Archive for Poetry

Secret Societies


You’re my brother from another motherland and hand in
hand we band to stop lying – we preposterous fools are
in no way connected to Islam.
We have tiny affinity of
all sports cars,
all 18-wheeler trucks,
all fire engines, taxis, all ice cream vans sent
silly in a circle, figure eight, delirium
maudlin knees cranked to touch the tiny pedals.

Whatever on Earth you’re doing, don’t stop there,
these displays aren’t to go public; these parades empty
of rhetoric and full on decorative ornament drawn from historical
sources beyond familiar classical and Gothic modes – we are Moorish
revival, borish in style, vented on and on for mile after
mile and everything that Mason’s just aren’t.

A Scottish Rite or York Rite to be sure; soured
emblem and free reign costumes of red fez allure-
You’re my brotherly love, my weekly relief,
and truth and fun and fellowship rut, you make me weep for the times
when men ruled the Earth. The time has come and
gone, my wife wants me home, the children are all phlegmy,
and colicky and cold. I’ll park my tiny taxi in the back:
This is just between you and me.

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If – Rudyard Kipling

This poem is about 115 years old and gives me hope for humanity


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

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These are the Universe

Get out of that skin and get
into that freedom

strip down
nothing in my pockets

run much slicker, safer
open toed and barely strapped

Fling a thing away
I’m choking collars and belts

spitting teeth plated
enamel too heavy

I want em floating in haze


Come on Universe, meet me half way. Feels like you’re not doing your part and letting me flounder about trying to manifest in a vacuum.

And I’m so lonely in my heart, so vacant in my love. Haven’t been touched enough, touch starved.

And no one holds me out as special, out above all else. I am just as unimportant to them as I used to be to myself. I don’t understand intimacy, I don’t know love and affection.

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I’m into geriatric anime, my friends are ancient beings from an ugly planet and the idea is to use me and not leave me lying there after you’ve taken me out. These cartoons play shuffleboard and bingo while looking all god-dummies and slippers made of pink rabbits – this is multi-tasking of the irate!

Just don’t leave me and don’t see me at the same time – the eyes I can’t look in or see behind. But I don’t want to be just left out over here.

That thing in the back of my mind that seem to coat everything with dread, has moved to my stomach and makes splinters. I’m not proving myself virile or pancaking my red lines; I’m a cherish and perish, fruit on the vine. I’m not allowed to make sense, these banalities give me distance.

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How to: not hate yourself inside your head

Anger is roiling inside my head and it’s all a fault to steer sociopath’s eyes all over me; judgmental eyes – these robot eyes in particular are bent on straightening me up because my natural tendency is to slack and let it bend and bleed to a silly putty-chunk of flesh – myriad structural pink.

Yay, helpful robotic piston driven brace of all that’s holy isn’t about to let me lead my life. Oil driven and pummeled with looks of little-man, dummy and pork chop. These eyes are all over me when I go somewhere outside and I appreciate that, keeping me in line.

One’s trying to tell me what to do and the other just keeps me from myself. I resist as I ought to, a slave to the contrary.

I’m sore. These eyes are all over me and my helpful robotic piston self.

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This is the closet that recedes forever.

And the shoes, oh the shoes that she couldn’t have worn more than once, still smelling ripe with leather and better yet cork and wood and straps with buckles – boxes and bags and cartons of stilts – not a flat among them, not a flip-flop or sandal. This is a real woman’s shoe collection, the heart of a class-affliction and home for close to a king’s ransom or the man’s life of devotion.

You can lay your head gently on them, the arch of the sole a pillow of leather, the fumes so lovely, rising from shoes and the scotch-guard shag, the kind that leaves rug burns to end all stains and don’t lean back too long, don’t stay so naked and don’t you ever let me catch you.

But the real prize lays ahead, the mother-of-all porn boxes full of the seventies, in all their grandeur. Everyone is hairy and everyone is fat and the positions these people take and the piles of flesh and holes and juicy, high-key lighting that makes everyone seem flat and old and cold and flimsy is more than can be handled.

So, base camp is established at the foot of the shoe tree, this Narnia-like orifice is too vast and full of wonder for this naked traveler.


(thank you to


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Kid apocalypse

I want to love you but there isn’t
time, not in the pseudo-gloaming

here in the future-life fractured
by latch-free kids, kids who race

on mutant dogs named Spike and
Love-america-style and, of course

Spike always wins. This isn’t just
another excuse it’s the contrite

melodrama I wrote for me when
I was ten so don’t quote me or trust

me to find facts. I learned to feel
from a beaten cat, I learned to dodge

a truth of poor parenting. My apocalypse
is 3 feet long and can last up to nine days,

so don’t leave it to me to find happiness or
water and things that we need. I can

find misery and opiates because that
is what I do, I have no nuclear agenda.

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You can’t stay inside

He’s at it again, that town-crier of emotions
too important to leave to word-of-mouth,
bellowing needlessly about monsters and dragons
when I all I want is to sleep.

My drowsy style pounding its fist on the table
trying to mean more to the world. “Wake up wake
up little boy with big hands and big feet,
you got more yelling to do you dry drunk

you bread worshiper, wake up and tell the world
the invisible demons really do exist. You trust
just about everyone and tell them all your soul –
you dry drunk, you swear-mouth, you single-tailed
small mouthed shrimp.”

He’s at it again, mother of all
hangovers, tapping on my eyebrow with a bull whip.
He wants me awake and wants me to take to the streets
on a whim. His days of watching the truth-like

cuckoo’s nest are over. I am his monkey, I must

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Top Loaders

I had a dream last night and I never remember my dreams but I was in a place that was a sprawling complex that could be a house or a business or a mall or an airport, who knows because everything is always fuzzy around the edges in my dreams. But this place had a lot of rooms and was full of washing machines, the top loading kind that have the metal lift-lids.

And of course there are monsters but please don’t ask me to describe them either because like everything else in these laborious episodes, they are fuzzy (and I believe that that makes it obvious that it isn’t about the monster but more about what I am doing to myself (don’t ask).)

Did I mention the washing machines are everywhere, along every wall, in every room and the monsters only means of attack? That’s right, the monsters were attacking through the lift-lids of those top loading washing machines. You know that sound they make when they get dropped, that clang? Imagine that sound mixed with some unintelligible groaning and moaning, or is it growling, anyway the dream is filled with that sound.

And I have to find heavy stuff that’s heavy enough to keep the lids down and the monsters out. I have to sort through room after room of random crap, mindless possessions to find something for each top loader heavy enough to keep the monsters out. Seems fairly standard except I wonder what on earth is the point of me having to sort through what amounts to someone else’s junk, possessions. I mean, this is a dream right, I should be doing all kinds of fantastic stuff; I could be flying or a spy or hell, I’d settle for a cowboy at this point. Anything but a rummage sale picker of random objects.

So I’m in my dream bored to tears, in the midst of this not really very anxious quest for weighted items and I realized that they wont be able to push through because they will have no leverage, so i just need light things and can basically use anything to keep the lid down.

That’s was my big revelation. Chew on that. Then I woke up and remembered:

My generation can’t sit still,
they can’t meditate or hear their
stomach over the timbre of their singing; they relax
to a drum set and like sharks they must
always keep moving to stay alive,
always keep moving to stay alive-
geographical fixes, moving without change,
butter the bread where it’s lightest.

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The uselessness of time travel

Time is relative and hardly worth our energy. Time travel’s even worse because there’s way too much second guessing and way too much haggling over details. They keep telling me to live in the moment to stay in the moment and then tempt with time machines and spacial distortions, luring me to float through space and be devoid of thought, examining the issues and punching the pink-white underbelly.

I am told to not have expectations on who I am or at least not the expectations that came from my unruly childhood. They make me want a ray gun or a sonic blast, I want to sprinkle pixie dust and make the whole world vanish. I see endless space and the event horizon of the most insidiously hidden black holes – this is swirling infinity, these are twisting spirals of broken planets and scalded moons with desperate astronauts plugging golf clubs and stabbing flags into moon dust.

I don’t have any need for love, I don’t have oxygen to share, I’m Pickens-riding towards Earth on a rocket to end it all and I’m in the middle of two separate times, stuck. I can’t see the time, the effort and the energy I am suppose to be in..everything is off kilter by a smidge and this is the mathematical term. I don’t know what should be done. I am not a unique snowflake. The Universe is cold and lonely but remains out there, round and alive. These are my assumptions now, my childhood rules have finally burned out.

Time stood still when I focused. My voice trailed off but, you couldn’t have heard me anyway.

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