Just like Orpheus,
I descended.
Though,
my digression was
for different
reasons.
Yeah, I tried to
rescue you from
your hell.
Bring you out of
the degradation,
the debauchery.

It smelled like
***** and ****.
The swine squealed.
The harpies shrieked.
And,
I looked
too long.
I became you.

Thank God I escaped.
Fate dragged me
out by the scruff
of my neck.
You've made it
your home,
but, I will never
visit your underworld
again.

She had that
octopus smile,
always reaching for
something.
I was her small
fish; her handmaid.
I lived in her nebulous
world for far too long.
Inky confusion...

There's a reason for
your treason, said the
old man to the shark,
but Hem forgot, a beast
is a beast, they do
beastly things.
We all have to eat.

I'm done being the
meal.
It's your Ocean,
I'm just trying to
swim in it.

You're an oyster,
and I want your
pearl,
but I won't drown
for it.

Time has run through
golden fields of hay
and swam the moss-covered
ponds in the soft amber
light of dawn.

There are shards of
beauty in the
rubble of a broken life.

Those summer days
crawled
like
a

grumpy

tortoise.

Then galloped on by, like
a ******* colt.

I fed on the breast of life,
grew strong, and free.
And now,
those November birds

are

coming for me.

Tepid water
between
my toes,
I know
life.

The view from
between your legs,
with my glistening
face in the soft
lamplight is
more than
sublime.

The trust
is thick,
and
sweet.

Your happy
moans are like a
symphony from
Mozart as I wait
for the
grand finish.
dun dun dun dun dun dun dun
dun dun dun dun dun
Dun Dun

DUN

You pull me inward,
and I smell
Paradise.
Sticky faced
ambrosia.

Three burly sheriffs showed
up at my neighbors
house yesterday.
Scowls on scarred faces.
Tattered lives, tarnished
brains.
Five minutes later,
they were walking my
friend out in handcuffs.
He shuffled, head down.
Autumn frowned and the
leaves scuttled away in
disgust.

Today, the vultures swooped
in, picked the bones of all
his earthly possessions that
littered what was once his
front lawn.
Jackals, and hideous
hyena faced men and
women took the last of
his things.  

Even though he was
arrested, he still
grows.
and although they are
free, they die more
daily in their own
private evictions.
I've seen more
humanity at a
hanging.

Ferrel cats creep
under porches
to escape the  
rain and snow.
Some have half  
a tail
or a missing ear.
My cats watch
them from the
safety of
the warm house.
They chirp, and
stare.

I wonder if
these pitiful
orphans once had
a home and
knew love.
Did the owner
abandon them to
be unburdened by
empathy.

I wish I could
save those wild
cats,
those princes of
the alleys.

Sometimes, they wander
over to my porch.
I put a can of
tuna out.
They look at
me with cautious
green or golden eyes.
I tell them,
it’s going to be
Alright.
I know it’s a
lie.
Winter is coming.
But I feel  
better for a second.
And that’s all that
matters in this
playground of a
world.

Don’t you think?

It won't be a silent
night this Christmas in
the Psych Ward.
There are some real
wack jobs in here.
One guy grabbed his crotch,
and said, 'I have hold of all my faculties.'
The nurse asked him what
drugs he was on,
He said, 'It's not the drugs that are
the problem, it's the women.'
Maybe he's not as crazy as I thought.
I shouldn't talk; I'm getting
ECTs (Electra Convulsive Therapy)
One of the side effects is
memory loss. I hope they make me
forget the last woman in my life.
Life is so odd.
I'm locked in the nuthouse,
getting shock treatments.
She's home in her apartment,
cooking and cleaning,
crazy and mean as a ****-house rat.

Her lips are like
wet orchids, dressed in
the spring rain,
waiting to be
kissed and
caressed.

It’s strange on
days like this.
December 30th, 2024.
The temperature reached
60 degrees today.
An ice fisherman
died on the lake.

It’s strange on
days like this,
when winter plays
a charade.
I open the windows
and let the breeze in.
My cats run around the
house, and think it’s
spring.
They wag their
tails and watch the
squirrels hide nuts.

And on strange
days like this,
I look around my
room, at the pictures
on the wall.
Hemingway
Van Gogh
Picasso
and I wonder if
they ever thought that  
they would die someday.

I think about it.

It’s hard to envision.
I’m so alive when I
sit in the hot jacuzzi
and watch the bubbles
and steam.
I water the plants,
exercise, and take
vitamins.
I will be gone one day.
The rivers will still
flow and wind, and the clouds  
will
float slowly by, and
chocolate will still taste so
sweet.

I wonder if
Vincent, Pablo, or
Earnie ever thought about
the strange tricks the
seasons play on us.

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

The *** would be
great on the clouds
that 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.

Evening sky reflects
on the glass lake.
The soldier of a
tree carries on
through the lonesome
night.
If we could only
see the dreams of
the fish,
far from the
frying pan.

When I was
20
I became
involved with
a married woman.
She said that
her husband was
abusive.
She was looking
for a way out
or a break.

She had the
most amazing eyes.
Wild and dark,
like a walnut, on fire.
She smelled like
the earth, sweat,
and wildflowers.
There was something
uncaged about her.

I was young
and naive.
I believed everything
and hoped too much.

The *** was
ferocious.
She taught me a lot.
We broke the
bed and took
bubble baths together.
It was a lavender love.

One day, she came
home with a balloon and
flowers.
She said we are
having a baby.
Those wild
eyes flashed pure joy.

My mom was
worried.
"She has a husband."
My mother was a realist.
She accepted it though,
even bought the woman
some gifts.

It didn't take long for
Amber to show a side
of her, I hadn't seen.
I caught her in some
small lies, and she became
violent when upset.

The affair ended.
She went back to
her husband.
It felt like my heart was
being
ripped out through
my nose.
Pain like a
rotting *****.

I remember talking to
a friend about it on
the phone,
pausing to *****.
It hurt so
******* bad.

Her sister called
me a week after
the split.
I asked about the
pregnancy.
It was all a lie.
She had a
hysterectomy a few
years earlier.

I still believe in people,
and hope too much,
and the years have made
me wiser.

I heard much
later that
she died at 40 of
lung cancer.
Those beautiful dark
eyes finally got
some rest.

The tower penetrates
the puffy pink
clouds, and the
horizon squirts
sweet rain.
My face gets
sticky.
She is the sky.

I sit in the day room of
cell block one in the county jail at
4: 30 am.  It's quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard-boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice, and milk.  
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I'll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I'm released, I'll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I'll eat every three or four days.
It's January with record-setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be an ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I'll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is if she didn't throw them away;
she's somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends who stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I'm going to miss jail.

Many years
ago, I went to
this little
Irish bar.
On Sunday nights,
there was a jazz band.
They played
Monk
Mingus
Coltrane
Miles
and the Duke.

I drank gallons of
****** marys on
those hot
summer nights.
Dill pickle spears, and
green olives came up
later on those
hungover, dreamless
mornings.

I was young.
I wasted the days,
lying in the sun,
bayonetted by youth.
Copper colored skin,
tin soul.
I would go thousands
of miles, chasing
that train, before I
would be forgiven.

This could be
the last poem I
ever write.
I hope not,
but it's possible.

If it were my
last poem,
what would I want
it to say?
Wow, not so easy.

Poetry has been a
loving wife, and I
will miss her on
all those sleepless
nights, when dreams
don't come.
Writing poems have
kept me in touch
with all the harsh
pain, and all the
sublime beauty.
Both are supreme
teachers.

Poetry has opened
my ears to the
sounds of the
earth, the whispered
rush of the creek
running over stones
and sticks.
The cries of my
children in the
night wanting
their mothers'
milk.

If this were
my
last poem, I would
want it to bring
some joy and be
a bit less sentimental.
Oh well,
guess I have to
write more.

I teach my
little daughter about
things in the sea with
flippers, and I feel
like Neptune or
Posideon.
I can smell
the salty breeze.

Sometimes,
I feel like
I won the lottery.
Don't get me wrong,
I'm broke most
of the time, but
my life is rich with
golden memories, and
silver moments, built
one day at a time.

I long for
the sunburnt days,
freckled dreams and
scabbed up knees.
Ahh
to be a boy in
summer again.
My baseball and  
**** dog close at
hand.
Fishing pole and
lily pad ponds.
I caught frogs and
tortoises.
The budding poet in
me saw sunsets on
the underside of
the shells.

The daylight, and
evening seemed to
last forever.
And when I finally
went to bed,
The buzz of the
cicadas, and the
symphony of the
crickets were my
soundtrack to youth.
I dreamed in green.

I was in 4th grade at
Hubble Elementary.
Eddie Van Patten was
in 6th grade.
He was a big kid, even
for a 12-year-old.
He had a bowl cut,
and freckles.
Eddie was a  
troublemaker,
but he never  
bothered me.

One bitter cold
January afternoon,
he slipped on a  
patch of ice,
hit the back of
his head and died.
Mr. Maguire, the
gym coach said,
It was the occipital bone.
We were all told
to feel the back of  
our heads.
The coaches' eyes
didn't have that
sparkle anymore.

He said,
“You have to  
learn how to
fall, always protect
the back of your head.
If you don’t land right,
It can **** you.”

For the next
week, we practiced
tumbling and
learning to fall the
right way.
I was sad for
Eddie, but I wanted
to play dodgeball.

I visit the dead at
the grocery store,
library,
on the phone
and
in my e-mails.
I watch them  
on TV,
at the beach,
in my dreams
and in the eyes
of crows.

They wear
colorful clothes, and
always want to
sell me on their
way of life.
No thanks, I’m  
calling the whole  
thing off.
I’m going fishing.

My cat’s timing is
impeccable.
I’ve been slothful
with writing lately,
and the cats play
the antagonist.
I sit in my
favorite chair and
put some Vivaldi on.  
I’m determined to write.

As soon as I pick up
my notebook and pen,
the black one with
the white spot on
her neck jumps on  
my lap and bites at
the moving ink pen.

Her sister chases
imaginary bugs on
the coffee table, and
knocks over a slim
glass of water.
She runs away.

The newest edition to
my cat family is a
large tiger stripped
female that is
currently trying to
avoid the puddle, while
she bats at the
leaves of the fig tree.

I bet Bukowski
didn't have to
deal with this ****.
On second thought,
he probably did.

The poor thing got
lost in the escape.
And she was still hungover
from the childhood terror.
Her personality was
ruined--redolent with
the first flowers of
madness.

She made a pretend
world, full of delusions.
A house of cards that
was laden with
lunacy, her insanity
became safe and dependent
on her never taking
responsibility for her
actions--she was a
pawn for the adage,
Hurt people Hurt people,
like Blanche from
A Streetcar Named Desire,
and
Don Quixote,
Her world crumbled and she climbed
into the abyss,
when she looked
deeply into the
mirror of reality.

When does the
champ know that  
he doesn’t have  
It anymore?
Is it after that
first loss to a
*** he should  
have knocked out in
the second round?
Is it when his body
doesn't do what
his mind tells it
to do?  

His punches are
slow.
His legs are
weak.
He once was one
of the greatest.
Iron Mike, they
called him.

He loses to an
overhyped cute
boy with little skills,  
and blonde curls.
It was brutal to watch.

He was king of
the jungle in those
early Brooklyn days.
Old lions don’t just
wander off and die
alone.  
They get killed and
eaten by  
younger lions.

After this charade,
I hope the champ
hangs up his
gloves for good.

I woke up with
A sore back, and
stepped in cat
***** when my
feet hit the floor.
I turned on the
radio, and My Favorite
Things was playing,
the John Coltrane
version.
It reminds me of
rainy July nights.

I make some coffee,
And check the book sales.
Hey, I got a couple in
India, and the coffee tastes
right.

I take it as it comes.
Black and true, like
Steinbeck's bones.
Don’t forget about the
goings of mice and men.

It’s hot in
Missouri.
The summer  
sun looks down  
jealous of
youth playing in
the fields,
carefree and
careless.
Kids drown
muskrats with
rocks in the
stream, and have
funerals for flies.
Death watches, and
waits for
winter to come.

All the hard
times prepared me
for this.
The hopeless
times, black sun
sadness.
The long seasons of
madness.
Starving, like a
winter tomcat.

The hospital stays.
Jails and psych wards.
The fist fights under
bridges.
Midnight swims, drunk in
the Iowa River,
not drowned, only out
of spite.
All of this, and
much more got
me ready for this.

I’m sitting up in bed.
It’s 5:00 AM.
My three cats chase
each other, like
lovers in spring.
I’ve been sober
for almost two years.
I even quit smoking
cigarettes.
I’m writing regularly,
and publishing much
of it.
It’s mostly well received
worldwide.
I’m sipping a hot cup
of coffee.
It’s from Sumatra and has
notes of herbs and earth.

I look at the pictures of
Van Gogh and
Hemingway above my
antique maple desk,
as I listen to Mozart.
A writer needs four walls.
I have so much more,
children
wisdom
cats
and gratitude, the most
important thing I
found.

My mind is a
scrapbook of
tattered
memories and
ghosts that waltz to
sullen Cohen
songs in my heart.

Sometimes
it hurts
like a
rotten tooth.
I have a foul and
electric
taste in my mouth.
A metallic bitterness.
There’s a febrile and
pale stranger in the
mirror that cowers
back at me.
Tears, like candle wax.

I used to
try and drink the
pain away.
Chase worldly
pursuits, like a
dog at the track
after that mechanical
rabbit.

As I get older,
I try to practice
wisdom.
I got off that
dirt road to
damnation Island.
We are in this
carnival of ****
together.
I seek a higher love
and try to ease another's
aching,
a pursuit worthwhile.

When the urge
to react to the
tactless clowns,
and
down looks like
up,
and life's teeth
are sharper than
a steak knife,
breathe,
and take a
sacred pause.

When anger and hatred
flow through your veins,
let love reign.
On gentle Spring nights when
memories haunt you like
the lost dead,
let love reign.
When stress and confusion
overwhelm you and the
future seems as
uncertain as a roll
of the dice,
let love reign.

When you think God is
a grand prankster and
it feels like an
eternal winter in
your heart,
let love reign.
When the pictures remind
you of times long gone,
and the mirror is
a hard place to live,
let love reign.

If you get lost,
like I do in a
poem or a song,
let love reign.
In my dreams, I will
see you, and kiss you,
and hold you forever,
and there will be no
good-byes
only good mornings,
if we let love reign.

On my windowsill,
of that indigo night
you took me,
and I haven't
been the same since.

Something about you
makes me want to
be a better man.
I've grown wings,
so I take to the sky.

You slipped
away from me,
like the robins and
cherry blossoms when
spring ends,
and the fractured nights
of winter come.
I will search the
midnight alleys, and the
mountains of Chile.
I will listen for
your sweet laughter.
I long to taste your
honeysuckle lips, and
hear your heartbeat.
If I never find you,
I will be a lost leaf
on the lonesome
vagabond wind.

Another lunatic trip to
the hospital.
Nine days, this
go around.
For the first two
days, I just pulled
the covers over my
head and pretended I
was back in the womb.
It was warm and safe.
As much as I
wanted to stay,
I knew it was time to
be reborn into this
strange world of
sick streets, and
broken dreams.

amor tardius occidit
We should have
been so much
more.
Now we're just a torn
page
in a finished book.
The memories are
fading,
but the pain still lingers.
I still smell you on
my fingers.
I still taste you on
my tongue.
Love kills slowly;
a backward glance from
an invisible god.
I'm a bird that sings,
but cannot fly.
I'm the ticking of a
clock.
A rocking chair.

tick

tock...

I've been to the crushing
place.
It smells of death, and
spider mums.
Daisy chains dropped
when the music died.
The lake is murky now.
Clowns roam the street,
looking for carnivals
and meat.
Silly boys still believe
in love and dreams, and
girls that like opera and
giving head.
This world is strange, and
Picasso walks the lonely
avenues, feeding
seagulls' peanuts and paint.
No one blames him.
It's his blue period.
All the while,
an old bent man plays
the guitar.
He smells like camels,
and hope.

She worries about
everything,
real and imagined,
"what if this? What if that?"
I watched my
Mom
worry herself right
into the
grave one disastrous
December night.
My girlfriend doesn't care.
She wants me to
worry right along
with her.
And when I don't
she
gets angry.

My Dad said,
"They can **** us,
but they can't eat us."
I share this with her.
Nothing!
Just
worry, worry, worry.

Make the static go
away,
the dead-dog depression;
the fleas tip-toeing across
my brain.
Hate locks the
door to the heart,
and puts the
soul in a cage.
The rage consumes,
like a West Coast fire.

Make the static go
away,
the electric anxiety;
the butterflies swimming in
my blood.
Love is a fantasy,
a fairy tale for children.
Devotion
imprisons
the mind and
subdues the heart.

Give me sweet
apathy, beautiful
sedation, let me
float in bliss;
not tethered by emotion.
Let me get lost, deep
in the core of the orchid,
and sail aimless,
in the
vast chasm
of the sea.
Give me radical
lethargy.

Jack-o-lantern love,
stabbed by the autumn leaves;
bleeding all burnt orange and sienna.
And it smells like
cloves and vanilla,
and loneliness. Kaleidoscope confusion,
that dog bite pain
in my soul.
I don my navy blue corduroy,
as I bundle up for
the great void.

In my night
terror,
I hear the pounding
of
your wings, ripping and
tearing
at my feeble heart.
It's beating,
but
barely,
bomb-blasted by your
attack.
your love is like
a stroke;
like a bloated toad.
I'm road weary,
teary-eyed like a
sunflower.
And you scream in
the darkness like
a lamb.

I long to *** in
you.
I'm like dentures
chewed on by a stray dog;
teeth missing,
jagged like a
jack-o-lantern.

Damage control is
your best bet.
I let you way too
far in.
No turning back now.
I'm like a dumb
cow led to slaughter.

I'm miles away.
You're on a
different
island.

In her deadly
blue eyes, I fall down the
rabbit hole.
Down
down
down I go.
I hit the
earth like a
mock turtle on its
back;
with a smack;
like a shot to the vein.
She travels through my
bloodstream with the
force of a mad tea party.
Her hair is dormouse soft.
I touch it, and feed
her tarts, as she
rides me like
a guillotine;
sharp and final,
with a purpose;
like a porpoise with a
fish hook in
its mouth.
I hold on tight
and never let go.

He wants to shake the moss off his back
and leave the tad-poles behind.
They remind him of his misspent youth
and wasted Spring.
The blackbird sings of blue skies,
far off lands,
and the bullfrog dreams of flying.

I can't count how many times
I've been to D-Tox.
she was always
there by my side.
I turned her on to
the cheesecake and
yogurt berry parfait.
It was a plain yogurt with
fresh blackberries, raspberries,
strawberries and blueberries.
It was amazing- it still is.
We'd stir up the parfait and
pour it on the cheesecake.
It was divine.

I sit here and eat
it alone tonight.
The berries explode when I
put them in my mouth and
chew on them, it's like a
food that the Greek gods
would eat- an ambrosia for
the brokenhearted.
I think of you as the little
blueberries roll around on
my tongue.
It's all so creamy and succulent.

But, I sit here forlorn and eat our
yogurt berry poetry and cheesecake.
And each berry stores a memory in
every luscious bite.
I feel downhearted that you
aren't here with that juicy
purple fluid running down your chin.

I've lost everything I
owned more times than
I can count.
All I had left was
the clothes on my back.
In some ways, there was
a sense of relief.
What else could I lose?
That answer came hard
and fast like the night.
I could lose my health,
my sanity,
my friends,
my sense of peace
and love,
I could lose my
creativity and
the muse
She could end up at
the Deadwood, bellied-up
to the bar, tickling
some young English major.
I could lose a lot more
than I thought

Well, here I sit
in a three-bedroom
house that fell out
of the sky,
a few pieces of clothes,
some food,
coffee and cigarettes.
I have a blue and
orange cast on my
left leg.
I have the cast
because I fell and
broke my ankle
on a debauched
lonely winter
night.
I had surgery
ten days ago.
Now I have
more than I
bargained for, a plate and
screws galore,
and a nice healthy
****** addiction.

He had that
groaning soul
loneliness, like a
puffy white cloud,
floating aimless and
aching toward the
black abyss- that gray sky
sadness,
like he was
five years old, and just
watched his dog get
hit by a car.
You could smell
the pain- taste it
like potato chips on a
sore throat.
It smelled like a
basement or cobwebs.
I told him,
'Nothing will fix that
****- just time and dirt.'
He didn't blink,
and his soft walnut eyes
flashed
crossword confusion.

Life wears me out with its
twists and turns, and
hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for
a long, peaceful stretch
of a highway, bathed in
the rising sun.
A golden wheatfield to
to the left, a moss-covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.
The road turns to gravel
and climbs rapidly uphill.
There are signs along the
way that promise the world.
The road gradually turns
to dirt and ultimately
disappears.

There are moments in
my life that are
too wild and
beautiful to be
tamed or captured by
words or sentences.
Musical notes could
do a better job at
conveying the experience.
D minor
or C sharp major.

My mind replays
the moments,
alive with pentatonic scales
and the taste of homemade
apple cider, and pomegranate
security.
I smell the burning leaves of
late October, and feel
the smooth nose of my
childhood Appaloosa, her
dappled coat, and trusting eyes.

Sometimes the world, and
all its goodness
stupifies me, and leaves
my spirit rocking gently in
a cradle, where I know it's
all going to be okay.

When Summer's heat
gives way to
autumns bliss,
I will kiss this
world goodbye
and walk to
the woods
to save
the last sliver
of my humanity,
where the creek
meets the river of
my destiny.
Far away from
the ****** city of
sick Streets
and broken
dreams.

Once there was this
woman that I could talk about
writing and
poetry with.
We talked about Emily and Bukowski,
and many others.
We were poets in our own right.
We shared tears and laughter,
like a joint among friends.
Once, we sang our daughter to sleep.
It was beautiful and sublime.
But, the brutal dawn destroyed that
glorious night.

She farted a lot, but I fell
in love with her anyway,
and her son too.
We even cooked together.
It was magnificent,
although she got a little bossy in
the kitchen.
I can still smell the coriander
and garlic and taste the salt on
the back of her neck.

I picked her wildflowers, and
ate well from her garden- all slippery and divine.
She had these pastel soft blue eyes,
like something out of a Degas painting.
She could be as mean as Humpty Dumpty,
all cracked and broken, yoke flowing everywhere.
And I couldn't fix her. And I certainly
couldn't put myself back together again.

And then one autumn, I turned around,
and she was gone. A wall went up.
Occasionally I could see her through the
holes in the bricks. But I knew that
I would never touch her again;
hold her, kiss her.
It made me feel sad and lonely.
But I keep her real close in my heart.
And some days that gets me by.
And other times, it's like she was
never there at all just a tender dream.

I want to escape the memory of her;
overdose on artichokes and avocados,
drowned in a sea of ****** Marys,
or run away to far-off lands,
like Montana or Idaho.
But, I'm afraid I'd still see her there,
in the Snake River or the wide open sky.

You build me with
turquoise and
the mountains of Taos.
Cerulean blue
serenity in my soul.
My heart chases
after you.
Even your chisel
helped me
grow through
the pain.
You
are the
grand artist,
The Supreme
sculpter.

I'm an athlete.
I can throw and catch,
and run in the sun-
all shiny and bright.
And you just sleep, sleep, sleep.
Look at me, mama.
I'm a writer.
I do poetry and stories,
all pretty and pink,
and all you do is,
sleep, sleep, sleep.
Look at me, mama.
I can dance.
I'm lonely,
I'll move to France,
meet a woman, get married.
Look at the ants crawl through
the spilled red juice on
the grass; nature everywhere,
as you sleep, sleep, sleep.
Look mama,
look at me, mama!
I have children now,
all good and wise,
you're a grandma.
Why don't you wake up?
Please look at me, mama.
I'm lonely and afraid.
I'm old now, and cold,
and you still,
just
sleep, sleep, sleep...