Pure fire of
the soul,
my heart rages
against the
mind and safer
thoughts.
This flame, this heat,
seeps into my
veins and pumps
a surreal kind of
sensitivity throughout
my being.
It's all consuming;
with a breath and
life of its own.

This impetuous imp
cares nothing for
common sense, and like
a babe to his
Mother's breast, I want to
drink up all life
has to offer,
every last drop.
There is a thirst that
can't be quenched,
a hunger that's never
filled
and like a wolf after
the ****, I want to gorge
myself on a lifetime of
tomorrows
forging my way
through a lifetime of
broken dreams
and childhood
schemes gone
awry

You chatter away like
an angry squirrel,
I watch you scamper
off and finally resemble
a fading flower.

I just have to write.
**** everything else.
I've suffered for my art,
and there's no doubt that
I will suffer more.
We all have our agony,
that's life and I accept
my plight.
I am what I am
(as Popeye would say.)
And I couldn't change
it if I wanted to.
I remember one night,
staying in an abandoned
house.
I wrote some poems on
the walls.
I saw the words in
the moonlight through
a broken window.
Even though I was famished,
I hadn't eaten in
three days,
at that moment, I became
full and complete.
I knew right then,
as long as I had the words;
my words, I would never
feel empty again.
My black satchel full of
writing and the clothes
on my back were all
I owned.
I had no idea where I
was going at dawn,
but I sure the **** knew
who I was.

Judas betrayed Christ with a kiss.
As a confidant, Brutus stuck
the knife in.
The betrayers are
out there,
thick as buzzards,
waiting to crush your
dreams, like crackers for
their big bowls of bones.
At least Jesus knew what
was coming.
I can't tell my
friends from my enemies.
Someday soon, Ill find
peace of mind, and the
betrayers will feast on
themselves.
They always do.

When the agony
of dawn awakens
me.
I think of
drinking
***** to arouse
the muse from
her slumber.
But I don't;
instead, I slam
three cups of
coffee, hoping to
jolt the old
***** from her
lethargy.
If the caffeine
doesn't do the trick,
I grab a few of
our favorites:
Bukowski,
Neruda,
and Dylan Thomas.
I pace the floor
and read out loud.
Eventually, I feel her
begin to stir.
I yell,
"Is your fickle *** ready to work?"
And then the real day begins.
I know this sounds crazy,
but the muse and I
wouldn't have it any
other way.

By the time I was 23
Mom and Dad were
both dead.
I know it sounds
strange, but I felt
like an orphan;
like Oliver Twist.
Real love has
eluded me ever since.
like the goldfish in
the tank
at the Chinese restaurant,
when I reach in and
try to grab one.
Growing up, I thought
my parents would live
forever; of course that's
absurd, but even back then
I was a dreamer.

The birds started
singing at ten to four
this morning;
coaxing the dawn on
with their song.

The *** would be
great on the clouds
I saw yesterday.
They looked like
rows of fresh
cauliflower.
Every position would be
a little miracle;
perfect depth and
perception.

The sweat stung
my eyes as I
smoked in the
sweltering July
sun.
I wish I could
live in the clouds...
No job
No taxes or tired back.
Just relaxing in
that puffy white
perfection.