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

desire

she was a gilded

goddess

laying there bare

on the starboard deck

safe from a

sea

of my dirty laundry

and waiting

for the shipwreck

either marooned

together

on some distant island

the two of us can

share

forever

or

the shipwreck

itself

of our love

a horrid violent

collision

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

that

it would be both

a shipwreck

and an island

and

a lifetime supply

of the same

old

fish

and

coconuts

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

old

and out of style

i guess…

…and man, it makes

a horrid fucking mess

death & you

death

there’s the bar-fight

i’m destined for

and at this point

i would smash body from bottle

going down

swinging

bleeding and raw

a brawler among brawlers

knuckles worn and sore

the company store

won’t dog me

down

i’ve worked for

everything

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

yet

but I see the horizon

and the day

i will

present my neck

and go down

slowly

hopefully in my sleep

on a cool summer day

the breeze

blowing

my unfinished

dreams

into

the

sunlight

and my songs

and poems

fluttering around

the room

waiting

to be read

and loved

by

you

response (remember)

ani dear,

sometimes

…women

suck

too…

don’t forget

it’s the human condition

that breeds

the awfulness

that you attribute to

men

sometimes,

and here is

the long-and-short of it,

    the

women

you

  speak

    of,

there are only a few

here

just like

there are

a few men

that

are good leaders

as well

and they

are

holed up

with their pens

   and guitars

hiding from the world

this awful

place

to try

and love

and breathe

and let’s face it

if we are truly

equal

(which I fully believe

we are)

we are

equally capable

of the same

evils

that

have

plagued

humankind

forever-plus-the-length-of-pain

so

just remember

this

when you sing,

because some

people

might

be listening

some

might

also

hear

what

you

say….

….and

my voice

is

still

so

small.

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

stars

above

the neighborhood

cool night

warmer than

it should be

and I am taking

nyquil

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

and

i miss you

kid

so

much

sometimes

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

all

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

time

the glassy glimpse

into the soul

of someone

so fragile

inside

they haunt me

so here

I will hide

nyquil and vodka

so thanks,

girl,

for

the

ride

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

show

to

you

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

tonight

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

goodnight

i whisper

to her bones

as i try and

succumb

to this

once more…

lying here all drunk

outside

your

door

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

creature

a carnivorous cat

laying sprawled out on the

bed

on the comforter of seasons

lying

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

so

tight…

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

day

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

underground

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)

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

at

me

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

human

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

but

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…

vampires

the question came quickly

tearing up

through my flesh

and it somehow

rose up with the answer

impressed

to the man

so intimate

with darkness

do vampires like

vampire flicks?

well

if you wonder too

the answer is

yes....

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

wine…

but the pictures

have had it wrong

with one thing

for so long

the neck?

no not that

sweet supply

it’s the soft

flesh

at the

top

of the

thigh

where

my fangs

do prefer

to imbibe

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

shh…

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

long

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
tonight

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….

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
sound
it's late and the silence abounds
so there one move left
and i'm off to bed
now
tick tock
tick tock
fading down...

heroin

heroin,

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,

methadone,

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

life

ahead

of

him

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

apart

leaving-letter

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

had

gotten-up

early

and

gone.

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

dead

in

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

suffering

my creative process

alone

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….

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

armada

to deal the crushing blow

to what supposedly

had

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

patina

eating pastries

and espresso

outside the gym

that people drive to

after they mowed the lawn or

blew

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

learn

anything

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

in

a

day
(-yay*!.)

done

i need to be goddamned done

with the goddamned album

so I goddamned am

man...

…well soon

maybe

we’ll see…………….

porchswing

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
look
he drove that one
years ago
before he got so
scarred and old
and rusted to the rims
right
beside her

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

down to the ground

where the sound

is only the wet silence

of a 4 x 6

cross bones style

set to this

finally

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

blister

i felt the pinch going down

now this little spot grows

throbbing with some

satisfaction

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

bruised

as they are

and in the temple

of that bloody

subterraneous

river

somewhere breaths

my contempt

for i wish

i

was

a

poet

or something like one

so that my hands

could get a slight

reprieve

but oh well

out comes the knife

which sounds so much better than

the needle

tink

tink

tink

as the mark is slowly,

archeologically

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,

nothing

to show

the old

man……

no time anyhow

still plenty of work to get done…

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

hours

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

island

and it was only you with me

i'd starve so you could stay

as supple

as

you

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

listen….

there are no willows anymore

and I got old…

…now

i know

what it all meant

it meant

this

moment

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

drip,

drip,

drip,

drop….

clickity-clack

clickity-clack

clickity clack…..