Bake 'N Make

1st lesson: What does
this literally mean?
To you, simply. The first
time reading it.
That’s right!
Very good.

2nd lesson:
Share your response with
the class. Listen to everyone
else’s responses. Or just stay

3rd lesson: Beware
of bullshit. We love to talk,
don’t we? Remember, believe
in your beliefs.

4th lesson: The simplest answer
is usually the most honest.
You wouldn’t lie to 
yourself, now, would you?

5th lesson: None of its real anyway.


Public Service

Encircled by The Bookworm’s
brutish bandits, Bat Man, eternally
vigilant, asks the not yet battle
ready baddy’s to remove their
reading glasses, “Remember,”
the caped crusader reminds us,
“never hit a man with glasses.”



Frozen exposition
like a volcano
exploded, molded
the commotion
of existence into
one holding
moment, showing
the holy temperance
through which we’re flowing,
proving boldly the fact
that there’s going
to be no win.
So let’s go, boys.
Let’s do it again.



Such views through open windows
The stories that lie there unimagined.

Unimaginable, unextraordinary,
or extra ordinary, as light reaches

the open eye. Mental investigations
leading to more silence than solid fact.

Night time heads moving in disappointment.
Trouble relocates.


All At Once And Again

The coming together of other entities
The matching energies around dead wood
The exchanging of labels, the raise of chemicals in
the brain, The comfort of society
The comfort of company on summer nights



Consumerism drops us down in
the prioritized depths of reality.
Step by step. Day

by day. Song by
song. Show by every real
life show. What can

we trust, she asks, and I can’t
seem to answer her, basking
in the violation silence has become.


"Ok, question..."

“Where’s the parking
lot?” They ask,
like being on a boat,
asking “Where’s the ocean?”



Sudden unease in the palsy
rattling each word, keeping
the voice more stable than
the pen, moving around images,

bobbing in the ripples of names,
what a strange sea this world
has become, what dangers float
below the surface, where breaths

become impossible. Best not open
your eyes while submerged in it.
The terror might make the wading
seem futile, less like survival than

the real sharpness moving around
down there. Rocks worn jagged by
the molten movement of time, jetting
up with the intensity of an entire

planet, only to be cooled instantly
as a monument to the powers of
the universe, subdued by its own
skin, fields of these towers make homes

to the strangest, most terrifying
predators. Webs hang high above
the summits, invisible amongst
the mucky flow, adhesive as death,

counting on the prey to wind themselves
further and further down, impaling itself
on the serrated peaks. The worms, so small,
finally move up on slimy bellies, from nests

deep in the crevasses, millions of them,
at the first trace of blood in the brine, devouring
their struggling catch, usually a billion times
the size of any individual, completely, then

each stands on end, every one of them, and
they release their single strand straight up,
anchoring it, before they head back into
the still unseen bottom to finish off

any bones that may have fallen further down.



The essence of the beast keeping us
all terrified to wander into the woods.

Keeping those in shining knight armor
well employed, what with the slaying,

and the chivalry, and the stone.


Midnight Marches

I’ve come and gone through the business of sound, ten dollar
bits, falling in and out of lines, the movement so subtle and
rippling so far down the charts. Stringing odd syllables along.

Tarnished skin. Moving in midnight marches, the joyous chorus,
with throngs lining the boulevard, so many voices, so many hands
and faces moving past, in time, on the moonlit path, leading to door

steps and cell phones, lost matches and found hearts, blood soaked
terror and sweat stained sheets. The rhythms of wood on metal, weight
on steel, crumpled aluminum, broken glass on concrete, the city

squirming within its limits, fabricated, sectioned off by illusions
of power. The dancehall moving as one. The grim motion of deception
on weekday mornings, the soft touch of pillowed walls, reverberations

swaying like brick backed epicenters sending shockwaves in all
but the most feasible directions. Angels leave their harps to peer over
the edges of clouds to witness this movement of the human orchestra.

These chords, their bliss ridden eternities will never teach them.
Even as they watch through the wondrous shapes and colors they see
pouring from intervalled openings in our strange incarnations of his

image, smile eyed bewilderment is the best they’re afforded, so much
blending of love, which they perceive beyond imagination, with
the sharpest reds and blacks of despair, that leave them gawking, as we

would at fashions of past decades. They head back to their jubilant
strumming, bemused, but quickly forgetting the strange little artists
they can’t figure out. These strange little artists so sure of their genres,

so sure of their scenes, their sounds, and their subcultures, so all at once
alive and dead, kind hearted and brutally selfish, witnesses to our own
award ceremonies. Last year’s forgotten winners tuning up for crowdless

nights spent polishing their hardware.



There are those who would say I’m dirty. My last
shower lost in time’s hot moisture. My last shave
sharply apparent. The quality of my presentation
dismissible amongst the plastic plates and trampled
cardboard of the dust drenched city streets, where

moral character is second to house number, bank
balance, and suit pieces. My greasy mop unfit to wash
exhaustion from the purchased floors of tired travelers. They
themselves expecting the squeaky clean demeanor
of quality service to grease their squeaky wheels. My

sprawling ears and multitasked smile giving them every
opportunity to lament through the lingering sensation
of humanity they can’t seem to remove from the holes in
their head, even through their constructed, plastic barriers.
Their talk of the obvious reality they’ve settled for does

nothing to change the fact I don’t know how to change
the linens in their room. My eyes sullen, still bright
from the hopes of witnessing another fantastic dawn on
the confluence, soft, flowing with the power to shape
nation’s histories, so far away from the rising tide of their

speech. Most would admit, themselves, to not bathing
in its apparently unending magnificence. They feel they
are not dirtied by it, simply because of their distance from
it, and still they languish in the spewing filth of their wasted,
radiated, polluted, and apparently unending flow of words.

We are here now because the trepidatious braved the grim
uncharted to find such an excellent fortification. Centuries
later my silence is under attack at all hours. The weak
ammunition assaulting the battlements which took lifetimes
to build to Heaven, foundations forged in the pit of survival,

piled for eons with so many invisible books, swaying in the
simple harmonic motion of so many unnecessarily fired shots.
The war is over. Humans won. But humanity on the front lines
is too busy reloading its musket to read the messenger’s face,
too enthralled by headlines to empathize with the shelled rubble

of ancient Rome, laughing with closed eyes at reality star’s
tweets, not realizing the dark hue and iron taste is the blood of
the red wheel barrow rusting, and it leaks through the cracks
in the dried skin of their clawing, worn thumbs, having bit
their tongues clean off long ago on some side mouthed insult

of someone they, apparently, love, or someone they never saw
again, wondering why no one listens to their volumed attempts
for attention, waving their right to embrace silence, lacquered,
thrashing about in putrid piles of sharp, infected, single use
words, despite the surgeon general’s warning, plunging them
into the chipping asphalt like so many municipal Marches
revealing cobblestone in its beaten actuality for miles and
miles but getting no closer to where they wished they were,
horns blaring in the rush hour red light grid lock mad
at the mechanic, on his time, trying to fix their blown tires, hands

slick in their teenaged spray, lubricated, ignoring the effectiveness
of liberal use. They wouldn’t use a whole tube of toothpaste for
one brushing. That’s wasteful. Or a whole tank of hot water, and
a bottle soap to wash the dishes. Well guess what? I do.



In the basement there’s a bed
that had nowhere else to go, boxes
of clothes, more boxes of my
papers, the laundry machines, so
much of the girls’ things that I
wouldn’t know, an ole timey
wardrobe, some shelves with old
paint cans, a table, the hot water
tank, two trough sinks, the fuse
box, an ice box, the cat’s dishes
and litter box, and most of its on
the floor, which bows up at the bottom
of the stairs, with a huge hole that leads
to dirt like a tree root grew there, it’s covered
with a carpet square and falls in if you step
on it wrong, just making the whole larger.



I have seen what kitchens can become,
molten holes in homes, heat
melting plastic cutlery on place

mats that show us where we are
in the world, for that moment,
The magma spewing long enough,

cooling fast enough, to make islands
between even the closest of tabled
seats, Infant shorelines braving the brunt of

tides ill adjusted to their new boundaries,
sheering into rock, if only to leave
a mark, Time, the true story, as Pangaea fades,

Hawaii, so distant, so right in front of our eyes,
our living screens, so hot in the summer, so humid
in spring, steam from the coast dissolving into

the stratosphere, Mushrooms growing taller
than the largest buildings on Manhattan,
the shadows of praying, dormant volcanoes,

Vacations worth the hours spent working, grass
huts, great at blocking wind, singed at unbelievably
safe distances, The roving sheet of the planet’s gushing blood.



Time is such a thing
as to be every evil, or any
good. The cleansing decay
of supposed biological

demise… Strange how faces,
with the so sudden imposition
of photographs, showing us
just how similar all life is.

Disturbing casually, in the horror
of heritage, forgotten in the
assumption of identity, increasingly
stagnant, in the wading pool of

the generation gap. Bloody
language of the greatest age, battle
of sound and taste stalemated,
sublimated in the historical significance

of the cycle. Ignored, but begging
to be recognized like a slasher flick
banking on gore. My misidentification
honest, not intentional by any means,

lasting in the shallow list of material
accomplishment, enjoyed, but not checked
off. Rocked out in an act of reaction that
seemed to happen everywhere and all at once.

Just how it seems to always do. So, who’s
to say it’s not just as true? The blinding
hate? The serving rage? The perspective?



My exhaustion means
nothings. There are consequences
to endure. The repelling aspects

of electrical beings, the appalling
state of affairs. One man’s
sounds on the street is another’s
obnoxious whistling. So much
to be concerned with on our
walks back

from restaurants.
So many dogmas.
Choose yours
and work, not to

prove its reality,
but to discredit the rest.


Sunny Afternoon

Pick it up sometime on a sunny
afternoon. Cool breeze flipping
the page. Birds all chiming away.

That rusty gate. Carpenters pounding,
one house over. Sounding more like
too late Sunday morning. Cheap

band saw in my back yard, building
me a fence, splaying and popping.
Then the nails go in, much twangier

than down the street, much springier.
Then a hack saw starts on a metal pipe,
over concrete. All I want to do is sleep.



There are some very odd rules here, in this end of town. There are metal benches and stone slabs that are also used as seats, but to sit on the backed metal chairs, you have to be alone, despite adequate space for three or four people. The parties of two are then designated to the concrete, where they must sit, straddling the wide rock, facing each other, some sort of mating ritual, I suppose. All the while, amidst those generally passing through, tour groups come around, and the guide explains the rules and gives tidbits about who’s been caught sitting incorrectly.
Gatherings greater than two persons are allotted to the sprawling lawns that surround the towering cathedral. It’s not long before the lawn hits capacity, as everyone there is laughing and slapping knees, scratching backs, what have you, leaving them pouring into the spaces reserved for the singles and pairs. The authorities quickly rush in, brandishing Billy clubs and plastic shields, to pound the communal mob back into its place. Those standing on the outside don’t care too much for this at all, and while they cry out and push back against the bashings, those in the center continue to enjoy their afternoon, not hearing the pleas of their peers over their own lighthearted chatter.
Slowly, reports from the lawn’s fringe make their way inward, sticky bits of flat bone passed from person to person, until the biggest talker, whose centered himself in the crowd, and the only one with enough room to move freely, having set his biggest, strongest listeners as fence posts around him, leaving a decent sized plot, which he uses all of during his continuous, amplified discussions. These can even be heard at the lawn line, where, occasionally, a hushed fatigue falls over those administering the beatings. The beaten fallen silent many strokes ago.


Under The Table

Who’s to say, these days, what’s right or wrong
anymore, anyway? If I smile and don’t steal anything
noticeable, and business goes on like I’m not even there,

isn’t that enough to allow me some freedom
where my money left over from rent and bills
can go? Isn’t that the ideal for consumer

based democracy? Last I knew that was
the purpose of this nation, founded on freedom
for those who could negotiate under the table.