here, take this
you're well-dressed, well-groomed
not quite well-adjusted
but you'll get there soon, one must hope...
apron goes in one hole, loop around, across
here, let me help -
now you're ready for
(re)action...
trip flat palm shaking
ceramic plates
make great crashing sounds
and even better prison shanks
apparently
i apologise as profusely
as a butchered animal bleeds...

"ah, it's alright mate
**** happens"

indeed, it does...

...looks like he swerved
into the wrong lane
one white line up the nose
and Sir Tired Trucker
forgets about the white lines
adorning the road...
everything begins as debris
he was just returning things
back to their natural order
like me, the other day
when i gave the library back its books
see? one and the same...
authoritative man
steps out of the car with the flashing lights
assesses the damage
assesses such a sudden loss of life
and treats it with a shrug...

"ah, shame really but
**** happens"

indeed, it does...

...boys will be boys
they say
hot-headed, cold-blooded
a warm bed and a
home ground advantage...
he took something from her
the only thing
standing up for her safety
be the hairs on her neck
now wrapped around a little finger...

"ah well, i made a mistake
but **** happens, doesn't it?"

no, it doesn't, you ******* pig.

I’m the entertainer,
So nobody will touch me.
The truth be told
They don’t think much of me.
I’m paid to be here
Not like the shimmering guests.
They take their pay in champagne
And believe they’re better than the rest.

I perform for them, smiling,
I show them a happy face,
And do my very best to make
An evening they’ll never replace.
I make music and joy all night
And make sure to be grateful
If someone leaves a tip in the jar.
Maybe tonight will be fateful.

But probably I’ll go home
Alone and completely forgotten.
They’re a beautiful basket of fruit,
But too many have gone rotten.
It’s not that they are evil people,
It’s just that they don’t care.
I am the background music
Doing something, somewhere.

It makes perfect sense to me,
They didn’t come here for this;
To revel in the brilliance I will show.
They’ll never know what they miss.
They won’t even notice it
Unless there’s a song they really love.
It’s almost performing for myself
And letting my talent rise above.

So, I perform for them, smiling,
I show them a happy face,
And do my very best to make
An evening they’ll never replace.
I make music and joy all night
And make sure to be grateful
If someone leaves a tip in the jar.
Maybe tonight will be fateful.

whatever floats yer boat
paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

the message
is important
you could paint
it on a goat
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

write a letter
do a play
or even bake a cake
the message
it is important
who cares what form it takes

say it loud
or scream it
even put it in a song
opinions
are for sharing
even if they're wrong

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

Darling you know i love it when you play the black chords
Let them echo through the house for a long minutes time
and show me the god in your fingertips

a lover's hand you have with that percussive beat
rumble those strings with a heavy heart
give the dead ivory a taste of your lip

the ecstasy, the thrill
the trill and timbre
the infantile touch of a player's soul
strumming through that sweet sound

It is my youth, my zenith, my dying wish
my every happiness

to hear your musical singing string,
'till the very end.

this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.

grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city

bonded with blood brothers

felt born to run along backstreets

in brilliant disguise that did cover me

frequently blinded by the light

of the full moon



casting silhouettes against darkness on the edge of town

which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room

while immersed in book of dreams

describing better days on a Cadillac ranch


where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark

celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july

or other glory days in darlington county

even though I ain’t got you.



livin’ in the future

mine hungry heart hankered and felt like I’m on fire

for you, this fire in me craved human touch

desire - roaring into the ole factory fire

because I wanna marry you

because the night populated



with girls in their summer clothes

each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)

in imagination of my american skin

descended from when adam raised a cain

before last to die forecasting kingdom of days

now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.



now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/

local hero and I’m goin’ down

meeting across the river

if I should fall behind



on the downbound train as living proof

within light of day magic jungleland

policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99

alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun

defending this lucky town



established on Matamoras banks

from an incident on 57th street

thus celebrated as local hero every independence day

when with ****** incorporated



firing point blank out in the street

that staccato new york city serenade

from no surrender outlaw pete

originally from nebraska.



it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night

within my hometown

once my father’s house, now my city of ruins

where tis moot to ask does this bus stop at 82nd street?



one step up

into the pink Cadillac

hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket

teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere

a red headed woman



racing in the street toward secret garden

to save my love – with thee

angel rosalita (come out tonight)

offering reason to believe

roll of the dice real world



and to prove it all night

from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel

housing souls of the departed

please save my love and stolen car

for sherry darling – that spirit in the night



she’s the one among souls of the departed

no longer stopped by state trooper

precinct based along streets of philadelphia

some crackling like streets of fire

straight time mandate for those armed to the teeth

along tenth avenue freeze-out.



requiem per terry’s song – what love can do

accompanied by e street shuffle

performed in somber tones

rumbling down thunder road

for souls of used cars



two hearts crushed

along this hard land

for: the ghost of tom joad

the last carnival homage


to wild billy’s circus story

the price you pay when you’re alone

working on a dream

now wreck on the highway.



we take care of our own from youngstown

when heading of to the promised land

the rising distant mystical eden

where you can look (but you’d better not touch)

espying the river of salvation



joining eternally the ties that bind

a tunnel of love

or like the wrestler

pinning opponent tougher than the rest

like laborers working on the highway

chiseled like this hard land!

Smiling, you bless every day,
A regular Louis I might say.
A jazz musician with a giant heart ,
Letting all who come take part.

Join the music! Jump in the sway!
Hear that jazz musiscian play.
Hit the notes by the lamplight friend,
Until with the night our revel ends.

I want to write a poem for
the sincerity of your fingers
the small silver stream that flows
from the edges of your forehead
to the ends of your hands
the thousands of cyan workers
digging the frets with their bare members
the breath that breeds forget-me-nots
on each rhythmic exhalation

I want to write a poem for
the gentleness of your fingers
the sky that blooms within
explosion after explosion - and then
crushes and then blooms again
the thirsty animals anticipating
patiently the rain
tightly embraced

I want to write a poem for
the taste of your fingers
salt, lustered shells and metal
from carcasses of boats
-one, two, three, four, five
six, seven, eight, nine, ten
forbidden fruits
for as long as this poem holds,
my very own.