my face,
mangled and
my lips, rigid
and fluid.
my eyes,
groping and
revealing. my
world has an
grace i chase,
from here to
there. on my
mala of moons
and stars i
recite 108
lightning mantras.
my fingers,
tremble as
leaves of a
bodhi tree
in an autumn
current. gravity
pulls my desire in
and out, and back
and forth. my
body, a carcass
of deliberation
and character.
from now till
then i will
reckon each

no roman candles

it was a polite surprise.
the first day of july.
the breeze was cool,
the forest in a haze.
my flesh could not
keep warm my bones.
three days before
independence day,
i will celebrate my
freedom from all
bastards. my apple
is small with a
thousand seeds. i
will remove the
intruders from my
flowers. i will water
my herbs and watch
them grow. this is
the harvest of where
i’ve been. abundance
is all make believe.
in the lap of luxury
there are no blessings.
i long to live with
those poor in spirit.
angels are empowered
in the house of a
rising sun. i embrace
this contradiction in
my spiritual connection.
the ambiance of my
brain has erased all
background noise.
soon the sun will bless
the trees and i will be
naked again.

doctor, i don’t have the mopes

i really don’t know what
the cat is thinking, or what
the dogs are thinking, or
even what the chickens are
thinking. i pretend i do. i
think they know what i’m
thinking. a lot of people
don’t care. i don’t care. he
asked have you ever had
suicidal thoughts. “doesn’t
everybody?” i asked. “do you
like the rain?” he asked with
a broken tongue. i looked
past his lazy eye to the peter
paul rubens’ painting, “the
drunken hercules,” hanging
on the wall. he asked if i enjoy
writing poetry of a sunless night
or a lucent day. i said i enjoy
playing parachute roulette.


who is knocking at my door?
knocking, knocking and knocking!
stop your rhythmic knocking.
knock, knock a knock knock, knock.
i am not here.
are you a stranger, my neighbor,
a compassionate crony concerned
with my carcinogenic thoughts?
a disciple with a presbyterian spirit.
a pirate to steal my gold, a contemptuous
love here again to exhaust my heart.
why are you wrapping on my window?
i am not here. i am ignoring you.
leave me alone. i have no pocket
change for your bastards. i have
not asked for your visit, or asked
for you to bear the iniquities of my
ways. i cannot look into the eyes of
your german shepherd face. your
monogamous life is boring. you are
trespassing against my will. your
boldness does not frighten me.
take leave from my door, you mongrel.

1st degree psychoanalysis of a poet

in the ghetto of anticipation,
my expectations are dissolved.
i am happy to drift in the direction
the wind bends. somewhere
between here and there i fill my
pockets with some of this and
some of that. my freedom is
my prison. i have no reason to
escape my seasons, no desire
to be satisfied. i can justify the
moon executing the sun. my
scars are not obscured behind
tattoos of tranquility. i do not
seek protection for myself from
myself. this is an expedition of
my bohemian blood. every
word is precisely as it’s meant
to be. there is no remorse for
immaculate purity or profound
deceit. i am a mongrel that
sleeps with the enemy and the
divine messenger. tomorrow i
may be an outlaw virgin mary.

i wanna be like mr. pike

two miles north of
mexico, in bisbee
aizonia, there was
a man that walked
the streets with his
dog. a cat sat on
the back of the dog,
and a mouse sat
on the back of the
cat. the dog is
named booger, the
cat is kitty, and mousie
is the mouse. they
all belong to mr. pike.
i took their picture
for $5 cash that i put
in a basket overflowing
with $5 bills. in
bisbee arizonia there
was a man with a
tin badge and gun.
the man arrested mr.
pike for begging,
loitering, and doing
business without a
license. the good
people of bisbee came
together and raised
$910 for mr. pike’s
bail. the city attorney
and the county
prosecutor are paid
well. when they saw a
dozen people behind
mr. pike when it was
plea time they turn tail
and run. frightened
by their own stupidity.
mr. pike understands
world peace. kissing
your enemy
goodnight, and
shaking hands with
misfits. someone
needs to tell mr. pike
they’re sorry. now
days you can find him
in san francisco.
namaste to you dog,
cat and mouse guy.