i am but a mere stranger in this ghost town
sitting on my throne with a silly little crown
here's to their words that cut to the bone
and the psychedelic skies guiding me home

She lived in a town without sunrises and sunsets
Where beauty is erased from the houses and offices


All infrastructure is devoted to might and prosperity
All activity, a collapsing dream, a fading memory


Her skin was translucent, letting in harsh light
Tadpoles multiplied in her garden, frogs had their feasts


Quietly, quietly, quietly. Making sure not to disturb the predators
The dogs and the cats pass them by without a glance


Theodora had a dream. An ambition or a vision?
In this town it makes no difference. 


Everything is set to collapse into a black hole

Leaf litter sheep ****
verdant verges
flowers that smell foreign but aren’t
wet earth telling truth
moves to concrete and tarmac
who lie often
and heat is turned to memory
steps from animal tracks to animals tracked
have tumble drier breeze
mocking those prior flowers
**** smoked appreciatively
to thank the peace
as if laws don’t exist
and the lick of car exhaust
to recall poison
and then home

I’d rather be an empire builder
a lonely artisan
in the deserts outside
of Las Cruces
with the sunshine on my back
chasing destiny down
a steep cliff of Mesquite
and milkweed
to Mexico City
where the children smile
in the streets
and then on to the Guadalupe Mountains
where I’ll feel
the loneliness of my dreams
and make my way back
to Small Town America
where I’ll sit on the front porch
and revel in
a much simpler destiny
as you walk through the front gate
to greet me.

I thought to write a poem about the town where I do live,
a brief poetic description is what I had hoped to give.

I thought it would take but a minute, so very little time,
but I ran into a problem because Whyalla has no rhyme.

I thought to tell its history of ships and iron and steel,
but Whyalla hasn't got a rhyme at least not a word that's real.

There is an old story told of how Whyalla got its name,
it tells of two Afghan's asking their god why they even came.

I could have told of the bush that surrounds the whole of town,
But Whyalla not having any rhymes just really let me down.

There is nature in abundance and some very scenic coast,
but you cant rhyme Whyalla so I didn't stand a ghost.

It isn't everyone's idea of a cultural oasis or a hidden jewel,
I could have told you good things if poems had no rhyming rule.

I would encourage you to visit Whyalla, if you have the time,
it is really quite an amazing place, even if it doesn't rhyme.

It's just a small country town just part of South Australia,
but to sell its attraction via a poem can only end in... failure.

i wanna touch your hands
and dance with you tonight
our feet touch the ground
dance around through city and lights
now i look at the stars
to keep you in my life
i'm frighten now
without you here tonight

He knows me by my first name

The boy who works at the drugstore

near the end of the street.

When I shovel out the crumbled twenty from my left pocket
he doesn’t even bother to say


Will that be all-
Or
Which pump are you at -


His simple smile spreads across his face,

And he calls me by my first name-

I am no longer the girl at the drugstore

near the end of the street.