Tuesday, January 31, 2012

coconuts (figurehead at least - or best)

and there she was
unadorned in the sunlight
on a ship
of golden linens
the headboard mast
and the flag she flew
was a haven
that surmounted my
most lofty
she was a gilded
laying there bare
on the starboard deck
safe from a
of my dirty laundry
and waiting
for the shipwreck
either marooned
on some distant island
the two of us can
the shipwreck
of our love
a horrid violent
of the raging storms
and the splintered mess
it can leave
in it’s wake
and i knew for sure
what she couldn’t see
it would be both
a shipwreck
and an island
a lifetime supply
of the same

Monday, January 30, 2012

3:12 am (man, it makes a mess)

i hear the fridge
or freezer
buzzing low
‘go to bed, fool, go to bed’
3:12 in the morning
and I have a buzzing head
life make so much noise
it echoes there for hours
and drips out so damned slowly
and so it lingers there and sours
and leaves a strange and sticky aftertaste
stuck to the walls of my brain
if mankind blows my mind again
these walls will all be stained

there it is
the conscience
dripping down
the wallpaper
and out of style
i guess…
…and man, it makes
a horrid fucking mess

Sunday, January 29, 2012

death & you

there’s the bar-fight
i’m destined for
and at this point
i would smash body from bottle
going down
bleeding and raw
a brawler among brawlers
knuckles worn and sore
the company store
won’t dog me
i’ve worked for
i own
so i say, ‘fuck it’
bring it on
death do you best
i’ll be standing
in the dust
settling around
that’s probably why
he hasn’t messed with me
but I see the horizon
and the day
i will
present my neck
and go down
hopefully in my sleep
on a cool summer day
the breeze
my unfinished
and my songs
and poems
fluttering around
the room
to be read
and loved

Saturday, January 28, 2012

response (remember)

ani dear,
don’t forget
it’s the human condition
that breeds
the awfulness
that you attribute to
and here is
the long-and-short of it,
there are only a few
just like
there are
a few men
are good leaders
as well
and they
holed up
with their pens
   and guitars
hiding from the world
this awful
to try
and love
and breathe
and let’s face it
if we are truly
(which I fully believe
we are)
we are
equally capable
of the same
just remember
when you sing,
because some
be listening
my voice

Friday, January 27, 2012

nyquil & vodka (when will you come back home?)

the neighborhood
cool night
warmer than
it should be
and I am taking
and vodka
to get you off my mind
i have a prescription
from a old song
but it hasn’t worked yet
the dose is still wrong
i miss you
that I can hear
the wolves on the wind
way out in the pines
six glasses or so
and still you’re on my mind
you’re still on my mind
even after
this time
and that’s why
because there are stars
above the trees tonight
and your eyes are on my mind
the devil blue
that had me
and kept me all this
the glassy glimpse
into the soul
of someone
so fragile
they haunt me
so here
I will hide
nyquil and vodka
so thanks,

Thursday, January 26, 2012

storm again 367 (your door)

there is
a horrible storm
brewing in my heart
like the blackest coffee
in even
the smallest parts

there is a bad mood rising
into my black eyes
that sends a shiver
up my spine
with each of your
little sighs

and tonight
i want to rush out
into the nighttime
i want to run out
through the
coldest rain
i want to explode
due to the things
that no one knows
and from the things I cannot

my sweetheart i
am a damned man
i would say
and it pulls me far away
from you
and my bloodshot eyes
but like the strongest raging fire
my bed is just a funeral pyre
and the sins that i’ve done there
burn through my bones

my sweetheart i
would run so far to you
if your walking cage
was still filled with
your light

but I stand on the ground
above a cold and lonely sound
and the repercussions
ring just like church bells
and the silence on the night
might be the signal of
my last fight
and another night all drunk
here at your stone

i whisper
to her bones
as i try and
to this
once more…
lying here all drunk

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

a teardrops response to the tide

and when we were kissing
how could we have known that we were
soaked in kerosene
right to the bone
losing the love
for being alone
and then came the embers
falling down your back
and i was staring in line
and raring to find
that you were the one that they all were
warning me of
the carnal
a carnivorous cat
laying sprawled out on the
on the comforter of seasons
starting the turn back
to threads
in a few worn out spots
the constellations of our love
and you were tracking me
until the rising of
each day
i would be the one for you
who did not get away
i did not agree to the suicide pact
and each little part
i want them back
that you torn out and carved out
and then threw away
like the photograph picture
sits all black and gray
in the folds of my wallet
all hidden away
of you
standing there
soaked in kerosene
and holding a match above our heads
while we were kissing
and my eyes
were closed

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

state of the union (fat-cat and the devil)

there is a grubby little man
with grubby awful hands
and he wears a horrid
little hat and barks his sweet demands
his fingers reach like razor blades
into my pockets deep
and any coin
that I may have
above the ones they take
he puts into his pocket there
replaced with a drop of ink
the ink of men
whose little black letters
rattle in the dust
of contracts files
and paper clips
and rid the world of luck
this crooked little system
they all cooked up in here
keeps those like me
with hands on broom
or wrench
for eternity
and the tiny bit of cornmeal
at the end of each long day
just rattles in the old ribcage
while the eyes will drift away
and just like the end
the start of the day
is the rattle of the cage
and off to work
a sweet reprieve
the numbness of each new
there are whispered little promises
of the blossom of easier times
and the handshake man
in red white and blue
dances the devil in time
they waltz across
the salty floor
and think that we don’t see
but a love affair
as torrid as that
is as strong as the moon
to the sea
and the broken toys
that run this shit
are collecting bones to play
when we rise
there will be no ash
just blood as far
as the eyes can see
and the sour yellow canvas
will be hung above our beds
and this shitty world
the fat pigs made
will be painted crimson red
so yuck it up my pretty
while we play possum here
there’s a rumble in the
with this weapon that all will fear
while the noises you think you contract
cover the forge of rusted steel
making the brutal toys we will employ
to carve you out of there
and when you are chained to that
big black chair
in the office of that old hill-top store
don’t cry for my help
when they carve you up
‘cause my pockets
are still
much too sore…

(you old fat mouthed
slob fucking boar…

……welcome to your pig-fucking war)

Monday, January 23, 2012

dream machine (service call)

i am losing the battle with my dreams
the machine that keeps them separate
spits and writhes and steams
in violent convulsions
in a landscape that looks
like a dark alley
in a future movie
but i don't see them looking
in that suspicious way
just a paralyzing silence
like something is stalking around the corner
in some horrific kind of way
and here is where the punch-line
just simply fades away
like that foggy world
between them both
where i am doomed to stay
and monsters turn
and stare from faces
that used to be
and i can also see
right to the bone
the intentions and poison
within them
the more i learn
the more i see
the world between the lines
the more i wish for simpler days
or for the end of time
this brutal tear between these worlds
parts ways to see the war
that’s fought forever and a day
to determine what its for
and here a stand this slinking beast
in cloak within the shadows
to watch and wait
and plan escape
or for my finest hour
what good
can a single
man be
in this world
in the wound between the seams
where blood just runs
into the flesh
all shredded round the edge
the darkness of a city
where hope leaps from every ledge
to suicide on streets below
all rich and stained with evil
black as coal and coated in
a slimy film-like oil
here is the battleground?
where i am to stand
against a tide of savage beasties
my need for sleep
will never end
inside these hours i keep
so bleary eyes
and muscles weak
i stand in smog and darkness
trying to fix this
old machine
while defending against
hoards of steam-run monsters
their whirring gears
and screeching sounds
echo in the distance
the distance there where once i knew
a sound that rings the same
the alarm is raging
right out loud
but i’m trapped in the land
of my dreams…

Sunday, January 22, 2012


the question came quickly
tearing up
through my flesh
and it somehow
rose up with the answer
to the man
so intimate
with darkness
do vampires like
vampire flicks?

if you wonder too
the answer is
some of them
but only
the dark ones
and for the other you find
in the inquiring mind
they do also
very much
like red

but the pictures
have had it wrong
with one thing
for so long
the neck?
no not that
sweet supply
it’s the soft
at the
of the
my fangs
do prefer
to imbibe

Saturday, January 21, 2012

this is a killing floor

this is a killing floor
nothing more
so please don't scream
any more
this is a killing floor
not a noise floor
in fact
it is soundproof
studded for thud
and soaked in blood
old dried blood
of killings past
not so fast
this is a killing floor
not a willing floor
i gave it no choice
when i brought her heart
here for more
here to die
beneath my crushing fingers
the ruthless knife
of my brutal life
my horrible disease
to make her
my plaything
you see I never could love
i’m a slayer in the nighttime
a singer of songs
drooling late over shifting things
the sexy eyes
of the lasting ways
to take her back
and to make her crazed
and the trouble there
is she wants to stay
at least will one day
and this is the perils of
of my appetite
so this is a killing floor
beneath this bed
the whips and the chains
and the ghosts in my head
and the sweetest surprise
that they all seem to dread
when they realize
they aren’t the last one
and i’m so sorry
but this is a killing floor
nothing more
and the man that resides there
is lonely for more
but this
is a killing floor
nothing more
nothing more….

Friday, January 20, 2012

time (the sweet siren sings from my dreamland)

the wall ticks
loudly tonight
it seems it's the sound
of the passing of time
and my cat, scratch, is whining
and purring to say
that it's now time for bed
it's the end of the day
and the shadows are still
in my quiet old house
it's a suicidal lonely that
loudly rings out
and there's a
stitched up little man
that just screams, "let me out"
but he opens his mouth and no
it's late and the silence abounds
so there one move left
and i'm off to bed
tick tock
tick tock
fading down...

Thursday, January 19, 2012


you are a horrible fucking devil that
should have died in infancy
you should have been aborted,
carved out with a hot knife
on a hot day
but you found some boundless way
to be brought into the world
and left to make your way
as history tells
wright was wrong
but hindsight being what it is
you are here and a hellish creature
your name echoes with the cries of unfed, dirty babies
and useless zombie landscapes in
filthy fucking rooms
soiled and rotten
with the carnal collateral damage
of your feral appetite
and not forgotten
you have crawled so sharp into the veins of an entire generation
and stolen mothers away to
prostitution before our eyes
and you have stolen an old friend
years before the reapers list
by introducing him to your sweet
diabolical mistress,
the harlot of the weary weak
sleep and heavy eyes
she was in the car the day he died
along for the ride
she was giving him head with her
soft and slender lips
and he was closing his eyes in ecstasy
another familiar cousin
that he had known before
he hit the wall
and scraped the bottom of the
dark and sour barrel
full of pestilent viral poison
it was hell to watch the uncontrollable spiral
that he slowly threw all of his life in
i had seen his itching moments
and i had watched the deceitful dragon
crawling up around his arm
sound the alarm
before the end of the credits
at least ring one out
like a piper on the dawn
another lonely song
for another man
laying down beneath the
soft and mossy ground
i hear the sound
of all the years he could have had
maybe good and maybe bad but
now we’ll never really know
and now he’ll never get to go
and follow some silent ambulance down
on the day a child might just arrive
and when he could hold him in his arms
years from the bought and borrowed time
when he could run but couldn’t hide
days when he could finally stand in stride
a stronger man to make his life
and keep it evermore
but no, this terrible whore
this sudden thief into the day
the breaking light that dragged away
the pieces of your gentle heart
and tore the plan apart
it blew my mind
the transport there without one side
just a million dusty spots there
strewn all over the old route nine
like some illusion so refined
the magic words and disappeared into the
sharp and strong sunlight
had you escaped into the hills
like houdini but no reveal
and we are all just waiting still?
for that moment where the curtain
lifts and you arise
but it’s not real
real is the tearing sound it made
and shearing metal
the crushing blades
and the smell of gas and oil
blackened, spoiled milk for the veins
and all the things, heroin, that you take away
if i could have torn you from the
womb in which you grew
i would not hesitate
bare hands or a coat hanger
whatever it would take
you are the worst thing
ever brought into this world
the funny thing
is that your mother thought that
you would be the cure for many things
like pain and rage
but turn the page,
you’ve been a sociopathic psycho
murdering in your infancy
and now you are the best
serial killer
in the history
of this awful world
and i have a bullet with your name on it
if i can ever get you in a room
or a dark alley
for taking my friend
who had so much more

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

the wolf that guards the heart

be careful with my lover
she has a broken heart
and though i did some mean things to her
i loved her from the start
and if you are who she leans on now
be gentle
she is a paper wall in a hurricaine
she is the thin ice on the warm lake
in spring
she is always more
a woman
than you think
and she is fragile at the core
and sometimes nothing more
but to the outside world
she's tough as nails
and if you aren't a man
who can work with his hands
she won't stay
because the brain wants
but the heart can't be swayed
and she has a soul
as deep as the ocean
but she covers it up all the time
you have to be ready to dig
if you inherit an old diamond mine
and you're
over your head,
i can see
so listen
so very careful to me
be careful with my lover
she has a broken heart
but i am still
a wolf watching over
and if you hurt her
i'll tear you apart
if you hurt her
i'll tear you

Tuesday, January 17, 2012


i don't recognize this world
so blurry before my waking eyes
when I sat up in sea
of our linens to find
your side a void
in the house
and I felt around till
my vision improved
and it settled down on me so loud
its as if i were asleep for a hundred long years
and the sick daylight seared in my fears
with a leaving-letter left
on the white marble cold
on the dresser by the weary old phone
when i woke up to find
all that i had
worth loving

Monday, January 16, 2012

if (or - the violence and dissolution of the messy surgical process of my sweet creativity) & you

and if you call looking for me
i’ll be in the basement
i’ll be in the basement
rattling spoons
rattling spoons
dragging joyful noises
out into the room
and beating them to the brink of death
until they fit into a tiny
little box
joyful noises
like joyful babies
don’t it make you swoon
rattling spoons
rattling spoons
yesterday a whole horn section
tonight all tambourines
and tomorrow
i will kill a notion or two
cold blood
on the indian rug
on the concrete floor
and if you come looking for me
don’t knock on my door
i may be dead in here
or cleaning up some stuff
it might even sound like the
hellfire of angels
tearing my flesh from the bone
that just means
that I am onto something finally
so leave me alone
until I emerge
with that limp and bleeding something
soaked in the fine aged patina of
my creative process
in a sound dead basement
with no witnesses
and if you are worried
at all beyond your ability to swallow it down
i left a fifth of bourbon
in the mailbox
drink it
and I will be along
i will be along
for you
and my whiskey
please save me some
please save me some
of my whiskey
save me some….

Sunday, January 15, 2012

hipsters (chalk outline) –or- what gives

art is dead
ideals are dead
for gods sake why aren't the hipsters dead
gone are the coffee-shops of yesteryear
they've taken this strange refuge in
the belly of the whale
in a Starbucks and the Panera
the corporate stronghold that
swooped in with their raging
to deal the crushing blow
to what supposedly
some soul
but it is still somewhat unknown
and somewhat unacknowledged
that they were corporate too
and so here are you
sitting on a plastic chair
that is painted to look like
old metal
withered with a fine
eating pastries
and espresso
outside the gym
that people drive to
after they mowed the lawn or
the snow
with ridiculous conspiracy machines
i've seen them cruise to the
tanning salon
on bright summer days
and come stumbling out
in some strange u.v. haze
all the ways
$210 per year
just to burn fat here
and the snow-blower was only nine fifty
but here there are t.v.’s
and fine young lonelies
looking for someone else
as stupid as they are
to breed with
drunk on cheap vodka
these are the
cornerstones of our next generation
the building blocks of the future nation
or just the Frankenstein’s of more
useless slob zombies
pumped full of tech
and fast cars to wreck
that never strive to
no skills
but typing
and the need for fast and exciting
a nation of crack-addict secretaries
raised on smartwater ($urely)
and monsterberries
while I read books
and woodwork and cook
they run the whole world their own way
‘till it all crashes down
on this plastic wrapped town
and the useless
will be dead

Saturday, January 14, 2012


i need to be goddamned done
with the goddamned album
so I goddamned am
…well soon


we’ll see…………….

Friday, January 13, 2012


i prefer
my tools
my instruments
my songs
my jeans
and my life
to have wear marks
that i put there
or that someone i know did
real scars
not made to look
that way
i prefer my girl
and my life
and my poems
to have survived
so much together
that the scars line up
and form a road map of
lived-in comfort
like the chopping block
or an old work bench
the quilt my mother had
all worn out
and the seasons
worn off
of its bones
i prefer
my history
to the movies
more each day
and i prefer you
now that we have a few years
on the the engine
i just hope
it runs awhile
before it breaks down
let it go gray
and let the laugh lines
get deep
with years of the greatest emotion
i like to think you will be rusty
americana art
resting on the rims
in the sideyard
for all to see
right next to me
he drove that one
years ago
before he got so
scarred and old
and rusted to the rims
beside her

Thursday, January 12, 2012

1 in 7

got my lineman’s,
1 in 7
all good fuck-ups drive
to heaven
1 hand in the panel
feeling all around
stripped it all
down to the ground
where the sound
is only the wet silence
of a 4 x 6
cross bones style
set to this
some peace
and quiet
and i can lay down
a while
modern luxuries are a thing
of wonder
lots has changed
but still that number
1 in 7
still goes under

Wednesday, January 11, 2012


i felt the pinch going down
now this little spot grows
throbbing with some
and some frustration
my father always encouraged hard work
and i always imagine it would make him proud
to know
my hands
are as bashed and
as they are
and in the temple
of that bloody
somewhere breaths
my contempt
for i wish
or something like one
so that my hands
could get a slight
but oh well
out comes the knife
which sounds so much better than
the needle
as the mark is slowly,
dug to the surface
like a springing forth of oil
as blood and puss push forth
from the derrick
and then the pressure is gone
and with the
peroxide foam
is washed away and again,
to show
the old
no time anyhow
still plenty of work to get done…

Sunday, January 8, 2012

bury me beneath the willow tree

bury me beneath the willow tree
the spot’s picked out
the digging is free
and for all the things that i used to be
i set this fire in my mind to make it free
bury me beneath the willow tree
when I’m dead and no longer the things
i used to be
just a withered
warm sheet
growing cool
but there is no willow here
i remember the fireflies
that used to roam in the dark of the night
behind the house where we grew up
by the blackberries
I would catch them in a jar
and then I had a canister of light
that I could keep by my bed for the night
I imagine that it wasn’t as sublime
for the bugs
I don’t think they were hoping for a boy to watch sleeping
all safe and sound
there in his bed
but then again
i have no idea what goes on in a fireflies head
there are no willows here
there was also the sound
of the train running down
from the mountain on the wind
across town
and the sound that it made
that sweet clicking away
like the keys on some typewriter in the sky
i imagine it carrying dreams
dreams for the future
to disperse
as it passed all the spots where
we adventured all day
on the tracks
we walked along to the pond
or the river
to catch rainbows from the water
or throw rocks
for the passing of time
we were serial killers of
stabbing each one with a finishing blow
because a fresh set would spring up tomorrow
there are no willows here
if i were a castaway on a deserted
and it was only you with me
i'd starve so you could stay
as supple
are today
for it would be a crime
for those breasts
to ever change
and you know
i could be a serial killer
for hours with you
if I could go back in time
for the days you were mine
i would hold on
with all I am worth
you were a death-grip
worth engaging
and a firefly to each of my evenings
the songs that you hummed like the train tracks
sweet moan click-clack
sweet moan click-clack
clickity clack
clickity clack
there are no willows anymore
and I got old…
i know
what it all meant
it meant
so please
bury me
beneath the willow
in the backyard
up on the hill
where we made love until the middle of night
lying amongst
a cloud of fireflies
and train track lullabies
the screeching of steel in the night
there is no willow there
except in memories
now there is a strip mall
over the bulldozed green pasture
and the train tracks are a bike-path
that weaves through the city
and a firefly would be quite a sight
if you could spot one in all this bright light
and the wind never breezes here now
just a cold northern wind bearing down
there are no willows
but don’t say it to the man
on the morphine
clickity clack…..