Wednesday, May 19, 2010


Yogi Berra, in his later years, when asked how he felt replied,
"I feel Great. I feel more now like I used to than I felt then."


I just write.
Doesn't pay the bills t'all.
Doesn't hurt the fall t'all.
It does cushion the blows.
It does make something of't.
It creates instincts.
It creates a buzz.
It develops the mind.
And gets rid of the chatter.
And it comes from nowhere specific.
It just comes.
If you felt it,
You'd understand.

The Falls

Winnin' Money
Sin and sin
The lift and rush of being in the moment
Supercedes all aspects of anything that more sinnin' can bring.
More money
A free room
Still Up.
On her part.
A big meal
A few ribbings and arguments.
A few slights that get to the point.
A bit of tough love.
A bit of latter hard luck.
Who believes in luck these days?

Severing the Ties

I have given it
To you.
Whether you want it
Or not.
I am giving it up
So you will have more.
I've heard I've done fantastic.
I've heard I've done perfect.
Looks like
I've still got some work to do
To catch up
To you.
Perhaps a few more deprecating rants
would get me closer.
Perhaps that's all I need is to scribe
A good ole fashioned Bukowski suicide rant
But that wouldn't change a thing.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Things Turn Around Too Slow

Stagnant waters
Too shallow for cleanliness.
Never sucked dry of gunk
Left to rot even when reborn.

All called classless,
or without bottom.

So many shoulda, coulda, woulda's and not even has been's.
Makes sense as not they're not even sad, just pathetic
Trying to keep going when your here isn't even nearly above water.
Where's the magic in that?
It's not even a novelty to watch anymore.
Folks just going about their business,
Whatever that is.

Mum usta ask me where they were all going on the highway,
"Wher're they all goin'?"
On our leisurely drives to family picnics,
With our three legged races during busy non-holiday traffic ridden freeways.
I ask that of myself in most ghost towns these days.

Probably to spend the money that they don't have...

and to turn around and go slowly home.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

delicate love.

Brittle blood drops
congealed apathy.
The time we took instead of shared
The time we spent watching less than ourselves
The three wishes we each made
added up to six
All six were not about us or where we stood
on money
on friends
on expensive dreams
on beauty
on vanity
and on revenge
When the delicate heart business declares itself relevent
Does it matter when I stand up and shout,
"That Hurts!"
In this time capsule
there is sand
there is glass
there is something we may call dirt
We make diamonds out of the mess of dirt
Like fragments of fragile hearts
We pray to pick up what's left of Us and make a humble Union.

Chimes and Baby's Breath

Tingling and Soft
A blush of wind adds a touch of redness to the cheeks.
When the knocks of bamboo are heard outside of a bedroom
it is a silent stir that a watcher enjoys.
Warm breath on the skin of a shoulder.
The mist of a fresh picked garden flower drips unto soil.
The sound of pipes gently hitting each other's unbalanced lengths.
All combinations that make for heavenly second's of hourglass sand.

Donate Some Hours

Shaved the whiskers of the past month's mouth.
Wiped the arse of a good meal.
Warshed the pits of a drippy work day.
Trimmed the nails of neglected feet.
Put on a hat.
Put on some socks.
Put on an undershirt and some boxers
Found some pants at the bottom of the pile.
Found a "just about dirty" shirt.
Went to a party at a place that smelled better than most salons.
Ordered a drink and melted on a stool.
Watched everything around me blend into a small, relevant situation.
Kissed my hand and told the bartender I was going for a smoke.
Lit one up outside and found myself alone again.
In dreams like this I rarely get some selfish time to call my own.
I don't really smoke that much.

Miss That Kiss

A blend of lips from several different angles.
A thinly drawn saliva separation line.
A tongue sweeps across teeth with lustful grace.
An eye strain into another set
Different longing visions.
A sniff of tears at the time gone by.
A softly bitten neck, ear, cheek.

She pinned down the man and grabbed him by the wrists.
She will never leave him now.
She whispers, "Be careful with your moments..."

and holds him down harder.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Potatoes Develop a Higher Intelligence

A Smart Spud
Evades the Deep Fryer
He has visions only of dark, wet soil
He misses his Idahome
He is frightened by sights of his kin, mashed
A genius by and large
Covered in minerals but lacking in limbs
All brain with plenty of eyes
A thinking taters tot
His goal is to take root
and befriend the crying, sobbing onion.

- this piece was part of a lesson in humour at a workshop I had recently attended. I decided to see if I could learn a little by thinking that a potato could possibly have a little more brains than I do... it seemed to work!