only a



the significance

of a sunset.

you don’t


the sun

fall out of

the sky. you

feel it.

is it

an old friend

you will see

in the morning?

or is it


new. will

it rain and

leave with


a sunset is

a beginning

of letting go.

you cannot

touch a sunset.

you must

feel it.

like a poet.

american xmas

christ was never in xmas. i don’t

care what letter from the alphabet

you use. he doesn’t care. hallmark,

walmart, target, they put christ in

christmas so you buy their shit. i

need a new shower curtain with fish

and bubbles on it. i might spend five

bucks on a candle that smells like

limbaugh’s ass for you. he is an ass

with a bunch of money from dumbasses.

people want to put god back in

government cause it’s on our money.

blommingdale’s, macy’s, sak’s, they

care about dollars, not god or

government. they put up christmas

trees for dollars. black friday, what

the fuck is that about. the collection

plate overflows at midnight mass

from those filled with xmas cheer

or jack daniels. i’m going to the

dollar store, they have shower

curtains at fifty percent off .


made for walking

i’ve saved all my old shoes. each

pair has a story to tell. some with

worn out soles. my socks would

stay wet all day if i wore them in

the rain. others i never wore except

for funerals and weddings. my feet

have been a size ten and a half since i

was a boy. if my shoes could talk,

they’d share a million miles of

memories. i can’t forget david, he

had polio and always wore one shoe

bigger than the other. i like seeing

him in his underwear even when he

told me not to look. i wore tennis

shoes when i first humped my girl

friend’s leg. i never learned how to play

tennis. arthur ashe wore adidas. i’m

not sure when i got my first nikes.

probably when i started sucking

dick. decades later i’m wearing vans,

usually black or white ones. i heard of

a 14 year old boy being murdered

over some high-end sneakers. i

never murdered anyone. when my

number is called, don’t bury me with

my boots on, bury me in a nice pair of

vans. chukka boots held me upright

when i was drunk. i’d sway back and

forth like waves in a hurricane but

i always made it home safe without

falling on my ass. not sure where my

scars come from. stoners wore

chukka boots. they cost the same as

an ounce of good weed. i never had

cowboy boots. i like cowboys. those

with a pair of nice boots, a nice hat,

and hung like a horse. i’ve walked

through some deep muddy waters. i

use old english oil for a good shine.


just sitting here waiting

sometimes i wonder if i

have lived to long. there

are many times i could

have died happy. never

have i been thirsty that

i couldn’t find water. there

are those that are gone i

thought would be here

forever. long after my

ashes were scattered. car

accidents, suicide, cancer.

i know as many dead souls

as live ones. never knew a

saint or ever expect to. my

name hasn’t been called

yet. when the phone rings

i never answer it. whoever

is knocking at my door i tell

them he isn’t home and not

expecting him anytime soon.


ted nugent rock and rollers

i go on living after

the best of me has died.

i pretend to have courage

to get their dirt off my

face. who does not enjoy

flattery? their fingers of

intelligence twisted beyond

repair. they are indoctrinated

haters. they manipulate

the ins and outs of givers

and takers. their mouths

foam with delusion.

their thoughts remain

blind and broken. they

pay no attention to

judgment. chase dreams

of torturing the queen.

reject honesty as

something good and

trip over the edge of

paradise. i do not wish

them well as they sail

away on a sinking ship

of pig circus fools.

mother and son

“i’m hungry,” i’d

say to mother.

she’d say “have

some bread and

milk.” “i’m sick of

bread and milk,”

i knew next she

would shrug her

shoulders, “then

you’re not very

hungry.” she

would go back

to dusting the

furniture. she

learned quickly

to ignored my

groans. “i made

your favorite

goulash for

supper tonight.”

she hollered

down the stairs.

that’s how i

knew she still

loved me.

it must be wednesday

the house is all mine tonight, unless

you count baxter, max, deaf isis and

blind gordon. i poke gordon to make

sure he’s alive. i don’t count what’s

crawling in the walls. i let patti smith

sit in my favorite chair while i lay

on the floor watching her lips drool

poetry. i’ve always wanted to get

deeper and higher. get closer to a

holier mountain top. strip my brain

naked. be mother nature’s seed,

bastard son of a virgin. make

everything upside down right side

up. i might have chickens eat only

white meat of men. no one is last,

no one is first to his grave. i lick

up her spit, smoke my cigarette,

blow smoke up her ass. another

night weeping tears of laughter. a

jolly violin drowns out anyone knocking.

my well is boiling. for no good reason

my hard-on wants attention. it’s like

that when the house is all mine.