ash wednesday

dead air fills my lungs. white

noise rattles between my ears.

my eyes are calloused. unimaginable

suffering has entered my bones. i

am a shadow of the man i used

to be. i wait on the pandion hawk

to carry me to delos, in the heart

of the cyclades where apollo was

born. i will sleep in the sanctuary

of these ancient remains. i will bow

to buddha as i scrape dog shit from

the grass. feel warm through the grey

of february. share water with followers

of saint florian. my last act of revenge

a smile with a crippled tongue. an artist

may paint my portrait, a poet of erotic

hate. i am dust and from dust i return.


the politics of my love

to those i have no desire to speak to,

i introduce myself as a socialist. they

say i am an interesting man, walk away

and i never see them again. my plan

works most of the time. now there

is this one fellow. before i can say a

word he tells me he is a syrian king.

i tell him i belong to the persian race.

i come from a place of scented

meadows and majestic mountains.

i love my brothers as i do my sisters.

each has their taste of divine pudding.

we sleep together amongst the reeds

that grow from gypsum soil. the king

offers me a hanging garden with my

own babylon. i will be his concubine.

he placed my pipe to his lips, then fills

my mouth with intoxicating spirits. to

this day he sees me as just another

naked socialist.


i got to get out of this place.

even a carton of cigarettes

hidden in the icebox makes

me nervous thinking i might

run out. looking through the

same window day after day,

i no longer see anything

different. the same birds,

the same clouds, the same

grey squirrels. i’ll dig through

six foot snow drifts. 30 below

wind chill will freeze blood in

my thumbs. they will turn black

and fall off. i’ve learned to live

without things others think are

important. thumbs are just for

jacking off. there’s more than

one way to butter your corn. if

i don’t get out soon i might write

another love poem, filled with

debauchery. all of it fiction.


you will never know

he said let’s move to pennsylvania.

we got a house there and acres of

forest to hide in. across the road is

the little brokenstraw where we can

fish and skinny dip. they used to stock

it with trout. he knew i had a thing

for amish boys so he told me about

them too. that made me prick up my

ears. he knew how to get me

interested. phoenix was hot and

getting crazy. to many unimportant

people running in the streets.

unimportant people causing wars.

they steal from poor people. kill

people for reasons to kill people. i

chased all the wild horses i needed to

chase. was tired of looking for shade

under a saguaro cactus. if i was a

poet for all seasons i need all of

winter, all of summer, spring, and fall.

trees letting go of their leaves, every

tiny snowflake having its own smile, a

spring chorus of peepers, laying belly

up in kentucky bluegrass counting

faces in a night sky. it would mean

saying goodbye to kelly. she is blond

magic that makes me feel important.

allowed my poetic license. we drove

four or five days, stopping in omaha

to see his friend, diane. back to the

place i left twelve years ago. where i

drank scotch and water from quart

pickle jars. i sacrificed poems i lost

cause i didn’t write ‘em down. poems

not worth the time i wasted thinking i

was a bohemian. a prophet of the

queer underground. a sassy twink

growing old. now i feed the bluejays

and the hawks. scrape ice from

cracked glass and dance like a

pennsylvania hermit writing poetry.

first Open Mic for 2015 at Authors Books and Music 02/03/2015

First Open Mic for 2015, This was recorded at Authors Books and Music on 02/03/2105 in Warren, PA.. I am sorry for the bad volume. we had to use an old camera because our good camera is broken. I was asked a couple of questions at the end that I did appreciate.



if i was going to where i

came from, i wouldn’t

know where to go. with

no home there’s no

beginning, so there can’t

be no end. i was told by a

queen that’s a good life.

i once lived in a basement

of some old building along

the 480 freeway in omaha.

my bed was in the kitchen.

through the bottom half

of the windows i stared at

dirt, garbage and rats. the

top half i watched legs

with no heads walk by.

some crazy, stinking lady

in the next apartment

would peek out her door

when she heard me

putting the key in the

lock. under my breath i

cussed that whore. she

knew i had cheap scotch

and good weed. she

followed me in and

plopped her big ass on

the only chair i had.

she’d put her .38 special

on the table. i swear she

pulled it out of that ass.

we would get brilliantly

drunk. she would start

with the same story,

about boyfriends that

pissed her off so she had

no choice but shoot ‘em.

especially the ones that

tried to pay with food

stamps. that old cunt

scared the hell out of me.

i never fucked her.

sometimes i wouldn’t

answer the door. she’d

stand there knocking for

an hour. i blamed her for

my cockroaches. that

could be my beginning. it

could be the time i ate

pussy or sucked a cock.

the pussies a few times,

the others i’ve lost count.

i had to pay my rent. i

started on schnapps

and swisher sweets at

eleven or twelve and

getting stoned at fourteen.

working it. home was

where my dick was. maybe

it was when i no longer

gave a shit but i wanted

people to like me. if not

knowing if i’m coming

or going, does it matter

when it begins or dies?


nature has a skillful manner. beauty

that’s hard on the eye, i easily

consume. my appetite has been

compensated many times. arrogant

laws torment my infatuation. no harm

is intended, i was born a libertine.

independent from any transcendent

obedience. my absolute crime is my

absolute pleasure. among men i find

sublime sensations. an optimistic

religion of debauchery. evil is eternal

with god, not born. circumcision a hoax

of the bourgeois. uncomfortable virtues,

for agnatic boys. i facilitate these

unfortunate. i reject a freshness, graces,

charm and innocence. the dauber

cannot paint these orgies. extravagant

sodomy of masculinity with fits of rage

in the orgasm. allegiance to sacred writ

of marquis de sade, i swallow them all.


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