She's in a
self imposed cage.
I can see it in
her eyes;
a demon's hell-fire.
She loathes humanity,
especially men.
Anyone can blame
past circumstances for
how they are currently,
but ultimately,
love unlocks the
door to the
prison of hate.

My daughter talks to
her blueberries like
they're her friends.
My soul smiles
and I never want
it to end.

We used to talk about
going
to Montana--escaping it all,
building a log cabin and
making a garden.  We were
going to hunt and fish for
food--make rugs and
hats from the fur.

But look at us now.
You live in the
city and drive a Volvo.
Goldfish in a glass bowl.
You even taught your
cat to walk on
a leash.
Can you see the
sky with all the smog?

I'm not any better.
Living under the bridge;
the only hunting I do is
for cans, the rare and
illusive
aluminum nickel, so that
I can buy *****.  

I walk down to the
river's edge and look up at
the expansive sky.
I close my eyes.
And when I open them, baby,
we're in Montana.

It's sad.
HP feels like a ghost town
again.
What if all of us, in a
concerted effort supported
each other as poets?
If we have nothing else,
we have each other.
And we can back each other
and read our dying art, and comment.
PLEASE.

*** until the heart stops seems like the logical answer.
Death in sweat drenched ecstasy,
and preferably with
the nubile young Sherriff's wife.
Now, if she's not around, his sister
or Mother would do just fine.
Small town tasty freeze
serves as the last meal.
What a way to go,
behind some greasy cheeseburger
and chocolate shake.  Sheriff said the
budget wouldn't cover the French fries.
I don't care much about myself,
it's mama I'm worried about.
it will just break her heart...I ain't no good.
I hope I can see her if I can get to heaven.
Mama's the best in the world.

You will meet people in
life that like a
fixed game or a
rigged deck.
The dice will feel
heavy, or the
take may be
light.
A jockey might hold
the whip in the
stretch,
or the champ will
go down from
a glancing blow.

Don’t be surprised when

you see it, you’re not
imagining things.
Some people need
it this way,
they’ve been on a loosing
streak for so long, they’ve
even lost
track.

The best you can hope
for is ten seconds
of one day in an entire
lifetime when it’s a level
playing field.
And if you get that
chance,
be ready, it’s
your turn.
Swing for the fence,
win by a nose,
take their *******
head off.

The night is torn apart;
fractured and shattered by
the memory of you.
Stars shake and die,
and I'm filled with
diesel loneliness,
soul sick, like a
butterfly melting.
Everywhere I go,
I smell pumpkin pie, lilacs,
and ****** energy.
The day will come when
I'll not think of you;
not write a single line about
you--not feel you in the
attic of my mind;
but until then,
The crows peck at my
heart, spring never comes;
ice forms on my brain,
and life inches along like
a filthy worm.

November smells like an
empty house,
like decaying dreams;
all pumpkin orange and
burnt sienna.
I search for you through
the ashes of roses.
My eyes are the color
of despair.
I can still taste you;
that last kiss, clover sweet.
And without you, the days
dawn gray
and lonely, like an orphan.

I keep searching
for the line.
A line that
straightens my
posture,
unsnarls my
eyebrows, and gives
the bathroom mirror
a better
reflection.

I keep searching
for a line that
stops the midgets
from crying,
that heals the
lame dog's leg,
and slow the
ticking clock.

I keep searching for the line,
one that gets
me laid by
the librarian;
that takes the
eagle from the city;
that gives the
****** hope, and
the hobos a home.  

I keep searching for the line...

I'm going through a dry spell.  I thought a challenge would be fun. Write your best tribute to Charles Bukowski poem or write a poem that could be a lost poem of Bukowskis'.  He is my favorite writer and I thought maybe this Challenge would break my writer's block.  Be sure to put in the Author's notes the mention that it is a poemfor the Thomas w. Case/ Bukowski challenge.

I like
my shoes; they are
the only pair
I have.
I've walked miles in
them.
They have
got me around for years.
My shoes are
falling apart.
They should have
quit on me a long
time ago.
Strangely enough,
people compliment
me on them.
They don't see
that the soles are
worn thin, or that they
smell like cat **** and
rotting flesh.
They don't see the
blood stains on
the canvas and the
piece of broken glass stuck
in the heel.
Nope,
they just say,
'Nice kicks;
they look good on you.'
I can't afford
another pair right now,
and even if I could,
I wouldn't spend
the money on them.
No, I like my
shoes, even with
all their imperfections.
They have seen
a thousand sunsets and
carried me away
from many heartbreaks.
My shoes have
run
walked
and sauntered through
snow
rain
and all kinds of ****.
My shoes have
saved me and
betrayed me.
And they have
tasted every type
of ***** known
to man.
When I'm dead and
gone
I hope someone
burns
my shoes and throws
the ashes in
that long lonesome
river, under the bridge,
where men
live and fight
and dream.

I can't fit
in your
pocket,
that kind
of love
is too
much.
Such a
dreamy
coffin,
when all
I wanted
was
your
touch.

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.

Thank God those
febrile nightmares of
youth are gone.
I long for the
numbing fog.
The dust of dreams
linger when I awake,
like a fly in
a glue-trap.

My mind is nebulous as
I try to recall
the nocturnal visits.
Legs tired from running;
**** sore from *******.
I've played doctor for years
trying to reverse this curse,
prescribing: women, drugs,
***** by the barrels,
searching for that ambrosia,
that nectar of the gods that
makes life less vivid and sharp,
and puts the sleep back in
my eyes.

This isn't a poem,
it's a thank you to the
HP community for
all their support and love.
I'm in treatment and working
******* my addiction,
but I woke up with a
heart full of gratitude,
not to sound sappy, but
I love you all.  Carpe Diem,
and let the ink flow.

torrential down pour
life giving water for plants
sad at the window

Sometimes the laughter between  
us could heal a *****.
He would say, “Dear God, my nose is falling  
off, but these two ******* are funny.”
Jesus would say with a grin and a snicker,
“Go in peace my son, you are healed.”

I loved laughing with you Mare.
I felt like a kid that just watched
a five year old accidentally hit his dad in the
nuts with a plastic bat.

When you would get really hysterical,
you‘d make these strange snorting sounds
with your nose.  Our eyes watered like faucets.
I’m crying too now Mare—but not  
from sorrow.  My tears are from sheer joy at
our comedic silly days in the sun together.
I hope you’re laughing too.

Yeah, so what I was sitting
on the wall.
It was mine, and a great
wall it was.
Peasants walked by
and envied my crevasse,
they mistook it for a
belt, I had to constantly
correct them.
I got in such a squabble
with one of the villagers,
I leaned forward to give
him the what for, and
I'll be ****** if I didn't
tumble off and smash into
thousands of pieces.
Because I'm so important,
the Kings men and beasts were
quickly dispatched, and
the incompetent fools could
not fix me.
So I lie here, yolk and shell
everywhere, yet I continue to
think and reason, no heaven,
no hell.  This wretched life
continues, I watch the ****
walk through me, I hear their
uneducated banter and it
infuriates me...
I've read all the great philosophers,
yet; nothing has prepared me for this.
And what the hell does, "pride goeth
before the fall." mean anyway.

What difference does it make?
I'm already condemned.
There isn't a person in
this God-forsaken town
that hasn't tried me in
their mind and found me guilty.
Step mothers aren't real
mothers anyway.
My mother died when I was little.
Daddy remarried and couldn't have
cared less about me and Emma,
my dear sister, and the ax sharpener.
I was acquitted, and who can
judge me now?
By the way, the weapon was never
found, it's buried by my feeble
attempt at poetry.

B.L.T and I were talking today.  We thought wouldn't it be interesting if a long lost journal of poetry was found.  But the twist would be, it would be poetry by a non poet, but maybe an actor, an actress, a politician, a serial killer, a fictional character......I was thinking River Phoenix, but it could be anyone from history, what would their poetry look like?  What would the Joker's poetry look like? or Ted Bundy's or John Coltrain, or Jesse James, or Babe Ruth, the list goes on....The Challenge is write a poem as a Historical Character, what's in their heart, how does it shape out.  Lizzie Bordon for God's sake!!!!
Any historical person that you wouldn't expect poetry from...make a note in the notes and mention the challenge... HAVE FUN.  All my love and appreciation goes out to B.L.T for that early morning conversation.

Wretched and rancid, Look what the
sand did; it slipped through the
hourglass way too soon.

Seems like yesterday, I was on
a wrought iron chair in my back yard,
preparing to jump into the
plastic swimming pool.
I was singing Leaving on a Jet-plane.
I understood the sadness, the good-bye.

48 years later, no plastic pool,
no wrought iron chair, not
even a song to sing.
But I ready myself for the
inevitable journey, that not
even time will stand still for.

I fraternize with chicks
half my age because I
want to get laid and
feel young.

I used to have a friend from
New York that was a lawyer, she once
dated a famous NBA star.
We drank ***** together.
She was a bit smug, but smart and
funny—a dangerous combination.

One evening, we decided to
go to a neighborhood grocer that
sold spirits and wine.
She had a black schipperke named
Bruno.
One drunken night I dubbed
him the Senator, after Ted Kennedy,
another smart and funny drunk.

We called a cab to get
more *****. I put Anna’s
Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses
on; I grabbed a broom handle and
hooked the Senator
up to his leash.
I said, “Look, look, I’m blind and Teddy is
my seeing eye dog.”
Anna laughed and said,
“Oh we must bring him along.”
She used the word, “must” a lot.
The cab pulled up and the
act began.

I worked the cane, and the dog out the
door, with those big white
sunglasses covering my eyes.
We piled in the cab,
and
tore off into
the sweltering July night.
We pulled into the
grocery store parking lot
Anna told the cabbie to wait.
She was beat red and big tears of
joy flowed freely down her face.
I grabbed her arm and said,
“Quit laughing, or they’ll think it’s a joke;
I’m ******* blind; it isn’t supposed to be funny.”
She laughed harder.

We walk through the sliding doors,
I’m waving the broom handle back and forth on
the floor.
The Senator immediately proceeds to
**** on a display case of crackers.
Anna cackles,
we walk on like we didn’t just see Ted’s
indiscretions. We headed for
the *****.
Anna yells, “Did you see what the
Senator did back there?”
I say, “Of course I didn’t see it honey,
I’m blind, what did he do.”
She screamed, “He ****** all over that display case.”
"I know, I know—let’s get the
***** and get the hell out of
here before they kick us out.”
Just then, the Senator slipped out
of his collar and began to
run up and down the aisles.
I chased him, he dodged me.
Anna tripped and fell, she laughed until
she wet herself.
That ******* dog had
more moves than an NFL running back.
I finally cornered him by the
milk and butter section; I reached down to
grab him, and the little
******* bit me.
I smacked his nose and said,
“Bad Dog—Bad, Bad Dog.”
He bit me again.
I finally had him in my arms;
by then, those ridiculous looking
sunglasses were on top of
my head.
I lost the broomstick, and dragged the leash and
collar behind me.
We made it to Anna’s and drank into the
night. Most poets wouldn’t know how to end
a poem like this
but I do,
bow wow.

Orchids wilt and rot
in time.
Roses have thorns that
***** to bleed.
Seeds bring life that
ultimately dies.
In lieu of flowers
give me your
eyes full of
heat and desire.
Surrender your heart of
passion, but most of all,
water me with your
love so that I can grow.

When I think of you,
I hear a marimba in my head.
I'm lost like a stray cat.
Baby, I swear I'll hop a train
and head west, to roll away
from the memory of you.
This mad hatter moon lights
my way, and I'm done
holding on.  I'm getting a
bottle of whiskey, and drinking
it until you become a
blurry memory.
Then I'm jumping that train.

This isn't a poem, it's a challenge to write a poem inspired by Tom Waits.  You could write a poem inspired by a particular song of his, or you could just write a poem inspired by Wait's gritty vibe.....it's loads of fun and everyone is welcome to try.

I was living in this
flop house above
a **** shop in Amarillo.
I had a one eyed cat
named Walter, I'd bet
a sawbuck that when
I slept,
he drank my whiskey.
I sill love him though.
He stuck around longer
than those old painted up
ladies that strolled through,
and tested my bed springs.
I got two shots of Wild Irish Rose
left, then it's back to these
***** streets of broken dreams
and sick scenes.

I was young, and living
in Southern California.
I owned life, I had two pet
doves and I was reading
a lot of Dylan Thomas.

I was getting ready to
go to college for Nursing.
20 years old, learning about
assonance and alliteration.
Poetry, and love for the
craft found me...all green
and naive.

On my way out the door,
the phone rang, it was my
brother Ted, he was head of the
biology department at
San Diego State.  He told me
in his scientific way that
our oldest brother Todd was
dying of pancreatic cancer,
and asked if I would come and take
care of him.....I said of course.
Ted said as soon as the semester finished
he would be back out.
I drove down the coast sobbing like the fog.
I was to go out the next morning.
I would stay overnight with my sisters in
Ventura. Ted called at 1 am...Todd had just
died....Ted told me his last words were,
"is Tommy coming out?"

Last night I had
the strangest dreams.
I dreamed I had
three daughters (in reality I have two.)
They were all
babies, and of
Spanish descent.
My daughter's mom is
English, and long gone;
like the Beatles
and the Jam.
I remember two of the
girls names, Amelia and Alhena,
I can't recall the third one.

So there I was with these
beautiful olive skinned babies.
And it was wonderful.
I was full of joy.
The babies cried,
so I cooked for them.
When the Polenta had cooled,
I said, "It's suppertime angels."
They lined up and sat down.
I fed them; each in their turn.
they made soft
cooing sounds.
I turned around
to pour some milk.
And out of the corner of
my eye, I saw dark
shadows on the wall, and
heard the flutter of wings.
I turned back around.
They had turned into
doves, and one by one,
they flew away.

I woke up with an
ache worse than
hunger pains.
It was like the
dreams That I had
when I was a child.
I dreamed that
I had a puppy,
a girlfriend
or some candy,
and then woke up
to none of it.
Nothing but a longing
and a pain in my gut
that never went
away.

What would you do if you were blown by
the wind and the Cherry Blossoms.
And you were giddy on the nectar from all
the flowers that fell from the sky; Orchids, Irises,
and Tiger lilies...and all you could do was smile
and laugh about how great the heavens are.

I'm in treatment again.
***** is wrecking my body.
This morning(pre-dawn) I took
my meds, drank coffee, and
did the breakfast setup.
My friend, (a brilliant saxophone player)
came through the line and said,
"What's up man?"
I said, "Oh you know...stuff.
How about you?"
He relied, "Oh yeah, Stuff...always lots of stuff,
...and things.  Always lots of things on my plate.

Our laughter broke through the
sound of Hell's Bells in the background.
There was a connection, a brotherhood of
the stuff and things society.
The little 8th notes and 16th notes,
and the verbs and nouns floated
in the kitchen air, mixing with the smell
of bleach and toast.
Creation was in the birthing process.
He asked,What's on the agenda for today?"
"oh crap, lots of crap...you?
"****...lots of ****, you know."
I chuckled,  "yes, I do know."
I stopped everything I was doing,
and frantically began
scribbling this poem.
He went to his room,
and grabbed his sax,
and began riffing on some
Miles Davis and John Coltrane.
Far from the sterile
smell of stuff,
things, crap, etc...

The inner critic
protects me from
reality and success;
It knows best.
It reminds me of
my hopeless plight,
my dark destiny,
my night of a
thousand storms.

Councillors say,
"Examine those thoughts.
Challenge them, are
they rational? "
I nod and smile,
and somewhere there
is a sparrow in me
that wants to sing,
that agrees with
the blue skies, and
the trees, and the wings
that have carried it
away from the pain.

But then the critic
and its minions
chatter away, and
remind me of failures,
they say,
"The play has already been written.
You're just doing your part-
your small walk-on part.
You don't get to rewrite it.
It's been written, it's finished.
You being a writer must appreciate
irony, isn't it ironic;
Thomas, no matter
how bad you want it,
you can't have it.
It's been decided, it's predestined,
long before you were born.
You lose, some win, but not you."

I faintly hear the dying song
of the sparrow, as I rise once again
and stumble towards the abyss.

I hate the saying, "Baby's Mama."
It's so ******. As I drifted off to
sleep last night, crocked on a plethora of
pills, and the remnants of *****, I thought
to myself, She's a little bluebird that
burrowed in my heart.
I laughed and slobbered, and drifted
into the warm fuzzy black.

She's intuitive, she asked me to let
the nurse know that her and the kids were
coming so that there would be a smooth
transition with staff. Hospitals can be
peculiar when it comes to visitation with children.

So she asked me how I wanted to refer to her.
She's the Mother of my 2-year old
daughter, and she has a 10-year old boy
that I have been around for 6 years.
He's like my own son, but 'technically,  he's not.
I don't want to offend anyone. It's all so
******* complicated. I could say, "This is Bonnie,
I'm Clyde, and this is our gang." They probably
wouldn't laugh. I feel very comfortable saying,
"These are our kids, and this is their Mom"

If the kids weren't in ear-shot and I felt
like a rapscallion, I might say,"This is a woman
that I used to love and **** a lot! Finally we had
our daughter- WOW- AMAZING! ! !
The boy came along before I met her, but I love him
like my own son- always and forever."

Anyway, this is my daughter, and my son, and a woman that I used to
love and **** a lot, also, a fantastic Mother, and when
I'm twacked out d-toxing- drifting off to sleep, and
laughing about what to call her, I might just call her
my little bluebird, that burrows in my heart.

When I find myself in dire straits,
which is quite frequently,
my guts will get me through.
My feet tend to want to run.
If my guts and courage are on board,
my feet will follow, but left to
their own devices, in any given
situation that is troublesome,
if my feet could talk, they would say,
"**** this, run! "
But usually my guts win out.
I forge into the various battles that
need fought.
Win or lose, when my guts and
feet are in one accord,
it's a glorious day.

O sleep, what a strange mistress you can be
when I think of all our savage nights and long embraces.
I have cursed and blessed you with bellowing cries.
I hated you in the green of youth, when the backyard
was my kingdom, and the dragons needed slaying.
You invaded long afternoons in the sun with nap time.
As my years flew by, like crows in autumn and I grew
out of my backyard sanctuary, the dragons became
bigger and new beasts arrived on the scene; brutal
beasts with no mercy, and much harder to ****.
I looked for you on long, lonely, brokenhearted nights,
when finding a star in the sky was like panning for gold.
I found your dreamy kiss and silent embrace far less.
O, sleep, what a strange mistress you can be.

I remember Valentines Day
16 years ago.
I was staying at
the Salvation Army in
Des Moines.I was
going through a divorce
and trying not to drink.
I was competing in poetry slams
at Java Joe's downtown.
That little stage kept me sane.
Some of the guys at the Sally
asked me to write love poems
for their girlfriends- to get them laid.
I told them in order for the poetry
to not sound contrived, I might
need to spend a night or two
with their women.
They didn't think that was funny.
I wasn't kidding.
I ended up writing a decent
poem about the irony of the whole situation.

Well, it's February 2019,
and I'm in prison for drinking.
No romantic Valentine's Day this
year; but still plenty of irony.
Even in the joint, guys ask me
to write love poems for their women.
The other day, I did write
a poem for a guy's wife who is
dying of cancer.
I hope some day soon,
he gives it to her.

It's One a.m. in the psych ward.
Let's just call it 4 North.
On the table that I'm writing at is a plant,
it looks to be a member of the cactus family.
Three nurses sit behind a glass booth
and watch me with curiosity.
One of them looks to be a member of the
cactus family—or is it cacti?
Either way, I don't want her close to me.
Just now, one of the cacti-looking nurses says,
"What are you writing? "
I say, "My escape plan," without looking up.
She says,
"Very interesting."
That's one thing I've noticed in the
psych ward, everything is very interesting.
Just once, I wish they would say,
"That is the most boring load of
**** I've ever heard."
Then, maybe I'd be less inclined
to think they resemble members of the plant life.

Our relationship is toxic, like a river of ****
or a mercury stained fish,
We argue all the time—we hit each other.
We bring up past indiscretions and affairs.
After we haven't seen each other for a while,
it all starts off well enough;
we're like dogs in heat.
We **** constantly, then the inevitable
moment comes when one of us will say, "…and
wouldn't a glass of wine be nice? "
"Yes, yes it would."
Then it turns into bottles of wine,
then *****, then you calling the cops
and getting me kicked out.
Next thing I know I'm under a bridge
in the middle of ******* winter.
You're in your nice warm apartment drinking
your Chardonnay, dancing with
your toothless neighbor and
driving around with your ex-boyfriend.
I can drink myself to death on my own;
I don't need some wack-job to help me.
At times your ****** might have
been my warped little god,
but it's time I excommunicate myself
from the church of your *******.

I met her on the beach in
Coralville.
Actually, it was just a long
strip of sand below the dam.
I was crashing with some
friends that had tents set up
back in the woods.
She wore a red one piece
swimsuit, big sunglasses, and
she drank warm Chardonnay in
the sensual summer sun.
We got drunk together and sang songs.
We walked hand in hand to the
liquor store as evening fell on us like
a warm blanket.
We got back and found an empty tent.
We drank ***** and ****** long into the night.
When morning came crashing in like
an intruder, with thick tongues, we
asked each other's names and laughed.
We spent many hours in the sun on
that strip of sand, swimming in
the river--dodging water moccasins.
When the mood struck us,
which was quite often, we went
back to the woods, and ******
like animals.
Sometimes, providence can be a friend.

When I think of my kids now,
I so much want to say things
that I know I won't,
like, please for your protection,
try not to feel too much.
If you can't help it,
you may find that
life comes at you like
a left hook...a broken doll,
a rotten tooth.
I'm sorry I failed you,
I would trade it all,
everything I own or ever
could possess, for your smiles,
and deep true laughter.
May you never know brutality
or ferocious things.
I'd rather you get
dog bit than hope and
feel heart sickness.
Find someone who holds
you tight and
doesn't let go.
The woods do in a pinch,
but they can't touch
you with flesh wrapped
bones that cherish your hearts.

My poor kids,
your crazy father loved you the
best he could.
Don't ever let anyone
**** your light;
always hold on;
there is beauty in the ride,
often too much.
You might feel like
a stranger or an alien,
it's supposed to be like that.
Often it feels like
a lump in your
throat that won't go down.

Wear sunglasses, they
help with the glare...the sharpness,
and remember,
some flowers are edible.

"When you have 20 bucks in
your pocket you act like your rich,
then you get that itch to drink.
You blow through your money
like a cyclone, like sand through
your hands."
She didn't treat similes well,
and she was always *******.
"You eat up all my food,
and you don't do anything except
sit there and write.
Write and smoke, smoke and write.
Your cigarettes stink up my apartment."
She was always lighting incense, and
spraying air freshener.
I ask her why, if she hates smoke so
much, does she get drunk and
smoke all my cigarettes?
She doesn't respond.
"When are you going to get off
your *** and do something?
But no, you'd rather sit there and smoke.
Smoke and write, write and smoke.
Sure, you **** me, but your ****
doesn't pay the bills."
I ask her if she wants it to, and I
think she might slap me.
"Yea, the *** is great, but we can't
just live on ***."
I suggest we try.  She doesn't
even crack a smile.
"And when I get wine, you drink most
of it, and then you strut around in
your filthy boxers and spout poetry.
Then you just sit there and smoke.
Smoke and write, write and smoke."
She storms off, and an hour later,
with childlike innocence, she asks,
"What are you writing?"

There she is:
naked and fickle on
the floor, *******
marrow out of
soup bones; her
*******
busy with
living things.

The muse plays
hide
and seek
like a spoiled
little child, as I s
sit with
sterile white
paper.
I think I see
her from the
corner
of my
eye, but when
I look,
she is gone, like
the last Dodo bird.
I yell, "Are you dead? "
NOTHING.
And then she
appears
dimly through
the glass and
gives
me a hard one,
fierce, right behind
the eyes,
in that still small
place where sullen
shadows
dance to Wagner, while
sparrows burn and
smell of
Spider Mums, and
funerals.

Then, she's gone like
the Cheshire cat.
(the grin remains.)
I get another
drink, hoping to
swallow and consume
her- to become one.
It doesn't work.
I get
frustrated, pace the
worn out
carpet, like a
caged tiger

Writer's block is
hell.
It's worse than
celibacy and
bologna.
Far worse than
constipation, or not
being able to ***.
It's like missing
the vein, or
dying of thirst in the desert.
It's like being
dead, but alive.

And
finally at
last
it's over (she consummates the deal)
and the words and
lines flow like
rain in Seattle in
the springtime.
I can
see the ***** in
the rose.
Taste
the sweet potato sky,
plant flowers in concrete, and
beat Mr. Death in
a game of go fish.
And
strangely,
it all smells like
home,
eternity,
and two-week old
puppies dreaming of
Mother's milk.

She pulls away when
I kiss
her.
And she treats me
like a stray dog.
I fell asleep, and
she retired to the
box springs alone.
I **** at good byes.
It's only a couple of days,
I know.
It still *****.
She's going to Missouri
to get some things from
her Moms'.
She's a ******* nut.
A break will
do us good,
but I'll still
miss her.

She dressed up like a
***** just to go to the
bank.
And she ****** like
one too—drunk on
cheap wine—mascara smeared all
over her face.
I took her in every
****** position there is—we even
invented a few.
She had the most beautiful
mahogany eyes—they said
so much. Her smile made
my **** salute.
From dusk till dawn
we ****** until we
collapsed into each others arms;
warm and safe and spent like
the sun.
**** tomorrow,
may it never come.

I watched a young
boy beat his
chest and scream at
the dawn until
the liquid sky drove
him away.
He chased thunder
and
butterflies with the
same enthusiasm;
oozing a lust for
living in his chasm
of youth.
Ten years full of
questions and scabbed
up knees, freckled dreams
running across green fields
and sunlit meadows.
Golden little life,
resting beneath a
willow tree to sip the
sweetness
from the clover and
honeysuckle flowers.
Hours full of pocketknife
afternoons, whittling sticks
into arrows to
shoot at the moon.
And after the rain
oh sweet green youth,
run barefoot with the
wind
toward a sinless
sky.
And live, live
live, for tomorrow
will come with a sigh.

I slept beneath
a mad hatter moon and
dreamed of a big blue
tarantula swimming in
a yellow moss
covered pond. A rat
terrier passed me a note:
Mercy and love
are
fleeting, they fade away
like the
tangerine sun; they
are lies like
the dead bulls under
a ****** red
Spanish sky.
I asked his name,
"Mendacity" he said,
then turned into a
pack of
cigarettes, no matches,
no lighter…

I drank from the
pond and became a
sunflower.
Vincent shot
me with his
lonely cornfield gun.
He sat down and smoked
his pipe, as crows
lied
lied
lied.
He said with sad, iris eyes,
"It's impossible to ****
a mermaid, or eat
a starry night."
It's the impossibility
of a thing that
drives one
mad;
like a mustang
caught for the
circus, but always
dreaming of escape to
the thundering
fields of its youth.
I saw toothless
orphans throw rooks at
his soul, as those beautiful
eyes saw way too much…
I want to
pound
it in,
drive it dripping
home through the
core
of a rose, to the
bottom
of the tulip. I'll
get drunk on
nectar of the god's, then
reject immortality. (Who wants to live forever?)

There has been a drastic
Mistake.
I see it at the
zoo in the
monkeys caged,
glazed eyes.
No wonder they
throw ****
at people.
"Such lies, " he said.
"The artichoke, avocado, and
algebra; the small of
a woman's back and
the emerald head of
the hummingbird."
"If the artichoke and
avocado are lies" I said,
"then truth is the
tight, tasty, creamy
green line that
refuses to settle or waiver;
delirious, delicious."

"No" he said, as
his hands stroked
that lice ridden
crimson beard.
"It's conception and
growth, then cast
out
****** and naked
cut from the
cord,
and a lifetime spent
trying to return
to the womb, **** first,
but only spilling and
spreading the
nightmare of being,
the fever of living, to
another
sorry soul that didn't
ask for it.
I woke up,
drained the elixir,
and starred at
Vinnie's self portrait,
the one with
bandaged ear, and
I
thought…
Yea,
God is into practical jokes.

She has that
reptilian heart, snake eyes-
cat screeching, rabid anger.
Whenever she's close to
me, I need sedation;
another world-one with
beauty and love.
Hers is a land of
brutality and hatred.
It makes my
soul *****.
When I'm lucky enough to
escape, she finds me, and
lures me back with her
charms and spells.
Then, it's back to the
cage, waiting to be
consumed.
She quit doing drugs.
Her dope now is
control.
It's the dragon that
she rides to hell.

Like a phoenix from the ashes,
I will rise
up from this mess.
This test will not distress
me for long.
Gone are the days of
warped god living,
giving my soul to the
sun baked afternoons by
the lake.
I will take all
the **** that the
enemy has to offer,
with a smile, and ask for more.
This season will only
last a little while.
Spring will
return, and when they
burn my world, I shall
rise, like a phoenix
from the ashes.

Who are you to tell me
what I can write about?
If my soul needs to shout,
it will do just that.
Try to get a life, and stop
reading my poetry.
You weren't supportive
of it when we were
together, don't criticize it
while we are apart.
If you really want to read
something, try the
first amendment.
I just had a friend die,
and you haven't asked once
how I'm doing.
I've found rabid raccoons
kinder than you.

Dean and I camped out behind
the shelter in Des Moines.
There was a nice patch of
woods north of the river.
We canned every day to
knock off the shakes.
Summer turned into
Fall and life raked
us in.
Dean moved in with
a friend, and I
went to this woman's
apartment.

We eventually got
married; it didn't last long.
That's been years ago.
I lost track of Dean for
a long time.
By chance,
we stumbled upon each other via the
internet.

******* life!
He has stage 3 colon cancer.
Reality can be
rancid sometimes.
he's still camping, ,
and he has a
woman that loves him.
What more could
you want?