Category Archives: Poetry

ex-slave at 2am on a Wednesday

Saddle sores, liquor and whores

I wish I were a cowboy

the next best thing

is being me

no corpo gig, false face to present

Only words to write, guitar music to play

truth to live, no lies in my day

it’s good to be me, again I must say




To The Victor Go The Spoils!

Victor is a member of the disposed, once opulently well fed, royal family of Tuxsteininberg.

After his ousted, gilded family left his motherland,

leaving behind their silver serving dishes and baroque flatware,

penniless: he moved to America.

Today Victor dumpster dives for dinner.

He can’t get a green card.

Sustained by gluttonous consumer waste,

he’s never been better fed.

To Victor go the spoils.



My Demented Mother

My mother took a hike, and ventured to another land, one exempt from time, where space continues to expand.

She now resides in limitless wonder, utopic at the least; an easier go I’m sure, without the earthly body she used to drag around.

“Happy Mother’s Day Mom!”

But I’m sure you’ve already heard, as you where there when I awoke this morning and uttered those same words: Happy Mother’s Day.



Festival with Friends

I have a compost pile to bury my friends.

Once they rot and wretchedly stink,

I’ll know my summer harvest of cherry tomatoes will be a blue ribbon winner at this year’s festival.

I love a good; feast-of-evil with friends.


Flux at Capacity

As a writer, I’m in a constant state of flux.

Caught between; what I need to write, and “selling books.”

In the end, on my deathbed, I’ll be okay dying sans wealth,

It’s my words, that survive -eternal.

Not this body.

I’ll die with a smile,

 peaceful and content.

Knowing I’ve used the word, “flux” in a piece.


My Point of View is Golden

If you can see, from a 1.61803398875 vantage point –all is beautiful.

It’s the fractional zones that make the difference.

Pay attention to the fine detail, the small stuff;

And the big picture will be easy to see.

That’s the ratio.