how many poems are written about
love and hate
living life and welcoming death
happiness and sadness
the fearful and fearless
sanity and madness?

how many poems are written about
darkness and light
the sun and the moon
the stars and the galaxy
the universe and our planet?

how many poems are written about
the trees and the rivers
the mountains and the valleys
the animals and sea creatures
the oceans and the land
the sky and the clouds
nature and everything it provides?

how many poems are written about
anxiety and depression
suicide and living life to the fullest
music and silence
philosophy and art
incarceration and liberation
coffee and tea
***** and drugs
war and peace
politics and religion
*** and celibacy
******* and addiction
and those who use it
for recreation and those who
believe it’s an abomination?

how people are drunk?
drunk on alcohol
drunk on love
drunk on books
drunk on ideas
drunk with magic
happening all around them

how many poems does it take
to sing?

how many words do you need to
piece together to end this poem?

as many as it takes
until everything is
swallowed into the
abyss of nothing

one girl pours out
her heart and soul
on paper with ink
and shares her true
emotions with the
world but doesn’t
receive as much
well deserved
recognition as the
other girl who has
only her **** to share

then there’s the
other girl who
has it
all:
the emotion
the heart
the soul
the ****
which essentially,
has nothing at all
but with the right know how
she can rule the world

I guess,
you have to die a little
first
if you wanna make it fast

you could own a safe
with all the greatest
treasures in the world
locked inside but it’s
still not as great
as knowing the
combination.

it can strike anywhere

like matches,
converting sulfur into flame
and setting fire to the couch

it can come to you at anytime,

you might be
pondering your most
deepest thoughts
about the universe
in the shower,

retaining some boring lecture
from your college professor,

manicuring your lawn
and watering your garden,

wolfing down 5 cigarettes
on your smoke break to
cope with the stress levels,

checking out books at the library,

flipping over your chicken
on the barbecue grill,

in the middle of helping
your kid out with their
science project,

listening to a song
that makes your
little hairs stand up,

in the end of a good book,

sipping a cup of coffee
and staring out the window
from your kitchen,

from the longest trip to the grocery store
to the shortest distance to the sun,

from the worst day of menial work
to the greatest copulations

it can occur,
whenever and wherever
don’t lose that thought
fill pages upon pages
with ink from your pen
as soon as you can

for me,

this one happened to me
when I was walking my dog
and picking up the dog ****,

two teenagers drove past
doing 45 in a 25mph zone
and the passenger hung
out the window and screamed,
“LOSER” at me.

my immediate thoughts
were to throw my
beer can at their car
but I didn’t think it was
worth the waste

and then,
I wanted to throw
the bag of **** at them
but you and I both know
those kids lives
aren’t as nearly as valuable
as the dog **** in my hand.

try to save the world and
change the minds of people
by gathering everyone
aboard the train that
travels down one track
and voluntarily smother
them with your thoughts



but no one is listening

dear poets and poetess,

to whom it may concern:

when your poems of
indiscretion
are admired
most
by your fellow
correspondents,
you will be
well known for
mediocrity in
literature

don’t put forth
the effort and
you will gain
the recognition

I am the dancing bear

the flying trapeze artist

here to entertain you with
resonating thoughts,
raw emotions and
sophistication
of self worth


sweet dreams

                       with lots of love,
                  your sniveling sourpuss

                             Rick

praise the lord!

glory be!

hallelujah!

my eight year old car
has yet, started once again!

good thing too,

I would have had an awful day
calling in sick from work
and relaxing on the couch,
smoking **** and play
guitar all day long.


~sigh~

from park to reverse and
out of the driveway,
then reverse to drive and
look in the rearview mirror
only to see my house quickly
disappear, like a magic trick

time to go **** today’s ****

while 16 other men sitting
in their cars on their way
to work think about
what they could
have been

first thing in the morning,

I go to war with my clothes

bare knuckle boxing
with my shirts,
wrestling my pants,
hand to hand combat
with my socks,
ninja kicked my shoes
and I don’t even wanna
get into with my underwear

but when you’re 40 pounds overweight
and you can’t see your pecker anymore

putting your clothes on
is the hardest part
of the day

it’s all down hill from here

took a trip to the store today

bought fried chicken, shrimp,
potato wedges, Hawaiian rolls,
macaroni salad and coleslaw

a women was sampling
free Christmas *****
at a booth near me.

I had no intentions to divulge
as I walked past without
saying anything

but she offered
(not that she wanted to but
because it was her job)

I stopped and said “sure”

she gave me a grotesque look,

a look I’m often familiar with,

like I was human garbage

she handed me the *****
in a tiny shot glass as our
hands accidentally touched

she was hiding it well but you
could tell she wanted to dip
her hands in an acid vat after
touching me

I lifted up the drink til it was eye level
and she proceeded to tell me all the
unimportant facts about the drink and
how it was on sale and so forth,
I started to tune her out....

for that split moment,
as quick as the blink of an eye,
I had a realization that
your first job is
your first experience
and wake up call to how
doltish and bias and cruel
the world can be,
myself included.

I set down the drink down on the table
and walked off without saying a word,

I could barely hear her whisper under
her breath, “******* ***”

who am I to judge,
she had every right to judge me,
I did look like a ***

but I don’t want to look
like a million bucks,

just a well polished
five dollar bill
should suffice

I got home and poured myself that
drink I didn’t have at the store and
also ate the fried chicken, shrimp,
potato wedges, Hawaiian rolls,
macaroni salad and
even the coleslaw too.

what can I say?

every hand you’ve
ever shook has had
a **** in it.

we are travelers in motion
playing banjo and hopping trains
headed from nowhere to nowhere
lusting for a higher purpose
away from this mediocre town
in this substandard state.

staring down the sun
like gunslingers,
squinty-eyed,
name calling,
spitting in the
dusty streets
and pulling iron
ready to draw.

there are cracks
in the sidewalks
outside convenient stores,
that look like new routes
on the way to terminus

sifting through
the mountains
and the valleys,
across the rivers
and over the bridges,
down the scattered
highways where the
bums are dying in
the forsaken streets
of crumbling castles

the tractors causing
unnecessary traffic
in wide open spaces
of the rural areas,

midwestern farmers
plant rows upon rows
of corn and the one
firework shop stands
alone surrounded by
nothing for miles
all around it

the sky shows its reflection
in the buoyant lake like a
mirror looking back at its
own idea of itself,

horses gallop freely
at grazing ranches,

endless journey’s
through the cold nights
of the desert wastelands
and the stars shine through
like pinholes in the intergalactic cloth
that keep the hyenas away from laughing
and viciously attaching the reinvigorating
green muse that communicates without
the use of words and shows us the way....

under which tree shall we lay?

not even our
reinvention
is an inviolate

but we not tulips
you could easily
pluck from the
moistened soil,
we are dandelions,
deep rooted in the
hard concrete

and we will
overcome and flourish
to find ebullience

like pieces that fell to Earth.

I only write poetry
to submit my poems
to the publishers
so I can wall paper
my entire house,
tuck point the chimney,
shingle the roof
and make use of
holiday decorations
with rejection letters

you have to crawl through
the tunnel of 3 billion
rejections before you
can find acceptance.

how you handle it is what
matters most

but to anyone who has succeeded knows:
there never was a tunnel to crawl through
in the first place.

my father,

how he ever got laid
is beyond me,

how I was conceived
is beyond me too,

when all you want to do is
work
work
work
there’s no room for affection
towards your children and
no companionship towards
your significant other

but he strives so much
for a reputation of being
“the hardest working man alive”

and when he’s not at work,
he’s talking about work
or his fathers before him
and how they were even
harder working men

a whole blood line of
genetical hard working
people that ends right
here with me

I can’t blame him for that,
that’s all he knows to talk about

but why spend most of your time at work?

maybe he doesn’t like his home life?

for that, I can’t blame him either,
if I had his home life,
I’d be at work all the time too.

I just can’t fathom the idea of
growing up and spending most
of your time away from your
loved ones and be with people who
are hand picked by someone else
whether you like them or not

and for what?

for money?

money is just the lubricate that makes
getting ***** by the world a little
more tolerable and a little less raw

unseen by many
and directly deposited
into their bank accounts,
to unevenly disperse
amongst conglomerates
who hold the keys
to the little things
you need for
comfort and convenience
only to be left with very little
or none of it

if brilliance is footsteps
then I’m stepping off and
away from this revolving
record of solipsism

my father was never there
for me physically or emotionally
but always had me financially,
all of which, have taught me
the same thing...

nothing at all.

so whatever
I’m doing
in my life,
I’ll let him know
the same thing
he taught me...

nothing at all.

what I’m doing with it
will be a gift to myself

and only belong to me

but what do I know?

I’m just a **** mopper
at the local peep show.

I don’t use it to escape
or make the pain go away
or to numb my feelings

it’s frowned upon by most,
some find it deadening
and others to be fatal
but I find myself crossing
swords with the few who
are brave enough....

its the fuel,
the self medication
that makes me feel
alive and goes
hand in hand
with my writing
and my daily life

it gives me the answers
that fit in with the questions
that so many people yearn for

while they sip on their
coffee and tea and
write poems about
skittles and unicorns
in their fantasy land
that doesn’t exist,

I write
what I see,
think and
feel is to be true
and real in this
maddening world

anybody can play
the protagonist
but it takes guts
to play the fool
stepping in the
wrong direction
in life and to be
deceived by those
who are on the
outside looking in

I have no use
to sugarcoat
anything.
I am here,
naked,
in a crowd full
of clothed people
with nothing to hide
except my face
behind a beard.

I am the disease,
the *****,
the conformist,
the cancer of society,
cells reproducing and I’m
eating up all your resources
with no logic or reasoning.

sober Rick,
when hungover,
will thank
drunk Rick
tomorrow morning
when he finds out
that he made a lunch
for him and didn’t lose
his car keys

his drive to work will
be more peaceful
and the food on his
lunch break will taste
more delicious
than those he’s
surrounded by.

bend over world
and deal with it,

I’m a drunk
in moderation
without any regrets

so
pour
me
another  
mother
nature

you’re not thinking about it but....

imagine all of the millions of cars
out there, driving around an irregular
patterns like a swarm of gnats creating
a nest egg of irritation.

imagine all that traffic,
bumper to bumper,
green and yellow lights,
red and blue lights
behind you,
citations and violations,
proof of insurance,
expired license,
suspended license,
driving under the influence,
broken tail light,
speeding tickets,
flat tires,
roadside assistance,
road rage,
accidents,
death

all of that just to get from one
destination to another faster
than your skateboard wheels
or two little feet can take you

one day, the world just decided to just
get up and be in a hurry all of a sudden.
so fast, that we don’t even have time
to stop at a friends house to share a beer

this alien science project
we call the planet Earth
has a new human born
on it everyday and
although the planet
remains the same size
it becomes more full, more
crowded, more populated,
and a little more rotten
with each passing second

so as you sit
in the comfort
of your own home
and you’re not
thinking about
how grateful
you should be,
not to be
out there
participating
in that
madness.

I met a savant over the holidays,
she was about 19 months old
and her methods were profound.
while everyone gave her full
attention as we sat around in
the cozy kitchen, sipping on our
warm cups of coffee, she gave
none of it back to mankind as
she starred out the window to
enjoy the wooded backyard and
the color changing of the leaves
and how beautiful nature is
and if I were smart enough...
I would have joined her too.

it’s all behind me,

the past,

like a dream,

a dream I once lived in
with vivid memories
of nostalgia and the
many people I’ve
encountered and
can’t remember
along the way

some alive,
some dead,
some gay,
some straight,
some drunk,
some sober,
some successful,
some still searching for success,
(no one is a failure)
some married,
some single forever
but the fragrance of
our friendship is gone,
past expired and evaporated.

I will never see them again
until I hear about their untimely
death and make myself present
to a funeral I wasn’t invited to but...

today is not yesterday,
today is not tomorrow,
today is today,
today is right now
and right now is the most
overlooked opportunity
to make something happen

so tonight,
just like the night before it
and many nights after,
the sun will settle down
leaving the clouds burning
red and the luminous moon
will leave a smudge print
in the night sky

I will not phone an
old friend and play
“catch up” with our lives
and speak of old times past,

just sit in my fortress of solitude
with the best strategy I know.....
to get drunk
without any.

it will remain
better this way

from this moment forward

as the sun burns
bright and radiant,
it shines on a world
that keeps turning
under blue skies
that match the
ocean in color.

the wind will push
the swings on an
empty swing set,

the fences will
remain unpainted,

bicycles will
no longer parade
down the streets,

the elbows and
the knees will
remain unscathed

and somehow
they get by
without ever
knowing
the answers
that cell phones
can’t provide them

put beer in your mouth, not guns.
it’s much more delicious and
you’ll live a longer, happier life.
you don’t need suicidal thoughts
just good tunes, good people
and of course, a good beverage.
depression
finances
emotions
heartbreaks
relationships
­problems
troubles
and worries
will sort
itself out
in due time.

you can cope,
you can figure this out,
you can be happy,
you got this.

while rain falls like teardrops
from gloomy clouds that
suspend over a consumerist
country. impatient people will
trample over themselves to save
money on those bargain deals.
I will remain safe in my house,
nestled up in my warm cozy
blanket with my pajamas still on,
feasting on Thanksgiving leftovers
and read a book or write a poem
and have Charles Bronson entertain
me on the movie screen but most of
all I get the purest enjoyment
forgetting about how
vicious and gruesome
the holidays can be.
there’s no other way
to spend Black Friday
and there never was

terrible advice
from someone
telling you
how to live
your life

something as simple
as suggesting what
movie to watch or
what book to read or
what music to listen to

it may have impacted
their life in a certain way
but that doesn’t mean
it’ll impact yours

do what you like on your
own terms and live your
life the way you want to

I suggest you don’t take
any depressing advice
from this poem or the
gates of my persona
will flood with contradiction

listen to music
only made by
dead people
that way you
have an excuse
not to like the
music made by
the ones who
are still living

time becomes motionless
when entangled in the webs
of mindless indulgence and
made pliable in the mainstream
world of technology by
consuming video after video,
spiraling further and further
away from intelligence,
only to be awoken from
hibernation in the wool gathering
caves of make-believe by the
harsh realism that parental
figures pull them back into
but like most teenagers,
he’s inclined to believe
he knows it all already,
in the saddened truth
that he, in fact, doesn’t....
he’ll continue to fight
tooth and nail
with his poor
grammatical constructions,
which is often corrected by
his younger sister, on how
he knows and he’s correct
but doesn’t actually take
the time to think about
what he’s saying, only
to dig himself a hole
deeper and deeper
until he can’t get out

my own son,
he’s a good kid,
just confused
like the rest of them.
I blame myself mostly
for his lack of
ambition,
curiosity
and know how
by providing the
tools and enabling
such unwillingness

but nothing is going to happen
unless I make it happen
and I’m just not in the mood
right now.

life becomes drunk with happiness

when you self vaccinate
the parasite that’s
running throughout
your immune system
and stop the
infectious toxicity
from spreading

I
will
not
waste
another
word
or
thought
on
such
poison
that
is
the
quality
of her

I looked at him right in the eye and yelled,

“DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH EMOTION AND HEARTBREAK YOU’VE CAUSED OVER THE YEARS????”

He didn’t reply.

So I started to choke him and screamed,

“HOW DO WOMEN EVEN TOLERATE YOU? YOU’RE A HUGE DISAPPOINTMENT TO EVERYONE YOU MEET!”

He didn’t reply.

I let go of him and my emotions changed over. Then I softly said to him,

“I can hardly even see you anymore.”

He didn’t reply.

So I beat him.

But of course, the ***** doesn’t communicate vocally...

...he just erects and takes his beatings.

poems are not all
sunshine and
rainbows

sometimes,
just sometimes
we have to ****
in the bathroom
sink of beauty
to find out how
repulsive it can be
underneath

I find the soap ****
of the shower drain
to be more enriched
with adorning features
than the palm trees
of florida

art
and all forms of it
are inexhaustible,
you could never
take that away,
including this
ugly
ugly
ugly
poem

on this day,
several years ago
I was expelled from
high school for
possession of alcohol
on school grounds

the bottle was a gift to
a fellow classmate
for doing a
homework assignment
in our English class

the assignment was
to do a poem

and now
here I am
writing a poem about it

you could cut the
irony with a knife

well anyways,
every few leap years
or so,
I occasionally run
into my former colleagues
at some local bar or soirée
and they ask who I am

I ask if they remember me
and tell them the school
I attended and what year
I was suppose to graduate

they tell me the same and
have no recollection of who
I am or have never heard of me

and after hearing about all
the great accomplishments
they’ve made for themselves
after high school,

it sounds like they
never existed either.

my first job;
I worked with an over abundance of *****

my second job;
I worked with even bigger *****,
perhaps some of the worst
I have ever encountered

my third job;
I worked with some *****,
mostly party animals
and some I even consider
to be family

....and now,
I work with depressingly tedious *****
who deplete my soul from the inside out
to where I can no longer feel the warmth.

it’s uncertain where
my next source of
income may take me
but one thing is for sure,
I know if I don’t take
confidence,
ingenuity
and guts
with me to conquer
the fear of change
I’m going to once again
work with *****

the workforce can be a real
dreary place to feel inspired.

be careful who you surround
yourself with...
you don’t want to end up dead
before death actually comes to find you.

for 6 years I’ve hidden
behind a long beard
but have always left
my dignity,
modesty,
endurance
and truth
out in the open for
everyone to see
and for 15 years
I’ve carried it with me
as I shuffle my converse shoes
down the sidewalks of profligacy.

why should I be the one who
gets tossed in the streets
for my belligerence when the
bartender is the one who over served?
I feel like I’m just getting started
amongst the empty souls filling
the empty seats and the glasses
of self pity in front of them as they
drain cup after cup into their hollow bodies

if you’re the drunkest one at the bar,
you’re at the wrong bar

another meal missed
and starving for the art
but it gives back
so much more than
a steak and lobster
dinner could ever offer

the ability to lose control
of ones mind and let
complete liberation
of madness take over
while rationality and
normality behavior
will refuse to never
fully understand
it’s lunacy,

delirium to open your
eyes and mind to see
the beauty in artistry
that an inept society
could never distinguish
through the spyglass
of discerning aptitude,

don’t worry about what’s
in your bank account
or what’s on tv
or how much gas
is in your car
or being on time
for your kids
soccer practice
or what’s on the
agenda in your
eventful calendar,
or being too busy
executing your plans
of insignificance

submerge
yourself
in a sea of
loneliness

go crazy
every once
in a while

and perceive
the world as
the world
perceives
you and find
out how lifeless
humanity
really is

then create the art

tonight,
when the streetlights
go on well after dark
and the scintillating
moon illuminates
a painted mural on the
star filled night sky
behind the junkyard fence,
the skin stretches,
the blood boils,
the hair grows full,
the fingernails extend
and the human/werewolf
transformation is flourishing.
the blood soaked moon
looks good enough
to howl
under

the perfect combination
in the freezing rain
and the misery of the world
that’s still out there
doesn’t have you
in submission
at least for the moment
the beer keeps you warm
the books keep you cozy
and the music continues to spin
until the needle skips into
oblivion

You want a poem?

I have nothing to say

The less I write

The more strengthened

I feel towards my words

friday.
on the thirteenth day
of the tenth month
in the seventeenth
year of the new century
at 3pm, I was to meet my
new bride in the cemetery.

as I stood there
under the second tree,
surrounded by grave stones,
across from the mausoleums,
she walked toward me
and I could see the orbs all
around her and feel her glow
as radiant as the sun
that shined down on all of us.
we were buzzed with animation.

our skull-faced officiant corresponded
with us and we exchanged vows with
perfection, like a successful
operation from the steady
hands of a Surgeons Precision.
we kissed for what seemed
like an eternity and time just
stopped for a moment of
boundless glamour and affinity.

we were untouchable
in a museum of our
own infinite love.

we couldn’t ask for better weather,
like a bar full of cooperative drunks.
photographed in the graveyard,
under the archways of the chapel
and on the mausoleum steps
capturing every moment
of sheer happiness and
timeless efforts as a reward
for our utter devotion and
dedication we have given
over time to one another.

the sun declined and we
raised our drinks to a toast
in celebration over laughter and
smiles with our closest friends
and family. we realized that
the fox and the wasps that
crossed our paths that day
told us much about our
significance and new beginnings,
also taught us the misfortunes we
bump into only lead to better things.

we walked under skeleton horses
that fiercely galloped through
the constellations, leaving a
heavy trail of stardust behind in
the moonless night sky. magic
filled the air that day and like
most good things, I didn’t want
it to end but she forever dreamt
of things I could never fully
understand so I will leave
this poem in a safe place
and rub eyeballs with it
every now and then.

Rachel, this one’s for you.

after working in hell and
anticipating for nothing to happen
at the local thrift store with my
family for an evening of shopping
for wedding apparel and
accessories for our joyous
and momentous occasion.
excursions through the land
of your neighbors throwaways.
my son finds Mexican pants,
my soon to be finds an ice cream
cone dotted shirt,
my daughter finds Halloween trinkets
and I searched for cheap books,
electronics, furniture, and jean jackets.
all of which have nothing to do with
what we originally ventured out for.
my soon to be finds a top hat for me
to wear to the wedding and I try it on
and check myself out in the mirror
with satisfaction but out of the blue,
a garrulous wrinkled old man,
raises his thunderous voice,
startling my entire world and
completely catching me off guard.
telling me I looked good in the hat
but suggesting that I wear a brown
top hat instead, that he found in the neighboring aisle. brown not being
my color, I politely decline his
suggestion and he walks off down
another aisle looking for his wife
with a cart full of antiquated artifacts screaming,
DEBRA! DEBRA!
our natural instincts are to join him
so then, we started screaming,
DEBRA! DEBRA!
we laugh a little bit during a few
moments of silence and we hear it again...
DEBRA! DEBRA!
the jocularity of our idiosyncrasies
were to continue screaming and laughing.
more and more voices joined in and
started yelling back...
DEBRA! DEBRA!
before we knew it
the whole store in every department
was calling out the name...
DEBRA! DEBRA!
the air was drunk with
laughter and magic.
I hope he found his wife.
as long as that old man is alive,
something is happening.
I will never forget him
even if he has already
forgotten about me.

Sifting through my first poems,
like digging up a dead corpse,
I'm bringing them back to life
by rouging and pampering.
These poorly structured
arrangement of words
are in desperate need of a
pre-cleanse wash face
followed by concealer,
foundation and blush. Then
applying eyeshadow, eyeliner
and mascara. Blotting the lips.
Manicures and Pedicures.
A complete package spa
treatment including massaging,
a mud mask, a decent haircut,
cucumbers over the eyes, a
milk bath, seaweed wrap,
a full Brazilian wax job and
to top it all off with
a half a glass of wine.
But the final results are
fundamentally flawed:
You can't shine ****,
polish a ****,
put lipstick on a pig,
paper the cracks or
make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
A hog in a armour is still a hog.

Bad poetry is bad poetry.

brews in the morning
and wine as a snack,
whiskey for dinner while
filling the flasks,
killing the good times
and killing the laughs
while the singing the songs
in front of a glass.
bags under eyes and
sores on the back,
from cooking the ****
and freebasing crack,
fists are all red from a
drunken bloodbath,
leaving behind a
destructive warpath.
smoking the **** and
popping the pills,
******* the ****** and
drinking the swill.
clearing the haze
and filling the trays
with ashes and cherries
and memories were made,
the pale moon descends
and the weather is vane,
sun begins to ascend
through the window of pane,
impaling the eyes like the
pecking of crows,
the question is why and
nobody knows.

Sitting Indian style in the most
overlooked room in the house
for innovation on top of the
washing machine as the towels
transition into the spin cycle.
Waiting for the blankets and
bedsheets to dry that the dog
****** on the night before.
Surrounded by posters
of villainous comic book
characters and not much
else to look at other than
cat clumps in the litter box
while listening to the
therapeutic avant-grade
compositions of Don Van Vliet.
Contemplating my
abhorrent thoughts:
over the years of
struggling to crawl out of
the quicksands of overdraft
fees that swallow you whole,
you begin to realize that the
biggest bank robbers in the
world are, indeed, the banks
themselves and need to be
completely eradicated
from existence.
How do parents raise their
progeny and go through
life without smoking ****
or drinking beer?
There are 26 letters in the
alphabet and 171,476 words
in the English language
(48,156 of which, are obsolete)
and an infinite combination of
sentence structure fluctuating
between a wide range of
poor grammatical constructions and  
robust iambic pentameters that laureate
writers, poets, novelists incarcerate
themselves into their own ingenuity.
So if Stokoe could write about cows
and Banks could write about wasps
then I should be able to write about
honey badgers because honey
badgers don't care if I write
about forlorn laundry rooms.
As I patiently wait, that
dryer gave me 20 minutes
alone with my thoughts and
tranquility. Pandering in my
immortality for my mind to
manufacture the ammunition,
my hand is the submachine gun
and this poem is the blood splatter
behind the wall of implementation
and that's worth more to me
than 1000 hours of
overtime at work.

There are 30,600 seconds in an
      eight and a half hour day of work.
           Each subsequent is a sharpened
              tool of useful motivation to help me
                  alleviate my inventiveness...but
                      the value of my individuality
                         is ejected into a bottomless
                           pit of redundancy and wasted
                               on slave labor and dolor.
                           The duration of time with my
                        12 eyes is pillaged and plundered
                  by the imperialist pirates of propriety.
               They kick you when you're down
             and make you smile about it.
          That's why you need a day off
        before and after your weekend.
     Mercifully, half my work day
   is spent in the bathroom,
    where all the business and
      communicating with the
         outside world gets done
            and I can write my poems
              and escape into the abyss
                 of my own creativity.
                   All of my poems have
                     either started, finished,
                        fully written or re-edited
                           in the bathroom.
                             If I told you this poem wasn't
                          written in the bathroom than
                        I'd be lying to you and there's
                      no reason for that.
                   There's not much to look at except
                 two bare walls, one bare stall door
              and a toilet paper dispenser but
           that's more motivation than all
        the dullard coworkers combined.
      ......And if the
   shower is cold and
the hobo's clean and
  the beer is warm and
    the grass isn't green and
      the ****** are dry and
        the **** is wet and
          the money is scare in the
            rich man's eye and
             the air is breathable,
              religion is believable
                and the mosquitoes are
                  tolerable to the young
                    man's mind, then....
                      me and the popcorn man will sit on
                    the highest skyscraper of wet hair,
                  eating flavored ice and watching
                the yellow skies as it rains snakes
              into my gums and I can live a life
           without fear and have prosperity.
         It's better to live a local
        legend without notoriety
      and be discovered
    after your death than
  to die a sell out with
global stardom
of longevity.

It's raining outside
you might get drenched
the kids won't play
their phones get wet
the parents come home
just soaked in sweat
from living a life
they have not led
happy with things
just being content
spending it all
and not saving a cent
struggling to pay
the bills and the rent
not taking the actions
to help them prevent
not making enough
with phone calls of threat
from the people who are
just collecting a debt
knocks on the door
from people they sent
to shut off the lights
and close off the vents
selling their stuff and
the things that they spent
like furniture, clothes
and videocassettes
out on the curb with
their kids and their pets
gambling away and
losing their bets
with only each other
and maybe regrets

in a magic land of purple static
with a hint of blue and green,
ghastly shadow figures stand tall
and dance in the background
of delirium and madness.
quadrilateral patterns hang
netted in dinosaur shaped trees
surrounded by lizard tin foil
windows and roosters crowing
in the moonless midnight.
watching cowboys puke peyote
in the plateaus of the Sierra Madre,
as white dragons couch surf through
the waterfalls of decrepit old women.
fingers bend back and melt into the
ice cube ashtrays and flowers bubble
up out of bedsheets as your waving
hands leaves behind black trails of
indiscretion.
three headed old man sits alone by
the campfire adjacent from moats
of mossy grass glistening in the
silver stars.
distorted magnets hang on refrigerator
doors as pumpkin heads and cancer
patients sit around candle lit tables.
twinkling treble clefts leave gentle,
somber imprints as the tunes float
out of the music box.
blue and gold caps tie intestines
up like a twisted pretzel.
unsavory flavors linger in the mouth
from styrofoam textures.
intensifying citrus awaits the
elephants gates of psychedelic
hallucinations.

                                  I
                              have
                           one thing
                        to say about
                whiskey and shrooms
             .... I miss my friend Kennie
                             every
                             single
                             day....

these same grey shorts and black shirts
sit alone, undisturbed in empty vessels
with 4 to 6 books a week by great
writers, novelists and poets such as:
Carruth, Cummings, Chinaski,
Ginsberg, Burroughs, Kerouac,
Hemingway, Thompson, Chopra,
Vonnegut, Eliot, Dostoyevsky,
Rinaldi, Nugent, Wadsworth,
Burns, Watts, Fitzgerald
Li Po, Chi, Ch'ien, etc, etc, etc.
sought for a muse and inspiration
from these omnipotent word wranglers
that fuse juicy sentence structures
so delicately, melting your soul into
ice cream soup....but other than favoring
the use of a word, I fail to find a spark
of ingenuity, only left with the greatest
power tool and the deadliest weapon to
compile my own creativity.
if I was a rugged mountaineer,
I would not need to trek to the Himalayas
or the Alps to find a mountain.
there's a plethora of peaks in my
own backyard.
if I was a cave dweller,
there's no need to go gallivanting through
the Hang So'n Do'ong to find a cave.
there's plenty of spelunking in my own
quarters from the highest ceiling down
to the lowest part of the basement.
if I was a surfer,
I don't need to travel to the
ebb of the tides.
my cranium already rides
the 100ft waves
in oceans of intoxicants.
sitting across tables from half the faltering drunks in the tri-country area, smothering
the room with incoherence feeds my
apparition. How dare their pugnacious
behavior that peeks from behind their
over-served soft shells take another
bite of the apple from the bottle of
whiskey when they can't even handle
what's already been dealt.
standing there, in front of a mirror, staring
at my misproportioned physiognomy,
looking ancient but feeling younger and
more energetic than my own kids.
contemplating my existence,
at the age of 33,
I've already felt like I've been through
so much when
I haven't even gotten started.
welcoming my untimely death to arrive,
with only one fear....
that I've only left an
innumerable amount
of monotonous
words behind me.

listen to the man who saved the lives of seven men from an ammonia spill without the use of a respirator and pulled them to safety.
listen to the man who single handedly fixed an airplane and saved the airport millions of dollars in cost.
listen to the man with an eight and a half inch **** accompanied by the woman who keeps a ruler in her purse to measure it.
listen to the man who pull shotguns on the high school football team with his mole faced companion for beating up his little brother.
listen to the man who arc welded a kid into a locker for putting his hand down his sisters pants.
listen to the man who pulled the greatest senior prank ever by disassembling a Cadillac and re-assembling it in the school cafeteria overnight.
listen to the man who goes to the bar at seven in the morning and orders a root beer, only to be quickly rejected by the bartender.
listen to the man who beer bongs Dr. Peppers.
listen to the man who has diabetes and self regulates his blood sugar by drinking a six pack of Mountain Dew.
listen to the man who orders an extra large pizza to himself and throws his body over it when you get too close to him.
listen to the man who believes that cold ravioli in a can, not only tastes good but won't make you sick.
listen to the man that claims to be the best singer in the world.
listen to the man who disciplines his step son in the bathroom at the super bowl party.
listen to the man who will dunk a head of lettuce in a bowl of ranch and eat it whole.
listen to the man who eats green bell peppers like Granny Smith apples.
listen to the man who eats bagel sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
listen to the man who walks with his head down and as soon as he looks up his leg submerges into a latex trench.
listen to the man who grabs his fat wife by the dog collar and forces his tongue down her throat in public.
listen to the man who will ****, wipe his ***, not wash his hands and serve you taco dip with his **** fingers.
listen to the man who takes one sip of pbr and screams the he can't handle it.
listen to the man who gets pelted in the back with an ice ball and slowly looks back in disapproval.
listen to the man who won't tell perverted jokes with mixed company.
listen to the man with the wet noodle.
listen to the man who drives down the highway getting road head by his wife and finishes in her mouth right before they get to the toll booth attendant.
listen to the man who warns you that there's a homosexual in the room.
listen to the man that got revenge on an ex-lovers new squeeze by taking the lug nuts off his car and throwing them in the bottom of the pool on a cold November day.
listen to the man who gives himself a nickname that nobody will call him.
listen to the man who pulls away from work to eat a frozen dinner, only to get yell at by his trainer in mid indulgence.
listen to the man who bought a card and flowers for his wife after she found he had been a dating website and didn't get a single reply in the past three years.
listen to the man who has worked every job you every had and always has a story to one up yours.

they will all tell you the same thing:

      .....not now, Kelly might get jealous.

one day,
when I win the lottery
I'm going to pay off my
overdue library book debt
and then I'm going to take
my lady out for a drink
in a different country,
just because I can.
as a poet and a poor player of instruments,
a drunk and a breadwinner
as a father of two and
a husband to be,
a ****** of horror flicks and
a collector of vinyl,
a surfer of televisions and sidewalks
(or at least I once was)
and a lover of foods.
this bearded wonder....
his mind is split in two,
there's a difference between
what formulates in my brain to
my mouth
and my brain to my hand.
how I write is not how I speak,
the wires in my gray matter get
twisted up and so does tongue
as my mouth fills with spittle, but
with a little thought and time
my medulla oblongata glues
together words of sophistication
into articulate sentences.
I'm an uneducated man,
just very meticulous with
the absenteeism of rationality
that humanity has to offer.
working a dead end job
as a fluffer for the aristocratic
industrialists
in this mundane life
of mediocrity,
mutually exclusive and
mentally exhausted with
the surroundings of
ignoramus cohorts.
screaming on the inside
for an ounce of stimulation
where my subconscious
can find no purchase,
channeling outlets through
hieroglyphics on a portable
handheld typewriter.
a hundred or even a thousand
publishers could viciously attack
my passion with the onslaught
of a hundred or a even thousand
compositions of rejection, but yet....
I'm still here.
reinvigorating myself through the
slough of privation and trudge
through the days of menial work
in search of surreal reinvention.
far from where I want to be,
in life and location,
prancing down the paths less traveled,
breaking every barrier put up,
carrying mawkish moppets
on each shoulder,
becoming the ultimate
goal achieving marauder.
but until then....
one day,
when I win the lottery
I'm going to pay off my
overdue library book debt
and then I'm going to take
my lady out for a drink
in a different country,
just because.....I can.

Natures timepiece resets
mental alarm clocks and
washes away the hassles
of the daily grind.
Woken up by a well blended
mixture of clamor and quietude
with various birds chirping,
running water,
crackling embers,
wombats mating
and groans made by the
chemically inconvenienced
from a site nearby.
Insects fly overhead an
unorthodox patterns
as you unzip the door
of your mesh enclosure
and step out into the
inhospitable environment.
Pressed coffee to chase
the bacon and eggs
as you gourmandize
that over the fire,
cast iron skillet
morning breakfast.  
Commence to mysterious exploits
without one second of the day to waste
down heavily wooded trails
in search for introspection
and tranquility.
Uncultivated areas where
diligent stalwarts build dams,
antlers gallop through the
pulp and sapling
while woodland creatures,
whimsical and carefree,
play and sing songs
of the jovial jungle
until the birds of the wild
pounce upon their prey
as they become a tasting menu item
for the predatory aggressors
in the vicious circle
of nature's goodness.
Sun droplets peek
behind the seedlings
and you take a breath of fresh air
as you decrease depression
and obliterate anxiety.
Compass navigates
as you hike through
the rocky regions of the greenery
where you settle down to
eat your sandwich,
sip your thermos of soup,
wild berries for dessert
and wash it down with
a refreshing drink from
the natural flowing rivers
where ducklings defecate
and fish ****.
Perched up on a rock
in the highlands,
still on this quest for
self meditation,
you survey the terrain
and observe a family tipping
an overweighted, unbalanced
canoe on the river,
rambunctious ruffians
going white water rafting
in the vast rapids and
drink firewater with the natives
until they puke from overindulgence,
a lovely couple not in sync
with their oar rowing skills
on the lake,
children burn bugs
with magnifying glasses and
sneaking smores before
healthy campfire dinners arrive.
Day breaks into dusk and
dusk into night
with vivid colors and lucid dreams.
Scowling eyes peer through
the woodsy inhabitant
with curious and suspicious
idiosyncrasies as you trekked
through the wilderness
towards the bivouac
to start the nightly campfire,
submerge in repellent
and prepare your opulent hobo banquet. Twisting the cap off the first of twelve,
vital force fills to the brim
with reflection and clarity
of existentialism.
The birds have it good.
The wombats have it good.
The stalwarts have it good.
The antlers have it good.
The predatory aggressors have it good.
The families, the ruffians, that lovely couple, the children, even the burnt bugs have it good.
But you.....
you are like the woodland creatures,
you too play and sing songs,
twisting off cap after cap
until the Monday morning
manpower surfaces to the top,
like a volcanic eruption of plutonic rock
and the predatory aggressors
of labor force swoop down
and devour you without mercy
or an ounce of hesitation.
Under the silver moonlit night,
***** of fire burn brightly
in the purple hazed skies,
through the whistling treetops,
the forest ghouls dance like
demons and politicians
(essentially the same thing),
hallucinations of shadow people
appearing and disappearing
through the flames of the fire
stare wide eyed with painted faces.
Surrounded by a midden of empty bottles, you're wet brain slips
in and out of alcohol induced comas
and a beer blanket softly nestles you in
as you hold a lit cigarette in one hand
and half a bottle of Dutch milk
in the other like teddy bear,
your eyes fall into sedation....
Jolted awake like a thunderbolt,
eyes go from closed to open immediately
and chemically inconvenienced
state of being groans in
agonizing pains
just like the ones you heard
the morning before.

Forsaken in the coldest corridors
of the cruelest institutions.
Colleagues converge like cows
in slaughterhouses
unswervingly hasten
to assigned lockers filled with
noted secrets and
academic paraphernalia.
Allies and adversaries
divide into tribes and cliques
as the diplomat amongst them all
frolics freely in a meadow of segregation. Hypercritical eyes gawk and murmur
as they silently denounce their modesty
and uphold delusions of grandeur
and narcissism.
Real geniuses organize
their chiffoniers in the most
haphazardly fashions
and achieve systematical creativity.  Popularized pretty faces
and well shaped bodies
that hold solutions to every
life's problem and are adored
by so many,
have the ugliest insides,
bloated bellies and
more skeletons in their closets
then they let anyone know.
Blustering bullies can't cope
with Cadillac comfort and
take rage and aggression
out by downgrading
educated eggheads
with verbal assault and
quarrelsome quirks
to make themselves
feel better.
Poncho hooded hippies and
recreational reefers congregate
to the abyss of lost souls
in knitted footbag circles.  
Faceless, heartless, mindless,
bloodthirsty jockstraps
reach for the lowest stars
of temporary popularity and fame
amongst other classmates
that they hold up in high regards.
From the athletics department
to the art classes,
from pep rally's
to assemblies,
from extracurricular activities
to smoking in bathroom hangouts,
from making out in stairwells
to passing each other drawings of
stink-lined teachers,
they all feast like it's
Thanksgiving on
mystery meat Mondays in the cafeteria. Fruitless alma mater is a useless tool
that doesn't apply to real life
and adulthood,
other than to achieve
fabricated diplomas and degrees
through their system of education
to get a higher paying job
and upper management
to pay off student loans
in this never ending
circle of solipsism.
Cobwebbed libraries
hold old dusty books
containing more useful knowledge
than school can provide and
teach you what you're actually
interested in to help you
through the hardships of life
but there is no reward
for self-education
in this saddened world.

Bathe and bask in the smog
and let it become part of you
as you step out onto your
sidewalk cemented front yard
in the cold windy bitterness
that slices and dices your face
like an 80s horror slasher.
Accelerated footsteps in the
stampedes of raging bulls
alongside sewer rats
that scrape and scrounge
for dead rotting meat and
disease infected feces
in dumpster palaces.
Quasi-soiled bums and
bag ladies push shopping carts
filled with trifling treasure troves
and putrefaction in
filth and squalor
of the streets and gutters.
Panhandling and playing guitar
for loose change and lint *****
to run down to the local convenient store
and purchase their nicotine breakfast
and liquid bread
to get them through the day.
High rise buildings
in public housing districts,
where striplings dangle their legs
from fire escapes,
blasting boom boxes
and smoking spliffs
as they watch the adolescence
open fire hydrants on hot summer days
and toss lace-tied shoes
over power lines to indicate
the local drug hotspots.
Young suburbanites
swarm to the slums
to purchase the opioids and stimulants
that can not be found in their
utopia of the suburbs.
Urban ghettos are like combat zones
filled with mugging,
gang fights
and drive-bys.
As the world turns,
they're unscholarly minds
turn to murderous rage.
Parking meter maids ticket,
boot and impound
land yachts and puddle jumpers
to collect tax revenue for the
money grubbing municipality.
Anguished pregnant women
stand in overcrowded subways
while the disparaging
pussifacation of masculinity
comfortably sit as they
ride along the colored lines.
As the sun sets and
the hours of darkness arise,
the night crawlers and troglodytes
seep through the cracks of
condemned buildings to play
in the sandboxes of depravity.
The night is where the
hard concrete jungle comes alive.
Where the money is made
in this metropolitan playground
filled with libertines and temptresses
that prey upon *** deprived wallets.
Swindlers ring out every last drop
of currency from leaf peepers,
like a sopping wet towel.
Mad men run amok in the
wild streets begging for filled pockets
and sharing silly stories
and crazy conspiracies
to any ear that will listen.
Hot dog and taco stands
supply the most supplemental
nourishment.
Not a tree in sight.
Not a star in the night sky.
Under charcoal clouds,
planes soar through the
pink pollution and acid rain
showers down on all of them.
The banality of urban dwellers
filled with monochrome minds
and deep languor hearts
rest in twin beds of
studio apartments
and fall asleep to the
comforting sounds of
loud trains,
police sirens
and car alarms
as the city slowly ***** them in
and swallows them whole.

Domestic engineers amplitude
sexually charged currents
of forbearing boredom.
Geiger counter needle strikes
overload with expeditious impulses
left moist and wanting.
Pacing back and forth
with unoccupied hands
and desires to quickly
plunge with feelers
into the baldest biscuit
of the grandest canyon.
Abruptly reminded to
patiently wait for the
well hung restroom Romeo
to arrive home from the
prime time hours
of the salt mines.
Resisting urges and
mentally keen,
immersed into cleansing
and disinfecting the
unpleasantries of the
necessary household tasks.
Chores and house work
have little or no effect
to distract and preoccupy
perverse soaked minds.
As the protracted day of labor
comes to an end,
adorned ****** features
with makeup accessories
and seductive apparel begins.
Self restrained on the couch
like a puppy dog waiting
for their master to come home.
The boorish blue collar swings open
the door from being frustrated
at the day of drudge and toil.
Delightful afternoons and evenings
with thunderstorms and seclusion,
yearn for meat popsicles
and honey pots.
Under the moonlight, salvia swap
go hand and hand
with stroked salami
and fondled coin purses
while finger blasting fuzz boxes
and ringing the devils doorbell.
Trafficking sloppy deep throated *******
and tongue wrestled lickerish allsorts
from saccharine *******.
Succulent ******* and
pigmented areola's rest atop
mountainous milk factories
groped and squeezed by
fumbling meat hooks.
Bald-headed yogurt slingers
inject goop chutes  
like meat thermometers
into stuffed turkeys
and penetrate with
interchangeable positions
in interaction sequences.
Succumbed temptations
from hair pulling
with moaning and groaning
of the loudest ***** talk
and whispers of the sweetest nothings. Increasing build up for climaxing
and ******* from riding
the steamin' ***** highways
in search for cream pies
and pearl necklaces.
After *** cigarettes smoked
and passed between
two passionate lovers
after hot steamy coitus
is like the after dinner mint
of the finest liqueur.
Beeline to the bathroom
and pass out for a short nap
from over joyous relief
and relaxation.
Change the baby battered
bed sheets and wipe the
*** off with the
designated rag.
No one can end this poem
.....but I can.