My world has become lava
  pouring from some volcano
  I'll never see. I smell the
  hell fire and feel the heat
  but never drown in molten
  ***** flowing over my small
  life that is a blink in some
  god's eye as we're swallowed.
  I'll wake and walk the dogs
  and pick up their **** and
  let them **** where they must
  and wonder why it all works.

in the end none of it mattered anyway.
  worry didn't help. wishing was useless.
  prayers were mute pleas to a deaf god
  with animus for every **** one of us.
  in the end it never really happened.
we never existed outside our minds.

in the end none of it mattered anyway.
  worry didn't help. wishing was useless.
  prayers were mute pleas to a deaf god
  with animus for every **** one of us.
  in the end it never really happened.
  we never existed outside our minds.

There's an itch you can never reach.
   Each night is perfect. Each morning
   is a mix of shame, regret and amnesia.
   People you love warn you of danger.
   There's an itch you can never reach.
   You go on the water wagon for awhile
   but your dog dies and you need a hair
   of the dog and sit on your bar throne.
   There's an itch you can never reach.
   Lose a foot to ***** and swear it off.
   Clean and sober for a year or two but
   there's an itch you can never reach.
   Your liver is ****** as are you, so
   you keep on with your poison and Tab
   and suffer slings and arrows because
   there's an itch you can never reach.

She's beautiful with an angel's voice.
   If I were young again I'd chase her down
   moonlit streets offering my love as if
   it might entice her. I'd go to my bed alone
   hear her voice calling from rocky shores
   in dreams and gladly die in her sweet song.

Why do we obsess on your death?
Wear mother's furs and die in a car
painless, breathing her dead breath
as your own in the closed garage.
You painted your suffering in such
splendid colors and signed it AS.

I fell in love with your poetry
just a grey haired Aphrodite
imperfect face artifacts of age

we head to the all night diner
full of drag queens and communists
to steal a few words lost in smoke

amid the buzz we grab lines and
put them back like Salvador Dali,
Dylan Thomas and Charles Bukowski.

I didn't set out to confess my
broken self to you. My shrink
said write about my suffering
as catharsis. I put my soul on
pages and pages and just kept
vomiting my pain. Forgive me.
The only ending to it was my
head in an oven full of death.

She comes to dinner wearing a corpses sheet
with a hangman's knot around her neck
holding a straight razor to her jugular vein
with a bouquet of dead roses wicked thorns.
Sitting in the Buick hose in the window
I fall asleep forever dreaming of you.

Dying at your own hand left
  broken hearts behind. Maybe
  that was your intent? It might
  have been a desperate resignation
  from the pains all our lives inflict.
  Maybe one more day we'd have met.

Why do we obsess on your death?
Wear mother's furs and die in a car
painless, breathing her dead breath
as your own in the closed garage.
You painted your suffering in such
splendid colors and signed it AS.

lose your dress
forget duress
just say yes
I'll confess
let's bless
our mess.

Wrapped in her dead mother's fur coat inside her Buick
in a closed garage with a glass of ***** for courage she
smoked a final cigarette and floored it and just died,
a final act in her play. She died with this poem in mind.
I had to write it for the dead girl called Anne who had
such difficulty living her role on this ******* stage.

Wrapped in her dead mother's fur coat inside her Buick
       in a closed garage with a glass of ***** for courage she
       smoked a final cigarette and floored it and just died,
       a final act in her play. She died with this poem in mind.
I had to write it for the dead girl called Anne who had
such difficulty living her role on this lonely stage.

Wrapped in her dead mother's fur coat inside her Buick
in a closed garage with a glass of ***** for courage she
smoked a final cigarette and floored it and just died,
a final act in her play. She died with this poem in mind.
I had to write it for the dead girl called Anne who had
such difficulty living her role on this ******* stage.

Your beautiful corpse reminds me
of the kindest lovers I abandoned.
You're still Anne from death by gas.
Hair and makeup perfect after all.
Your poetry had you rowing out to sea
to die in saltwater ugly and shriveled.
You could never sacrifice your beauty
even for commitment to fierce suicide.

I speak to you from some dirt in a field.
I couldn't say where. We were soldiers in
deadly combat. We all left intact lives to
throw death's dice for some forgotten glory.
We died in piles and found our way to burial
as the months turned to years. Dead brothers
in arms in historic battlefields with plaques.
I miss your last kiss when you said come home.

New years eve and party toward midnight.
Our great escape to a new beginning we
promise it will be different this year.
We're born again. I'll love you better.
I'll love you more. I'll be who you want.
I'll love you like the night we were us.

Believe me, Child
there's always an answer
waiting for your question.
Just ask me at noontime.
In the shade of the big oak
while we drink iced tea
and I'm sober and free
from the demon who
haunts me at two
demanding *****
to set me loose
to die another day.

There are silent moments of calm
    when something disturbs a surface
    enough to wake doubt and fear and
    pounds our hearts and steals our air.

    Terrifying! Anxiety. I thought I
    had defeated you. I knew better.
    You're always floating about me.
    Catholic guilt without a reason.

The water is calm, motionless.
     Something disturbs the surface
     enough to wake doubt and fear and
     pound my heart and numb my face.

     Terrifying! Anxiety. I thought
     ****** had tamed your treason.
     You're always floating above me.
     Guilt with no anchor of reason.

The weight of it
makes me a statue
unable to move
know what's true
I love you but it
dies on the vine
guilt kills it all
dreams live in wine.
I float in rain
dance on the drops
lessens the pain
connects the dots.

Between the trenches of war among the
    shell holes and pieces of men strewn about
    there is a patch of grass untouched to
    remind us of good old days in pubs where
    we shared pints with one another and spoke
    of the excitement of war's engagement how
    we scatter the enemy and in a month plant
    our flag on a hill of their blood and bones.
    Men and horses dead on the barbed wire the
    smell becomes normal rats eat us in sleep.

Between the trenches of war among the
    shell holes and pieces of men strewn about
    there is a patch of grass untouched to
    remind us of good old days in pubs where
    we shared pints with one another and spoke
    of the excitement of war's engagement how
    we scatter the enemy and in a month plant
    our flag on a hill of their blood and bones.

Between the trenches of war among the
    shell holes and pieces of men strewn about
    there is a patch of grass untouched to
    remind us of good old days in pubs where
    we shared pints with one another and spoke
    of the excitement of war's engagement how
    we scatter the enemy and in a month plant
    our flag on a hill of their blood and bones.
    Men and horses dead on the barbed wire the
    smell becomes normal rats eat us in sleep.

some seek solace in their Bible
some look inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic in guts or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

some seek solace in their Bible
some search inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic attacks or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

some seek solace in their Bible
some look inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic in guts or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

some seek solace in their Bible
some look inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic in guts or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

I caught your demon
so beautiful in my dreams
I'll never wake again
prisoner of my slumber.

We met in a bar called Rugby's.
Our puzzles fit perfectly.
I was your perfect shadow
in your perfect mirror and
you seduced me but forgot
to silence the sirens on shore.

He was a cousin born with a brain tumor
they removed but left him most befuddled.
He came to visit in Charleston's edges where
we didn't have a **** thing we didn't provide.
I was the girl who worried about everything.
Petty Bette they called me but **** them all.
What if he falls off the porch and gets hurt?
Don't fret, child, give him a piece of string
and he'll trouble nobody. Amen. He spent the
rest of the day pondering that string like
it held the answers to the universe. I think
that string might be the boy's God almighty.
The lord works in mysterious ways I'm told.
When I die in my fog I'll ponder that string.

There's a poem in there if
   I can strip away the debris
   and polish it like silver
   and read it at a posh affair.
   I'll use a singsong baritone
   to give it gravity like Dylan.

There's a poem in there if
   I can strip away the debris
   and polish it like silver
   and read it at a posh affair.
   I'll use a singsong baritone
   to give it gravity. It matters.

I stumble upon something that
triggers something that starts
a poem. A phrase or a word that
touches me in a way I don't get.
There's no ignoring it. It jumps
on the page demanding attention.
It suckles on the pen until it
stands and storms ramparts.

I stumble upon something that
    triggers something that births
    a poem. A phrase or a word that
    touches me in ways I can't ignore.
    It suckles on the pen until it
    stands and storms the ramparts.

Thanks for birthing me!
   If not for you I'd be an ink spot.
   The only thing I ask is you
   reduce me to my essence.

   Rid me of ******* verbiage
   and self absorbing preening.
   We know you've suffered in
   ways known only to you.

   Show my unspoken words;
   The ugly truths of shame
   that will send me to hell.
   Expose the heinous me.

Thanks for birthing me!
   Without you I'd be a spot.
   The only thing I ask is
   reduce me to my essence.

   Rid me of peacock verbiage
   and self absorbing preening.
   I know I've suffered in
   ways known only to me.

Let me be rejected by
City Lights and Beats
quiet as a Xmas mouse
dead in morning sheets.

We are defined by many things in our lives.
  You're a good son. A great older brother.
  An eagle scout and crazy *** metal guitarist.
  A firebug and science nerd and my friend.

  I know cancer is devastating and destroys.
  Loved ones collateral damage of your despair.
  You can't control your cancer. Life or death.
  Your victory is remaining Michael.

We are defined by many things in our lives.
  You're a good son. A great older brother.
  An eagle scout and crazy *** metal guitarist.
  A firebug and science nerd and my friend.

  I know cancer is devastating and destroys.
  Loved ones are targets for despair's anger.
  You can't control your ending. Life or death.
  Your victory is remaining you. Michael.

My poetry starts with nicotine.
     After awhile I mixed in alcohol.
     Catholicism is a main ingredient.
     Puberty is a wicked mix of Absinthe.
     Next I add a father broken from war.
     My mom could be friend or betrayer.
     I had to maintain a delicate balance
     between being real or just amusing.
     Amusing is easy. Real is impossible
     yet here I am confessing my sins.

My poetry starts with nicotine.
     After awhile I mixed in alcohol.
     Catholicism is a main ingredient.
     Puberty is a wicked mix of Absinthe.
     Next I add a father broken from war.
     My mom could be friend or betrayer.
     I had to maintain a delicate balance
     between being real or just amusing.
     Amusing is easy. Real is impossible
     yet here I am confessing once again.

Oh Appalachia!
We live poor but are
richer for it. We scratch
a meager living in your
stubborn hills but would
not live anywhere else. You
hold our hearts and provide.
We love. We have babies. We are
welded here to family and friends
and dance in barns Saturday nights
to fiddles and banjos and moonshine.
Bury me on a mountain top in sunshine.

You can't rush a still's chemistry.
Mountain folks know all about
revenuers and they're reaching
for our wallets. Taxes is just a
word for robbery. Leave us to
ourselves. We scratch a living
from the rocky soil and barely
eat from day to day. We dance
to banjos and fiddles and love
in the hayloft to fill our needs.
Our mountains cradle our hearts.
Hardscrabble is our legacy.
We have hearts of coal
and love our mountain!

You can't rush a still's chemistry.
Mountain folks know all about
revenuers and they're reaching
for our wallets. Taxes is just a
word for robbery. Leave us to
ourselves. We scratch a living
from the rocky soil and barely
eat from day to day. We dance
to banjos and fiddles and love
in the hayloft to sow our seeds.
Our mountains cradle our hearts.
Hardscrabble is our legacy.
We have hearts of coal
and love our mountain!

It's a beauty of a red rose.
  It's a watercolor on a bed sheet
  petals bloom from his wound.
  She'd had it and found a gun
  and courage and anger enough
  to put him out of her misery.

I can't seem to relax.
  At night my bed's on fire.
  My brain is crawling with
  Armageddon spiders and
  society is choosing sides
  hate is everywhere and my
  friends are nowhere, man! I
  know better and I need sleep
  give me shelter in your arms
  or blindfold me on your wall.

I set it on fire and burned
it back into hell to sleep
another decade or two
you said something that
was really important.
I never heard you above
the screams and hatred
I'm on the outside again.
Armageddon.

I'm your portal to eternity
      take my hand and dance with me
      whirl and curtsy you will see
      how wonderful to be so free
      unadorned with puppet strings
      no more irksome gravity
      no appointments to obey
      no monthly bills left to pay
      no more Hail Marys to pray
      my soul found its home today.

I'm your portal to eternity
      take my hand and dance with me
      whirl and curtsy you will see
      how wonderful to be so free
      unadorned with puppet strings
      no more irksome gravity
      no appointments to obey
      no monthly bills to pay
      a thought takes you where
      ever you wish instantly.
      No need to fear death now.
      It's done with and forgotten,
      old debt paid with your blood.
      Take my hand and dance my Waltz.