the room is filled with
old lady stank
the kind that assaults the nose
and crawls down the throat in
an angry attempt to
drive you right out of the building.

she says the walls are “peach”
but I can see behind the cracked flakes
that it was once yellow.
I just grunt and sit at the edge of the bed
determined to hate both colors on
principle alone

I don’t want to be here, in her stank
I don’t want to look at the cracked
and pitted
desert that was once her face
I don’t want to strain to hear her
wavering and whispery voice

Yet here I am,
surrounded
by horrific images of a ****** Christ
nailed ironically to the walls
rosary beads hanging from
every candle in the room
and the Blessed ******
fighting
for space on the walls next to her
zombie son

where’s her god now
I wonder sourly as I strain to hear
her wavering and whispery voice
relate how nice the orderly was
who
washed
her prune of a body this morning.

hell, forget the god
where was her family
or her friends
or her nut job preacher

there’s only me
carrying my own stank of
whiskey and smokes
sitting here on the edge of
her bed
listening to her stories

The best men and women
in this life are not the
holy
or the righteous. They
are not
found in the
church or temple.
We live in a world
where religious
virtue
is conflated with
bigotry, racism,
and hatred.
Only the godless are truly
good.

pixie wings
arachnids donate
   their gossamer

when I’m this drunk
and you’re a thousand
miles away
I miss the plenary version of you
everything that you are
and all that I perceive you to be
why aren’t you here with me

I want to stop giving up
I want to just do it
I want to love you completely
with all that I am
and with no reservations

because when you’re
a thousand miles away
I know that the daily
irritations and influences
that detract from our
utter (what an ugly word) and complete
devotion to one another are
just that
distraction and irritations

the insecurities and the self-defeating
effects of life are nothing
when I have this much whiskey in me
I know that my love for you
is real

more real than Paris for Helen
more significant than
Romeo for Juliet
I love you as I love the
heart and lungs
in my own breast

without you I am bereft of a
vital *****
necessary for life
for existence

when I am this drunk
I don’t make sense
but I know
more truly than I know my name
that you are
essential
and that I love you
always

the man
who lives above
stomps, bangs his doors again
I wish he would realize he died
last week

dolphin slaughter
   in disingenuous and exquisite
Japanese inlets
hunger as an epidemic
   in the shadowed corners of
the world
putrid and rotting flesh
rampant disease
gmo crops making us all
     fat
these are things to
          worry
about, to fret and rally over
   yet here
I sit, wondering in
      mild horror
why I write better poetry
with
    two
       shots
of whiskey
  in my gullet
than when I am sober

when you have had
one too many
you can’t write coherently
and need to stop
trying to be deep
and meaningful
give it up, man
with five shots of
whisky
in your gut
you’re not a poet
you’re just a man with
too many words and
not enough sense to
stop typing

plastic dinosaur
made from fossil oil -
  recursion

I worry about everything, baby
I'm a
    writer - a poet
    passion begets anxiety
it's my job  hell
I even worry about
        my worrying
my stress is recursive
mere moments only can I
    break the loop
      forget to worry
        and smile
usually it's when I'm
    with you

The way
you talk about
it, you seem to think that
time really does stand still in my
embrace

the scab
cracks and bleeds
dead skin covering
raw flesh
a painful mistake for the
entire world to see
I want to peel it off
savor the exquisite agony
be done with it finally
but the wound is too recent
I'm not ready to be rid
of you
quite yet

Send me nudes, you said
I sent you my naked
truths instead -
An unfiltered and unapologetic
glimpse into my heart
my innermost self
That part of me that so
rarely sees the light
of day much less the
judgement
of another soul
In the end, staring at my
demons, at my fears, and
my weakness you
failed to see
my strengths, my beauty,
or my integrity
You looked into the
abyss of me and
blinked

I walked out of my office today at noon
and slid into the stream of pedestrians -
the hipsters stroking their beards,
the pale professionals blinking in the sun,
mothers pushing strollers through the crowd
with more skill than a racecar driver

before I knew it, I walked past my lunch destination
I kept walking - and watching
the people of my town share a sidewalk
without attacking one another

for a moment I was tempted to take a picture
post it on online,
make a socio-political statement;
if people from all walks of life
can share the sidewalk
can we not find common ground?

I left my phone in my pocket - decided against
adding my unnecessary opinion to the
manufactured outrage
that is the sad truth of social media

I smiled at a pretty lady pushing her baby
she smiled back
and we shared a brief human moment
I kept walking

(note - This is a haibun; a Japanese writing form that combines haiku with prose.)*

Two days on the road, two thousand miles on my motorcycle. Hard miles; my *** so sore that every bump in the road brings biting pains up my back and down my legs.

I’m riding alone. No highways. No hotels. Camping in fields and eating in greasy diners. Seeing the America not available to the Interstate. The real America. I’m rough riding across the continent and this isn’t a mid-life crisis. I’m on a mission.

There’s been a ghost haunting me for five years. And yesterday, somewhere on the back roads of Nebraska, I left that ghost, the ghost of my cancer, behind. The specter of death that lingered on me, over me, and around me after excision of the tumors is finally gone.

Contrary to opinion, ghosts are heavy. With mine gone, I ride through the night – the stars and my newfound peace my sole companions. I stop only when the false dawn begins to turn into the real thing.

serpentine road
​curves into the sun;
  my throttle opens

The country diner I find myself in front of welcomes both me and the morning sun. I’m tired, sweaty in my leathers, and covered in road dust as I enter. And I’m deaf, the roar of the road is still loud in my ears.

I tell the waitress I take my coffee black – as black as my soul. My joke falls flat; what comes from my mouth is a rough growl, thanks to a dry throat. It earns me dark looks from the other diners. The ***** biker with no manners.

I have a moment of tired reflection and then I get a visitor to my table. An old lady, dressed in her Sunday best, moves with slow deliberation and takes an unexpected seat across from me. Her frail hands wrap my grimy ones in a cool and gentle grip.

Her eyes, framed by a wrinkled face that smooths as she smiles at me, capture mine before she bows her head and prays loud enough for all to hear. “Lord, please help this young man find his way. He’s lost, alone, and needs your guidance to help cleanse his heart and his soul.”

She kisses my hand and, without another word, stands again. There’s a reverent silence as we all watch her sit back down at her table and take a bite of her breakfast as if nothing exceptional had just occurred.

I look out the window as the rising sun reflects off of my bike, thinking that, here, maybe it wasn’t really that exceptional at all.   And thinking; lady – I’m not lost; I’m finally finding myself again.

red cardinal
alights upon my bike –
  notices me

Green as the pirate seas Caribbean,
her eyes pulsate with the thundering surf.
Majestic squall, power most stygian,
lurks just beneath the surface of her mirth.

The salt-filled breeze, a warm westward phantom,
imparts its lazy life to flaming locks;
brushes the kisses that from angels come,
caresses lips, a smile that faintly mocks.

Tropical dress clings to a body lithe,
swaying gently on the sand-covered dune
gazing at the sea, a creature of myth
spoken of in countless stories and rune.

Enchanted, I am drawn to my Siren.
She sings for me alone - the least of men.

So many
years behind me,
but instead of wisdom
all I seem to have acquired is
regret

somewhere
on unending
back roads of Nebraska
I left behind the ghost of my
cancer

Ignore
racist bigots;
stand proud against their hate.
Trust me when I tell you that you
matter

steamy
beads of sweat
between her dusky *******
little rivers of pleasure
that collect in her navel
and threaten to spill with
each exhalation
distract me long enough
to avoid the
     little death
that look in her eye
seen only when
riding me
or on the back of
my motorcycle
    reignites my
passion and
all too soon
    I die

Sweet thing
with vacant eyes,
don't back up off of me.
**** dancer, please be my girl
tonight.

Sweaty
condensation
beads on my glass of tea.
Lazy fans push warm air across
her face.

summer sweat
hugs my whiskey glass;
runs down my back

staring
at Departures,
waiting with futile hope
that my flight's not cancelled; let me
get home

chasing the sunbeam
   across the carpet,
my dog finds happiness
in a single moment,
   in a single ray of light.

the little girl next door
skips breakfast
  to play outside in the same sun,
her stomach     empty
because mommy bought gin
instead of milk - again

both enjoy the moment,
oblivious to the shadows -
but my dog isn't hungry

Whiskey
dark chocolate,
smooth jazz, and some gritty
poetry are all that I need
tonight

she lies on the bed facing me
the curve of her hips
giving shape to the
blankets

her bare shoulder and arm are
bent at a gentle angle
as she lightly runs her
fingers
through my hair
her tattoos a vibrant
splash
of color on her alabaster skin

half lidded eyes take me in
and she sighs, a Mona Lisa
smile
on her lips

A million thoughts run through my
mind, my manic mind,
while she caresses me in complacent
bliss

How did I end up here
with this woman
with her perfect peace contrasting my
inferior and harmful
psychosis -
my constant battle with myself
and the universe

How can she love me
a man
who screams in defiance
at the tempest
while she spreads her
arms wide
and turns her face into the
rain and glories in it

My thoughts swirl
and clash
with the outward serenity
of the bedroom

And this is normal for me

The surprise comes when,
in a single moment
of clarity,
in between one manic thought
and the next,
I sigh with her
release the knot in my chest -
say “**** it” and
kiss her eyelids

I join her in this
perfect
moment of contentment

even as she wonders at my
sudden exclamation

I command it all
with imperious verbal commands
automation through the ether
my lights come on
the television, voice activated
spoken queries answered by the
computer in my home
    - sports scores
    - weather
    - news
    - reminders
vibration of my vocal chords
compels my thermostat
orders my groceries
and plays my music
I am the master of my domain
and yet now, more than ever,
I control
    nothing

Bloodied fingers are badges of honor
that few men suffer themselves to accept.
Part of the debt the instrument incurs;
a separation of skilled and inept.

The mastery of half a dozen steel
strings oft becomes a lifetime endeavor.
This daring quest for musical ideals
demands commitment lasting forever.

A hollow body touches the essence
of perfection that is merely expressed
by mortal beings of inconsequence
who caress the Muse nevertheless.

Ten fingers endure torture on six strings
for melodies only guitars can bring.

in the men’s room
peeking under my stall
  - tentacles

that satellite
is wearing a cape!
  super moon

"you are
so beautiful,"
I said, and then wept when
the uncertainty flickered in
her eyes

there’s a gun in my pocket
heavy with the essence of
another man’s soul
still swirling in the smoky barrel
in this dark corner of this lonely
and forgotten
bar is the man who played
Thanatos and brought to
inevitable conclusion the yearnings
of a single human life
in this corner, sipping cheap
whiskey
and smoking
foreign cigarettes is a
killer with a conscience
but you’d never know it
steady hands and
unwavering eyes
greet the bartender
I order another
shot
and pat my thigh, keeping
the soul in the chamber
for just a little longer
because, really, it’s  my soul
that’s been stolen by that
gun in my pocket

humor,
or so I'm told,
is key to happiness.
seems every time I try to laugh -
I cry.

These streets
are not just roads;
they hold our stories, and
embedded within them are our
poems

A man and his child were
gunned down In my
neighborhood today.
My community did nothing -
leaving the blood-soaked street
as the only reminder of
mankind’s capacity for violence.
l did nothing except
gnash my teeth at the
****** of a small child and
wonder if l lived in the
wrong neighborhood.
l look at myself-
the silence in the mirror
reflects my face
but not my
hypocrisy nor the
agony of my
screaming heart.

full flower moon
in its halo -
the space station

the false dawn
banishes
     false hopes
of finding sleep
ahead of the rising sun
transient glow accompanies
     first blush birdsong
the cardinal's aubade
     ushering
          greeting
     the brush's first stroke
across the canvas of night
twitching limbs
     bloodshot eyes
          nonstop freight train of thought
               all
                    night
                         long -
these afflictions allow me
to witness the lonely beauty
     of today's sunrise

"We're way
past
the point of no return,"
she said,
refusing
to look into my eyes
as she said it.
"I gave up on
you
a long time ago.  I'm in
love
with another man now."

There were so
many
things I wanted to say
right then. So many responses
on the tip of my tongue.

Some were
angry and inflammatory.
I didn't tell her that she
was the
*****
who lied and deceived me
for months while she
secured
her future with another man.

Some were
hurt and accusatory.
I didn't tell her that she
had unerringly found
every
***** in my armor and had
mercilessly
exploited them.

Some were
loving and pleading.
I didn't tell her that she
was my soul mate and that
there was no problem
too great
for us to overcome - together.

I didn't say anything.

Instead, I
****** her
and sent her back to
her new
boyfriend.

tiny scream
under my boot
  first step on Mars

l stand in awe and
   disgust
as l watch evangelical
Christians subject themselves to
moral gymnastics
trying to
  reconcile their faith with their
fear and hatred.
They place the teachings of Christ
on a virtuous scale alongside
the words,
    the actions, and
           the deeds
of the politician they elected and
somehow
they find a way to proclaim
balance.
That kind of
     tortured calculus
is as impressive as it is
repugnant.

Someone put an
     asterisk
in the Constitution and the
Declaration of Independence
when we weren't looking.
They added terms and conditions,
the ones nobody bothers to read
until they're ****** by them.

We live in the 'Land of the Free', asterisk.
We have the right to free speech, asterisk.
We can practice any religion, or none, asterisk.
We have the right of Life and Liberty, asterisk.

Rich, white, men know that the asterisk means
'for me, but not for thee," as they smile and
waggle their eyebrows at one another.

We live our lives surrounded by asterisks.
Truth lives in the asterisks.

twilight -
above my uncut grass
two fireflies

The work
isn't easy,
and doesn't satisfy,
but the burn of twilight whisky
sure helps.

Walking
by me as I
wrestle with my regret,
she laughs - and for a short moment I
too smile

the rocket launch;
inside Orion
a new star

the leaves fall;
my jasmine tea
scents the air

brittle leaves
swirl in circles
behind the motorcycle

Red cardinal
rooting for seeds to eat
  avoids yellow snow

red cardinal
alights nearby -
  notices me

lost in his phone
that businessman
misses the sunset