See all those people
they're real, they
think, they
aren't mannequins.
I know this may come
as a surprise, but there
are other people in the world
with problems.
And by the way, the fact that
you can't find your tweezers
isn't a catastrophe.
Oh I know you need them to
perfect your eyebrows.
Just in case you forgot,
We are having a pandemic!
Oh, you want me to leave because
I make you uncomfortable.
Never mind, it is freezing out
and it's late at night, and I've nowhere to go.
Just a small reminder, we have a
two-year-old daughter, and I
have been helping you take care
of your son for eight years.
Oh, it's your house, and
it's not your job to put me up.
I wouldn't live with you if you paid me.
I had a place, but I gave it up when
you called me, crying and begging
for my help with the kids, because
you couldn't multi-task.
Ok, now I get why you got
rid of the mirrors in your house.
Even though you're a narcissist,
it's too painful for you to
see your vacant reptilian eyes
starring back at you.

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 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.

I once had a nurse named Ivy, When I
was at Mercy Hospital D-Toxing.
She wasn't poison, and didn't wind and wrap
around my room giving it that garden green and
alive look.  There was never any doubt that I was
surrounded by four beige walls, and two locked doors
at the end of those long torturous halls that I walked daily.

She was a short squat thing with big eyes and large
plump thumbs.  The name Ivy didn't fit her.
My daughter's middle name is Ivy.  She is breathtaking--all
pumpkin pie colored hair.  She has the temperament of
autumn too, just like her mama.  It feels like a stomach
virus to be apart from her.  She twists and tightens around
my broken heart... We **** sure picked the right
name for her

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

I lost my best friend today.
She didn't die, well not physically.
She went away mentally and emotionally.
It's a forever vacation, she didn't even pack.
I can see it in her dead eyes,
here it in her rabid voice.
It makes my soul sick, but she's
not taking me down with her.
I stand on the placid shore and
wave good-bye, as she sails
for insanity

Chain smoking sadness, slapped by time.
Winter doesn't freeze the pain.
There was one thing that
Mom wanted more than
anything else in the world:
It was to have a
picture of her
seven kids all together,
in one place,
at one time.
There was an age
difference of
23 years between the
youngest to the oldest,
and 1000 miles separating us.

In December of 1987
two weeks before Christmas,
I held a picture of
the seven of us all together.
I put it in the
right front pocket of
her navy blue blazer.
After the funeral,
we buried her with it.

I don't need
friends like Judas and Brutus.
It seems as though they're everywhere.
I've even had a few Delilah's in my life.
They have exploited my
weaknesses for their own gain.
Whether it's a knife in the back,
a few pieces of silver, or a kiss
they are all betrayers;
the rotten fruit of the earth.
So this short ditty goes out to them
and their kind.
Stay away from me.
and go **** yourself.

Her eyes danced with
cornfield loneliness;
pain so deep
that blueberries and
puppies couldn't
touch it.
She tried to **** it with
***** and
****,
but that only
made it worse.

The solution came
simply,
like flipping a switch.
She just quit loving.
It was rough at first;
tough on the heart.
It hurt when she
saw dandelions and
felt velvet on her face.
It ached when she
smelled the sunrise and
kissed soft lips.
But with time she became
like a head of lettuce
or a marble.
Her eyes were
vacant;
reptilian and blank.

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.

I here music in
my head when I
look into her
eyes.
It's like a
soundtrack to love.
A cross between
Van Morrison and
a Gregorian chant.
When I touch her wet
cotton candy lips,
I here the
oceans and lions roar.
The waves crash to
shore in my heart,
and I listen to the
mermaids song.
And in the end,
her footsteps,
and her heart beat,
and her apple blossom voice
are forever my
soundtrack to love.

No commitment
no devotion.
I'm like a boat on the
ocean with you;
tossed and broken by
the waves of your emotions.
Your hurricane is dangerous.
I'm heading for dry land.

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.

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.

If I could take this
moment and
own it,
hold it,
like a piece of paper,
I'd fold it
and
stow it away,
like
a pocket knife.

If you would be
my wife,
I'd be the
happiest guy in
the world.
You'd be my
girl,
and I'd be your man...
I would hold
your hand and kiss you,
and you'd never
miss me again.

Where is everyone?
I look, and see the quiet little bell
with nothing under it.
hp is a ghost town...

I guess I shouldn't be
surprised.
In the
beginning, the women are
attracted to the light,
the writing.
But after a while,
they hate it.
They get jealous;
as if I had another
lover.
I suppose I do.
And when I'm in my stride
I don't give them the
attention that they crave and
desire.
When the words and
lines are flowing
the women seem so needy
so greedy.
I guess it's not fair that
I devote my heart to
writing--but truth be told,
they knew what they
were getting
themselves into.

I once knew a woman that
could roll herself into a perfect ball.
She rolled all over town.
It didn't seem that unusual; sad,
but not strange.
Lots of people are all balled up.
I caught glimpses of her face.
It was often expressionless.
She had a flat affect.
Sometimes, she'd come out of her ball,
and smile.
She was gorgeous, educated, and
had a great sense of humor.
But when I'd get too close,
she'd get back into her ball
and roll away.

I saw the dawn
**** lonely
orphans,
while bats ate
butterflies,
cats killed sparrows
and hope flew
south for
the winter.

On my way
downtown,
I've seen the
dead through
windows at the
drycleaners, eating
hamburgers with
starched faces

The librarians,
dry and dusty,
pray for rain,
as hippos weep,
hyenas sigh,
and hope
flies south for
the winter.

I've seen the strange
hand of
circumstance
wear the jester's
hat.
I've seen destiny
angry turn her
back, while potential
is wasted on
the railroad tracks.
Yeah, hope flew
south for the
winter.

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.

I nurture the creator in you;
the little god that throbs to be master of
words and colors, lines and notes.
I watch you give birth to it.
I see how it squeezes out of
your brain and crawls across
the floor- all ****** and wet.
It's alive and glorious and grotesque.
You're immortal- a giver of life.
I hold it to my face, and breathe in
the smell of rain, pine trees, and desire.
I kiss its fur, and taste the
fires of hell, cardamom, and oysters, raw and sweet.
I feed it a bowl of saffron threads, soaked in milk,
stare into its wild black eyes; I can hear
it hum a tune in B flat minor, and I wonder,
whose seed is this?

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.

Don't call a women a ****,
they don't like it.
And don't tell a batter to bunt,
they want to smack it.
And whatever you do,
don't try and give your
cat a bath in the tub with
that Mr. Bubble ****,
he'll scratch you.

When your boss gives you the
newly revised employee handbook,
don't say, that ******, it went
on and on and on.
There was no plot, and I
couldn't figure out, who in the
hell the antagonist was.

And one more thing,
if you fall in love and you
think you found your
soul mate, and it doesn't work,
and you feel like your
heart is being ripped out
through your nose,
don't give up.
Because the right one is
out there, somewhere waiting,
and who knows, maybe they have
a cat that likes baths and
blow-dryers, and being dressed
up like an Oompa Loompa from
***** Wonka and the
Chocolate Factory,

it could happen...
Don't give up.

Hey everyone.
My book is free today only on Amazon.  Here's a link.  It's the Kindle version that is free, but there are paperbacks and hardcovers available as well.

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.

In the country
on gentle silk
nights
I held you;
felt your satin
skin against mine;
smelled the lavender
in your hair.
And in the
morning,
I wanted
the sun to
melt and die
and
fall from the sky,
like a
blazing orb of
passion.

Your love is like a frozen bird, a
feathered stone falling from the sky.
I wish it didn't die.
It should be flying, and soring, and
healing, against the warm blaze of
the afternoon sun--weaving and
diving through the coolness of the clouds.
But it's gone, and all it can do is
plummet and take a few more
birds out, on its way down.

The feet are the
soul of the shoes.
And without the
feet, the shoes are
an empty body,
vacant vessels that
sit in the corner,
quiet as a tombstone,
forgotten, and curled at
the toes, flowers and
grass smashed into
the tread.
The tan leather is
baked brown from the
sun, tired and cracked from
the long lonely
miles of wandering.
Finally, the journey
is done.

Our love is
bigger than paper.
It's made of flesh and
bone and blood.
Words can't tear it apart.
Distance won't taint it.
My spirit groans
without you.
My soul feels empty
and alone.
I feel like a ghost wandering,
lost, like a blowing leaf.
Grief has become me.
I hunger for you.
Feed me.
I think of you there,
lonely and afraid.
I want to take
you in my arms and
hold you, until the
rain stops.

The other day,
I was walking down
the street.
I started thinking about
pork pie hats, and how I
would love to have one.
I went to the
Salvation Army store and
found a dark brown one.
I put it on, and walked out;
smooth as a puppy's belly,
slick as a butterfly's wings.
I loved that hat, I lost
it a couple of days later.
I lose everything I love:
My kids, my clothes, my jaded angel.
I've lost houses, wives, money, and cars.
What is it about love and loss that
stalk me like a hound dog?

I've lost hope and heart, and
even my mind at times.
I've lost friends galore.
My parents and two brothers are
gone.  I know if I love
something or someone, I will
lose it.
And those losses leave scars on
my soul that never goes away.
So the answer seems simple:
Love less,
yet, that is impossible with
this cursed poet's heart.

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 lie in a bed in
the hospital that
we lay down
in together a
couple of years ago.
I held her.
She was tired after
work.
I can't go anywhere that
memories
don't haunt me;
chase me
like a rabid dog.
But,
this is too much.
I can see her,
smell her,
taste her.
And my
heart breaks when
I open
my eyes, and
face the loveless
sun
like a knife.

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.

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 a 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
EST's  (Electra Shock Therapy)
One of the side effects is
memory loss.  I hope they make me
forget the last women in my life.
Life is so odd...
I'm locked in the nut house,
and she's home in her apartment,
cooking and cleaning,
crazy and mean as a
****-house rat.

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 used to say,
"They can **** us,
but they can't eat us."
I share this with her.
Nothing!
Just
worry, worry, worry.
"

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.

When I was a child
I had these strange febrile dreams.
In the blackness, globules
would form and float
and pulsate around the room.
And inside my addled brain,
they were terrifying, with their
whispered screams.
The sounds they made started
out low and small, and then
grew louder with every breath.
It was a horrid sound, like a
demented school teacher
scolding a blind student.
And I thought, in my
young feeble mind, that
angels were being tortured,
and that if I drifted off
to sleep, they would wake me with
their unearthly moans and
floating globules that would
grow and attack my brain.
It was as if they wanted
help, but they scared me.
So I fought to get well;
to make them disappear.
I don't have those sweat soaked
febrile dreams anymore;
but I still see the tortured angels...
under the bridge, down by the river.

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.

Life has reached its apex, when the major goal is to not freeze to
death on the Iowa City streets in February.  Finally I went to the back
of the ice-box, and there beside the hamburger and lamb chops and the Atlantic Cod, there was your frozen heart.
I'm speaking metaphorically of course, but finally, I see it for what it is; dead and icy cold.  You can't hurt me anymore.  Finally sweet apathy.
So whenever sentimentality comes whispering at the door or through the open window--lilacs in bloom.  I'll just open the icebox and glance at your dead frostbitten heart.  Maybe you were brutal and
cruel intentionally, or you could never overcome the blizzard
people that surrounded your formative years.
Either way, It feels good to finally see your soul and not
give a ****.

There’s nothing like a
writer when he hits
his stride.
He’s like a horse in the
homestretch,
thundering to the
finish line.
He’s like a dog in
a fight that has his
opponent by the throat .

He is hope for the
*****.
He’s the lock on
the door.
He’s the power in
the ****.
He’s the fossil in  
the rock.

When he pounds out the
word and the line,
he’s like a lion roaming
the Serengeti, or like
the guy with
the whip and
the chair that
makes the silly looking
circus bear do what
he wants.

He’s the snow on
Christmas morning.
He’s the heart in
the newborn baby.
He’s the master and
the world’s his slave.
He’s the force that
makes the river flow.
He’s the tree for
the monkey
he is dope for
the ******.
He is wisdom for the flunky.

He is Don Quixote to
Dulcinea and
Peter to Christ.
He is wings for the
Dodo bird and
claws for the cat.
He’s the rage in the night.
He’s the first light of sunrise.
He’s the dew on the grass
he’s the sail and the
mass on an unsinkable boat.

It’s unthinkable that he would  
do anything else but
write.
He is sight for the  
blind man, he’s a tongue for
the dumb.
He’s a throne for the king.
He’s what makes the robins
sing at the first sight
of spring.

He’s the ring in the bell.
He’s cold water in hell.
He’s the fire, not the smoke.
He’s the castle not
the mote.
He’s the forest
and
the trees.
He’s the bumble in  
the bees.
He’s the rumble from the seas.
He is life not death.
He’s the pulse and
the breath.

He’s the makeup on a clown.
He is sound for
the deaf.
He is  
bereft of nothing when
the
scandalous
sun sets.

I can taste the
lavender sky,
smell the pink,
squeeze the orange,
and drink it like a
Screwdriver.
My angel with
jaded wings;
My heart sings when
I hold her.
I can touch the
burnt umber of her
hair.
And I'm in
Wonderland, because she's
my Alice, and I want to bring
her safely home.

Every time she
kicks me out,
she throws my stuff
away:
my clothes
my books
my poetry.
I'm broke like
a toad.
I can't afford it.
No bother--she just
throws it all away.
No apologies.
I come back, and
ask, "Where's my stuff?"
Away...
Far away.

I see the ship
sink
just off the coast;
darkness at the
end of
the tunnel.

Is that thunder
rolling in from
the east;
a tornado, an earthquake, a flood?

Is that sound I
hear the pounding of
hooves outside my window?

No
it's just the noise my
eyes make when they
open.

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.

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?"

She poured herself into
her jeans
like a nice
glass of Chardonnay.
I wanted to pound it,
but we
had errands to run.
The sun was out,
but it lied.
It was February,
and cold;
real cold;
like her heart could be.
She wanted to set
us free.
She found out I
couldn't be tamed.
Who the hell likes
a caged dog?
One thing's for sure,
the dog doesn't.
I pulled her close
and growled.
She bit my neck.
And then
we were off
into the
bright white world.

I flirted with
the sun as it
blushed
pink
through the trees,
their naked branches
spread wide,
wet with dew.
Sticky sweet
dawn
winked with the
promise of a new day.
Swans mate for
life
and die in the spring.
And she
lied a little less than
the moon, and
the fog, and the
wet cat drunk on
feline dreams.
Her eyes looked like
they hated her face;
like they
wanted to
leap out, and
roll down the street,
find a mountain brook to
wash off all they had seen.
She saw too much...
felt too much,
as the fractured dawn
laughed
and flew away like
a mockingbird.

I want to kiss
her mouth in the
spring rain.
I want to
feel her tight
wet body
against mine,
while the water
pounds down around us.
I want to
carry her to
my underground
lair, and taste
her orchid
until she wilts in
sweat drenched
ecstasy.

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.

When the sadness strikes like
a match to my soul
and living is drudgery
and my pulse slows to 49
because the thought of
life beyond the pink
horizon calms me tremendously.
I think of our laughter together;
our churning, choking laughter,
and I smile through my pain for
a second or two;
then I gaze through the
venetian blinds at the gray
sky and the sycamore trees and
the daffodils in the distance,
and none of them are
laughing, for they know that
laughter always dies.
The heart try's to hold on,
but loses every time.