It's the little things that
drives one mad,
a snapped shoelace,
on your way to the
liquor store in the
driving snow.
A cockroach in
the cereal,
dead batteries, when all you
want to do is listen
to music.
Shifty-eyed people in
my house, quietly plotting
my demise.
It's the tree of
life, cut down to clear
space for a parking lot.
No love from my brother.
Another frosty day in April.
Cigarette prices constantly
rising astronomically.
Footsteps in an empty
hallway.
It's Just a hop, skip, and
a jump to the madhouse.

There is dust on
the wall.
I watch it hang in
little wisps.
I’m distracted by  
everything.
All of it.
The small and large
items of life have me
chasing my tail, and avoiding  
the pen.

I postpone writing, like I’m
ending a bad relationship.
I avoid the tough
conversation.
I dance with impotence and
procrastination, like they are
lovely women.

I need to write.
I must create.
But there is an  
antagonist at work in the
trivial details of my
existence.
It smells like copper.
It hides the ink from  
my mind.

It would rather I do
anything else:
promote
market
*******
dream
sleep
eat
watch TV
or sometimes,
just stare at the
dust on the wall.

When I was
younger,
I had to learn.
Sit and wait to
write.
I  would get
impatient and force it.
If you read it,
you could tell.

Now I’m quite a bit older, and
I quit trying.
Fodder seems to be
everywhere.
I can write about
the most mundane
things.

Today I’m at the
library waiting for my
girlfriend to
finish up at the dentist.
She’s getting her
teeth cleaned.
All my drinking ruined
my teeth.
When I got them
pulled a year ago,
there wasn’t a
healthy tooth in my head.
I have dentures now, so
I don’t have to
worry about how much I drink.
I know this isn’t a
good poem, but
hey,
there she is
all shiny and bright…
and sober.

Life is a series of tiring verbs
as I wade through the
ashes of orchids.
I'm a vagabond with
a ragged soul
coming for you *******
a lonesome road.
I float aimless,
like an acorn in
a mountain stream.
The death of dreams smells
like autumn leaves,
lonely as driftwood.

Home is not going to be
a white door at the
end of a sidewalk.
It's bigger and broader,
and can't fit behind a
fence and walls.
It will always be the
sum of my
memories and longings.

Home is walking the streets,
hand in hand,
with our son on my shoulders.
Home is lying in
the grass with your
fingers in my beard, and hope
oozing from your blue eyes.
It's eating sushi and laughing at
our accidental touch of hands,
reaching together for
the last California roll;
avocado safe at
a sun-dappled table.

I'm drifting lost on
a southern wind.
When I'm with you again,
wherever that is,
I'll be home.

This one goes out to
the rambling, gambling madman
from Aspen- the late great
Hunter S. Thompson.
My drinking has landed me
in prison for a short stint.
To occupy my time,
I read and write,
it keeps my mind sharp
and the nursing homes at bay.
Also, a pen or a book in my
hand has the added benefit
of a signal to the other
inmates that I'm in my own
world, and I don't care to converse.

H.S.T's guerrilla approach to
writing, and his sharp gonzo wit
keep me laughing and thinking
on this carnival ride from hell.
And if I can laugh in prison,
I'm halfway home.
My mind will go where my
body can't.

Like Hunter, I'm a betting man who always
bets on the long shots.
So I'm putting a bundle on
me to pull out of this **** hole
and do something with my life.
** ** **, God Bless you, Doctor.
And as my old man used to say,
"They can **** us, but they
can't eat us."

I’ve been to a place at
The end of the sidewalk.
In between safety and  
wild debauched nights of
concrete and neon.

It’s a tabula rasa.
Pristine and precious.
I love it there
where creativity and
innocence dwells on the
backs of phoenix birds and
purple pigeons,
and on the slopes of verdant
valleys, lush with cerulean
blue ponds.

The trees all
gave and gave.
Dragon fruit and  
mangoes and
plants that taught me  
things.

Every fish and turtle that
I caught talks of Keroack
and Dali,
dreams, and love.
Serenity,
thick as maple syrup.
I met some surreal people
and creatures in this land.

And every **** one
of them oozed  
compassion and  
truth from  
every pore.

I dreamed that I had
a boat on a leash,
which was strange
because moments before,
I had it in the ocean,
and I was fishing off
the starboard side.
My nephew was with me
and he got us lost.

We dragged that boat all
over Ventura.
We were looking for
the marina.
The longer that the boat
was on the leash,
the smaller it got.
Pretty soon it was
just a toy, a poisoned
dog that we
threw in the trash.