Dad's been dead a while now, but he used to always say, 'boys, don't let the ******* get you down.'
Or, 'they can **** us, but they can't eat us.'
Nine times out of ten,
he would utter these great pearls of wisdom when we received a large bill in the mail.
Minutes later, we would peel away down the Pacific Coast Highway to the track, Santa Anita or Hollywood Park.

It was an exciting experience, being around
that environment at such a young age.
After all, it's the sport of kings.  Dad took everything in stride; he didn't worry much.
Unfortunately, I didn't inherit that from him.
He was an English and drama teacher, and what he did pass on to me
was a love for literature.
He made it come alive, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So Dad, wherever you are, I just wanted you to know, I didn't let the ******* get me down.

Ice still gathers upon the window panes.
Though I keep the hearth ablaze, I fear
In this desolate corner of my world
Spring will be a little late this year

A fear of dread and emptiness prevails
Since the light and warmth of love withdrew,
How will I endure  . . . How can I forget
All the joys of Spring that I once knew?

Now trees raise leafless arms toward the sky,
Shivering without their sleeves of green;
Bewildered birds gaze upon vacant nests,
Sadly pondering the dismal scene

And the flowers . . . what could convince them
To awaken to this hollow gloom?
To what avail would be their blossoming
And the essence of their sweet perfume?

And though I smile, my eyes betray the pain
That stabs at the heart when love is lost;
The sun has battened down its golden doors,
Leaving Hope to tremble in the frost

I'll not see the flowers bloom and go to seed,
Nor hear the nightingale's plaintive call;
And I know, as sure as day turns to night,
Spring will be late . . . if it comes at all

I take the tray from her lap
evening over
blinds drawn to darkening skies
we have weathered
the fury of another day
she sleeps, and I will have to
wake her to go to bed
those rosy coloured dreams
when our bodies and minds
were young and naïve
have caved in to reality
travellers on an epic journey
we have survived so far
who knows what lies around
the next corner
for now I'm happy to do
the washing up
tomorrow can wait in the wings

Words will be my
food today.
I don't want
to get dressed,
eat breakfast
or go to church.
I'll stay in bed and write,
until the demons stop whispering,
and humanity quits
******* on me.

Last night,
on my way to the
bookstore to get some
Bukowski, I found a
mourning dove,
not a baby
but, too young to fly.
It was huddled against
a concrete wall.
I picked it up and put it through a fence hole in some tall grass,
so that the dock cat, Prozac,
wouldn't **** it.
She caught a lot of birds,
and ate them.
When I went outside
the other morning at five,
She was stalking sparrows and starlings with a murderous
look in her eyes,
and I thought to myself,
Someone should have put me
In the tall grass, a long time ago.

There's a Poet who dreams of a Gateway to Heaven
Not some cold austere Gate bolted and closed in your face
As if to say "Clear off! You're not wanted here anymore"
But instead a lovely warm welcoming Gate  
A brightly colourful Gate with lots of bunting and ribbons on it
And a big banner over the top announcing
"Welcome Great Poet"

It'd be a bit...a bit like Noddy in Toyland
And there'd be all these pretty young girls with bowls in their hands
Spreading rose petals on the ground for me to walk upon
A beautiful path laid out before me, a carpet of sweet scenting loveliness
And there'd be other boys and girls there too strumming lutes and harps
Like beautiful critics... singing my praises
Inside the Gate it'd be like this wonderful Park
With lovely flowers and shrubs and trees
With marble fountains and statues and quiet flowing streams
With radiant kids and beautiful people and  lovely marquees like as if you were attending some wonderful party or banquet,

And then you'd hear a bustle in the hedgerow
But it's only a bunch of publishers vying with one another
Trying to get my signature on a multi million dollar contract
Suddenly ahead of me there'd be this wonderful magnificent throne
It'd be offered to me... offered to me as my true place... my true home
And then a man would come and he'd humbly bow and kneel before me
He'd be offering something to me....
Why! It's the Nobel Prize for Literature
I'd smile and say "Ah shucks guys sure I was only doin' a few rhymes... and a few stories".

Opiates are the Religion of the masses

The feathered victims of the pharm
Flock to lifestyles of abuse.
Fowlers pledge to do no harm
Farming that golden goose . . .

Commissions earned, increasing sales
Keep them lining up for meds.
Advertising never fails;
Pills, then meals, then beds.

Hail our nation’s clueless clients:
Cooped-up shuffling drug-addled souls
Victims of inhuman science
And its godless goals.

Lately, massive medication
Sold to help us all relax
Stupefies a toxic nation
Johnson and Johnsoned to the max

Getting Sacklered, Pfizering out
Astra-Zenecaed to the gills
Facts which ought to make you doubt
Waiting for re-fills.

Perhaps you should not medicate
Nor fill the coffers of the rich
When Psychiatry serves the state
its patients to bewitch…