It's the next best thing!
It's a scream!
It's got a screen!
and a million little buttons
that won't ever do a thing
to erase that feeling
that you're feeling.


why you are always waiting.


like the Rockie's or the Canyon.
like Columbus and the the great depression.
like Woodstock and world wars.
like the Illad and the Odyssey and The Beatles.


something more than
The consumer generation.
a definition through epic episodes.
a defining moment.


The revolution has been sponsored
by manufacturers and broadcasters
and warmongers and pundits
and people getting paid to tell you what you think.
and what do you think?
Why are we content with being incomplete?
unfinished and beat?


What the **** is so Comfy about that seat?


You are not generation X
or Y or Nothing or Nowhere.
or any of these false names they've created
to make us believe we are less than we are.
we've been duped.
the youth is not the future anymore.
It's firmly in the grip of the old and accomplished.
Your fate is their whim for a dollar.
Your life is fuel for the fires.
crass entertainment inspires your desires.


And well, **** that.
pull the wires from your brain
and we'll fight to regain.
what territory they've taken away.
Make decisions for ourselves today.

He was born in 1924
And at 17 went to war.
Parachuted over Sicily,
Wounded, sent home to live in civility.

One day he met a Ryder,
Tall and elegant and regal.
Married her and made a home,
Though the front lawn lacked a gnome.

He died before I could really know him.
But what I remember is this:
His heart was good and full of love,
Tender, strong and not at all rough.

He pulled quarters from my ears
Whenever I saw him.
He and Shadow walked the beach
For miles before a swim.
He smoked cigars and drank beer
While playing cribbage.
And he was my favorite person
When I was four years old.

I want to write a poem about you,
but all the words sound good in my head until they get out on paper.
I can't make anything out of the slur of words I wish I could say to you.
There's a sentence for all the years I want you to have back,
and words for all the days you spent waiting for probation in a cell.
You are still just as much of a man as you were before they stripped away your sanity.
They say that people make mistakes,
But you had to give up most of your life for just one of yours.
I like to think you spend so much time in the company of a bottle
because somehow, in your mind, you'll find the years that you lost at the bottom of every one.
I want you to know that Alcoholism is not a choice,
Nor is it a death sentence.
I want you to know that I do not bow my head in shame at you;
You are not a monster.
You are a child,
One that never got to experience innocence before it was taken from you.
You are not a trophy to be on display,
You are not a spectacle to be snickered at,
You are not a John Doe to be left lying in the cold,
You are not next week's breaking news,
You are not stupid,
You are not broken.
You are not a statistic,
You are not a stereotype.
You are sick.

Our old uncle, Daedalus,
     he'd grin when he spoke to us
His mouth was missing teeth
and so his wisdom flowed out free
He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
He'd tell us he had seen the world
     and this was his decree:

     "Don't fly too high, you little *****.
       You just might live to pay for it.
       The Sun is always hot,
       the ground gets harder every day."

"But, Daedalus," we would complain,
"You are old and we would fain
see the sights you saw before
          we sleep beneath the clay."

And dear old Uncle Daedalus
     he'd laugh and spit and swear at us
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell.
This life is one big ******* maze
with twists and turns and tricks to play.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

We'd try to listen, try to thank
him for the words, but his breath stank
and, anyway, we thought that he
               had prob'ly **** himself

But dear old Uncle Daedalus
hung Death from lips that spoke to us
and ****** if he weren't right
about the things he always said:
"Inventiveness works, by and by
with daring, you may taunt the sky
                                   like I did
                                  but the fall is long--
my dreams and son are dead."

He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell..."

"Don't fly too high, you little *****.
You just might live to pay for it.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

Where is my mind?
It's out  in the sea.
Between
Break up
Old love's
And my first Real uncle heading downstream.
My mind is one of a gemini.
It's hard not to loss my mind
Always torn in two.

The coral Is dieing.
Just like the love inside of me.
He took care of me.
And I cant ever pay him back u see.
Because what he gave me was a family.
We agreed to be friends.
And I hope that will never end.
He is part of my trinity.
He truly was
And always will be
My knight and shining armor
Because he rescued me
I wIll love him forever
That'll never be lost out in sea
But my coral is dieing.
But he will be my forever and always.

I'm stuck in the deep
I don't know what to say
about this old flame.
It's been 10 years
And he act like nothing has changed.
Yes he makes me feel ablazzed.
But I have came along way.
I want it to be.
But first I have to see.
What my life is going to be.
So for now
I'll wait and see.
If he can catch me
Out in the sea.

The current has came.
He is on his way to a better place.
Where he will say hey.
To the ones who lost there lives
Before his time.
he is my grandpa's brother.
But never met him or my uncles.
After my mom's death we all left.
Came down to Florida.
Where we stayed with this man.
Who I called uncle soon after.
So I raise a beer.
In cheer.
For my first real uncle.
Who was there.
We all love you.
And will be here to hold your hand.
When you go.
Please say hello
To my mother
Hope the current takes you to a better place.
So you can let go.
Of all you pat pain.

This is the stuff on my gemini mind.
Breakups are hard.
Old love's are too.
And death thrown in to the mix.
Hope I find a way out before
It's to late.
I'm just a little scared.
Don't want to loss a friend.
Or a family member.
One has to go I know.
But it's hard to let go.
And to that old fling.
Don't leave me on the swing.
If it's not meant to be.
I still want u to be.
A friend who I can.
Run to.

Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.

She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses

herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises

from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours

cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash

me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.

She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,

rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.

Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the

nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed

against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens

the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross

on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one

side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers

growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun

is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.  

Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin

to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never

make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never

told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.

Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.

so what would you look like
you know
if you were still here

would you still shoot those guns
that scared the **** out of me
and taught me how to cry

and what about the scotch
would it still linger
and cling to your breath

your stupid laugh
that makes me want to
roll up in a ball

because i miss it
so much
i miss you
i miss it all

The mirror, mirror lies
Reflecting back at me
All I see is powder
Where could I be?
Numb from the Columbian
A new national war bond
A roman hierarchy
Bang their drums obscenely
To One Right Wing God


The dragon took the towers
But man, it’s happen before
It’s been real hard to ***** all these drugs
To crush all over my mirror
And hide my ugly mug
When did I change?
I think I know who’s behind it completely
Samson’s in my blood