Singly mingling around the milling crowd
filled and proud, empty
handed, headin’ out
toward empathy and the patio porch, settling
down, out
here, alone, the laughter vibrating
telephones, the air so
slow, doesn’t they all know
this neighborhood of sound?

Blinking headlights from up
on the hill, let’s us get
killed, just for the thrill, singing
harmonies in the stereo’d
key of drinks, driving, spilled, so
long, see you brother, hope
you have a fun trip home, no
call from any others in this
room, this rant, this rope.

Sofa sleeping postponed
dreaming, tomorrow’s on
the line. She says that she can see
her keys, still she cannot
get inside your mind, no, she can’t
get inside, don’t stop
the humming when they tell you
to pipe down, speak up, keep
drumming, even if
no one’s around.


Zomby Land

Subdued by sadness, longing, the fear that any opportunity
to make even the slightest ripple across the surface of

this septic social scene has long since passed. Tiredness
of why bother laying in the bed of every night wasted
not writing, and the reason for so nights writing while

wasted. Dredging through this apathy to find that heart
beating inside this zombified culture and rip volts of
unmeasured, unpriced electricity through this corpse

to show those villagers that they are more fearful
than they thought they could be of what’s inside
this burning tower. The children screaming, stop!

The blind men screaming, why? The good citizens chanting,
kill! Kill! Kill! Comfortable that the unnamed subject
is not one of their own. Childishly reacting to their own

blindness. There is only one group! Us, the now living!
The mob content in their assumptions, concentrating on
their ideals of superficial difference, afraid of the possibility

of change, afraid to better themselves from fear of any
personal shift, if even for the better, at all. The selfishness
of complacency, completely engulfing our modern serfdom.

Ignoring all the similarities of the currently deceased and our
own mindless milling about! Buried in paperwork, and dying
with the superimposed stress of living these days. At least

those buried in dirt no longer have to worry.


Freedom In Form

How can you tell me to relax
when you constantly ignore facts?
I want my life to be happy
is all you ever say to me.
That's what I'm looking for myself,
just peace of mind and good of health,
but how can you simply ignore
the world that lies beyond your door?
Those who cannot fathom the peace
that comes to you so easily?
The freedom to spend willingly?
The comfort in security?
Until it is for everyone
I won't relax, cause its for none.


Sitting, Striving, Driving, Sighing, Starving

Passion on the porch and striving
to make that 40 hour mark. The virtue
of punctuation escapes me in my five
minute wake up, get dressed, get
there existence. This will pass.
Driven by driving slowly

in the fast lane. The honking, longing
for destinations. The path ignored
for the arrival, passively partaking
in the laughter of the bottle’s mouth.
Hilarious stories, so embarrassingly
recanted come headached daybreak.

Broken livestock, used, discarded.
The slaughterhouse videos that never
leave the private screening room deep
inside subconsciouses. The flickering
film of childhood home movies burning
up from the heat of the bulb, ashing

in empty cans, sound tracked by cartoon
theme songs and commercial jingles. The brightest of
Christmas nights, birfdays before the boss forgot
the request off. Best bet to get that hottest summer
buy before credit cards are synonymous with identity.


The Cat Sleeps Peacefully On The Sill

Dishes with food scraps being eaten
by young mold, waiting for the faucet’s
drip to wash them clean. A child, across
unseen seas, stomach bloated from lack
of use, closes her brown eyes for the last

time. A missionary tucks her in for her
long journey. Her younger brother turns
his head from the next cot and says a prayer
from the book the nice people brought.
In a Wisconsin hospital, a father hustles
his child out of the room, as trained professionals
hurry in to attempt futile resuscitation on
a mother, whose animal heart was not equipped

to maintain a modern american form. The invisible
radioactive waves of modern american communications
vibrating so subtly through his head, as he tries
to fathom the numbers the insurance representative
is reading to him off the screen, thinking about
the overtime it’s going to take. While, in the next
room, an attorney, who’s dealt with the same rep
on numerous occasions, buckles his pants back up,

and flings out his credit card for the easily discarded
deductable, thinking about where he’ll take his wife
to dinner, someplace with valet parking, tonight. Some
where, unreported, a politician feels the sturdiness drop
out from under him and the crowd cheers as the twitching
becomes less and less noticeable, ruled finally by their own

word, filled with the thrill of possibility, before another
politician, one they’re sure will be different, steps onto the gallows,
wearing his own neck tie, to make his proclamation of ruled
freedom! The next day, everyone goes to work, to answer
calls from america, because we don’t know how to use
our own toys, nor will we teach ourselves anything.


Crickets for the first
time in a long time
Is that a question, The Big Dipper

right there, find north, find
anywhere. No need to ask for directions
There’s only two sides to this hill, both of
them send ya in the same direction

At the bottom of one’s a river
The other, freedom. Freedom
from the conventional way home
I fucked up. Ended up at the river. But

driving’s nothing to joke about these
days. Alotta bodies found out there
on them four lane highways. All trying to get
home or going grocery shopping, to a hospital


Bet Your Bottom Dollar

Everything tinted yellow in this late night
electric light of this black and gold town.
Fitting. The car’s that move from the alley
to the main streets show the scene in the
honesty of halogen headlights. Down that
alley’s incline, over the trees, across the
river, on top of the hill, stand two towered
lights, one above the other, the top one
blinking, both red, the only true color
until the sun comes up tomorrow.


Sorry, Friend

The maintenance crew sent by the city
or the company that owns this house did
a good job of sheering the intrusive bush
that took residence mainly on our porch,
removing all cover we’d had from those
on the street. They did leave one big
leafed branch, however, that, on a windy
night like this, would pop up over the
banister without warning, startling me
every time it did, my not being able to
tell in the darkness what exactly it was.
My animal brain always thinking instantly,
danger! After four of five fits of pure
terror, I took it upon myself and snapped
its thick stem low enough so it wouldn’t.