
red from cigarettes and *****
suffering for art

provocative  lines
suicide at sixty two
now immortalized

Old scratch walks up and down in this world.
Not some misunderstood romantic tragic figure,
but the father of lies.

Old scratch stands behind the curtain
and raids the caravans loaded down with good intentions
He is the wicked warlord in the horn of Africa.

He is the self serving dictator with ridiculous hair
murdering his family in paranoid fits
while his people eat bark in hungry desperation.

He is dengue ebola, ecoli, the plague..
He is rage and landmines in the soccer fields
He is dysentery and influenza and krokodil.

Old scratch walks to in fro in this land
with infectious breath and violent laughter
He is the womb of grief and lost hope.

twenty thousand crying skeletons
with bloated bellies blinded by thirsty flies
each and every day old scratch ushers them
to the only relief they will ever find.
while another twenty thousand wait in line.

We give it a face, a voice, and a name.
I'm so glad we have old scratch to blame,
otherwise whose fault would all this madness be?

Once there was a man
who had nothing in particular to say.

He forced his stacked lines,
and on occasion, some rhymes
-nothing in several shades of gray.
He spoke of an illusive muse,
and a starving white sea,
things that never were,
and things that used to be.

The word wielding ghost
remembers bouncing checks
and eating roses off the stem
in taverns and bars
that would tolerate him.

and jigsaw puzzle pieces in the sky
and a brandy sniping toddler
who threw his bottle in the fire.

Now the narcissistic saint of wasted time
contemplates the day that he will die.

Elusive thoughts
picture word calligraphy
exhibitionist

human absorbing
sight sound senses and minds eye
celebrate and grieve

source of frustration
shameless timeless love for it
blessing of the ******

I'm very sorry
I'm not impressed much either
sacrilege of words

It finishes here
will be forgotten shortly
I'll wash my hands now

Gravitational.;
Signature of time and space;
It's only the wind.

I've been in touch with the earth
from eight to eighteen
I've tasted the the dirt
Oh, the abrasions I've seen!

I've been one with the pavement
I've been one with the pain
I've contemplated the  gravel
when I jumped from a train

I once communed with an animal
then communed with the ground
When my equestrian skills
were not to be found.

When I channeled the energy
of a poorly taped line
of an aerator machine,
I expanded my mind.

The lessons in life
can be deep and profound,
and, for a blue collar sage
the lessons abound.

I strolled among lavendills
in the pithy piney plodding hills
bearing the brunt of burdensome *******
as I garnished  grins of whippoorwills.

On a plateau-ish plain  of prickly peet
I felt the bog beneath my feet
tickling my toes with ****** tainted thorns,
I remembered gnarling days, and stood forlorn.

Pickled poesy pomagroups
foretold of future ladle scoops
in caligrating loop the loops in styles
reminding me of marching troops.

In shifting shylock shapes of time
with ripping radishes of rhyme
I began my daring dew descent
to the lowly muppet mugging climes.

When, on sordid stony steppes I stood,
amid the brash and boorish wood,
wenting where I was, I brought
a hinting hackle pang of good.