Less Than Ten Bucks

In front of dark buildings
painted white. Clinking.
Swigs. Pigs roll down
the bus way at speed,
breaking the rain soaked
silence of lit nights. Groaning,

rolling on cotton sheets. Meek
winking at meek from raised
seats where freedom is poured
in drinks. All for a price. Yelled

Hey, waving, frantic, on a corner,
trying to stay dry, trusting the
driver, with the half lit stogie,
deep laughter and choking from
the humor’s instant notability,
or something silly he thought,
but didn't voice.


Window View

Stop stop stop stop
turning it off
The dial is so tired of spinning
The revolving door technique always
gimme, gimme! Show me
something I cannot be, talking

about it constantly, swallowing all
I can, smiling through
abandonment. The radio, the white
noise, static, this late night city
heat. He’s had it. Lost like a cat,
turning up at its leisure. The stereo

so often the voice that’s remembered.
The needle worn dull, so often
replaced, repeated. Repeating, tracking
the thread through the fabric
for days, the endlessness of the fall
from grace, in out and in and out

The blanket so thick, so prone
to holding heat, so soft and battered
and lost like childhood. Reminisced
over, often longed for but
discarded without thought, ripped,
seamless. The opportunity passes

as the blinds slide closed, motorized,
methodized, the numbers adding up
after a long night at the books, pages
flaking yellow, brittle, so dry
minds start to wander, eyes glazed,
gazing over the old fashioned print

Splintered fingers fearful of the razor
edged sheets, while rain moves spent
candy wrappers down similarly cracking
streets. Bicycle chains, address
markers, tally every house to tally
up the balance, so unsteady in the darkness

The corners filled by sleep, the car
horn, the alley cat, the faucet and
sink, the rust eating through the steel
running beneath it all, from city
to country, to country under seas,
the sleeping in doorways, the last breath

of trees, leaves lining up to be lost, snake
skin hand bags, souvenir sea shells from
that hotel on the beach, a lost wallet, a watch.

Its killing time, Grandfather.
With mother gone, you’re next
for the slaughter. Don’t bother.

So long since sunlight has shown
on the prisoner’s floor or his neck
was unbound by the noose of remorse


Up To You

You wanna get a drink, man?
I’m sittin in this rhythm
I can’t seem to break out
I think I need a stout

Long days with these strange eyes
Lurking in lit rooms behind feigned smiles
Hours holding steady as the crosshaired sight
Not sure of any answers but imploring their might

Bizarre, the dyads, triads, and scriptures
Floored, adored, ignored misprints
Side stepping potshots in this blurred swerve
Hurrying to the back door, I’m sure you’ve heard

By now, the times run out
The bomb has gone off
The destructions all been tallied
The hearts are so unsoft

The newspaper headlines most surely would read
The World Destroyed if they ever spoke truthfully
Here’s the proof you see, so perfectly
In sunlight, dusk, and pale moon beams

Its alarm clock sun rises
And visor shaded drives
It’s the continual sometimes’s
And the hatred that thrives

My soul needs lubrication
You wanna meet at the saloon?
You’re the one who’s driven, son
It’s really up to


Big Bang

Grounded in reality, the superstitiousness of inaction
takes a stand, focusing all its energy through
one coordinate, intensifying into rays and
forcing them past interstellar dust clouds, peering with
the utmost urgency over its own shoulder, through
the point, witnessing itself witnessing its own attempt
at terrified creation, watching itself watch its every
deliberate and accelerated movement toward and
away from the now, expanding the scope, the material
of the scene diminishes, time and space stretch toward
infinity, matter begins to shift from the measurable
properties of reflecting light to the intangible moments
of emitting it, galaxies forming from the lingering particles.



Looking for comfort like the softness
of well used doormats to lay down
on and sleep like an old hound dog

at the foot of the bed, like a doorbell
leads to company or court appearances
or a room full of convictions without
a single contradiction in the crowd and
the dead bolts stuck open or a drive
home that never ends, comfort that

quitting time is coming for good, any
thing after won’t require a time card
and depth is more than the guys on
the bench or how high over the crowds

certain references fly, when debt is
nothing more than gratitude toward
friends, and that’s not to say my credit
rating’s that great, when a value meal

comes from the understanding of what
it takes, how many can’t and truly
how little we value the world around us.


The Spectacle of Ceremony

I keep looking back at the reflections of passersby
Drawing attention to myself in silence watching
The wedding crowd file in through the tall chapel doors.
I’m over dressed for the weather. Water drips
From the potted plants hung on the lamp posts
Sneaking table food to the grass trampled to dust
Underneath. Familiar faces some certain move
Past silent and set on unseen courses. Conversations
Wafting by. A comfortable exhaustion sets in
With the steel and the birds chirping. The endless
Parade down the avenues. A flash bulb pops and
Someone sighs assured this day will be remembered.



Left on the doormat of the church,
the infant slept, wrapped and rocking,
looking past eyelids at pictures unchained
by the language of yes and no, the belief
of the possibility of the real, through
the rain soaked night, dreaming one
thousand dreams, each completely full,
undefined, the blanket holding water
better than warmth. Come daybreak,
the parishioners found it there, cold
and still, eyes closed, smiling.


Press Conference After Tennessee QB Vince Young Assaulted Some Guy In A Dallas Strip Club

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The Evolution Of Man

Homosapien, alone, molding
cold stone to the O’s he blows
the smoke in.

At home, choking,
hoping no one notices the throne,
where bones are sitting.

Glows, all spinning, moans, then
grinning, throws the whole bowl
on the souls of the committee.

So, you’re giddy?
Don’t you know the story only ends
up old, and shitty?

She won’t forget
me? Will she? We’ll see. She’s not
prone to pity.

Grown in the city, shown up, spitting
from the podium. The gold
medal won, posted in history.

Insisting it was all in fun.


No Borders No Nations

tribes migrating
across a frozen
plain northwest
heading southeast
following the herds
the grazers zigzagging
as the thaw shifts

Maybe, it’s all one, big,
elaborate set up? Maybe,
in the end, everyone gets
what they deserve? Maybe.
Most often, what we deserve
is far from what we want.
Don’t fence me in.



Latches, sliding glass doors,
overhead garage ones, flimsy
tin screens, windows tinted
with lives inside, walls reflected
with skin tone, voices over
birdsongs over garbage trucks
over knowing better, laughter
lasting long after the night
stopped being fun, these alleys
start flashing, run.


Market Recap

Oh, I’m just resting here, in my old
garden. It’s nice. Out behind my Dutch style
cabin. Made up to look like its ginger
bread. Candy cane struts. Gumdrop
sills. The frosting shingles cost a fortune,
but they were worth it. Really pulled
the whole thing together. But I couldn’t
afford two houses after the market
crashed. So I had to sell it. To Kiddy
Land. Killed me to see it go. But
I made a shit ton of money. So I sold
my other house in the city, and bought
this boss condo just off the beach. Fuck
yeah. Jaguars, two of them. one black, one
red. The red one was custom. Bad ass.
But they get real big real fast, and one day,
one of my sons, Donny, went to the basement
to feed those things. They tore him to shreds.
The memory still haunts me. It was his
birthday. We were laughing, having a blast.
A big one. The big two. Smart boy. Nearly
talking. We had to put the cats down. But
now I’ve got two more. Once my wife
left for good, I had this big house, and no
one to share it with, so I adopted the cutest
little cubs. I still call ‘em that to this day.
Didn’t they grow up fast, too. My little
Danny cub and Davey cub. They’re both
investment bankers now. But I don’t talk
to those bastards anymore. The market
kept crashing and they kept feeding me
bad info and I lost everything. Lousy
fleabags they turned out to be. Circus
animals, jumping through hoops to make
the ringleader happy, all for a little piece
of meat. Sell em to a zoo, that’s what
I shoulda done! Skinned em and turned
em into coats for fashionable women, yeah!
Get my money back, so I can get out
of this damn garden at Kiddy Land.


Cold Front

The leaves try hard to keep their grip in the unending
bluster through the avenues to no avail. Hats skipping
free, excitable and solitary, through the crowds. The rain
is late, but once it gets here… The door to his bedroom
is crying for attention, slamming itself against its wooden
frame, even though the window's closed. Squirrels and
alley cats gather around waltzing trash bins and snicker
at the leashed mutt as the plastic wrapped human bends
down to grab at its kibbled shit, wondering how it can
keep its laughter in check. The power lines sway but keep
their connections to everything, the necessary fuel of all
that they touch, until or unless that sorry instance they break
free of their own accord, and spit fire through the still
born puddles.