Americana art astronomy

Born on the Third of July

I’ve learned of a man

who refers to his dick,


as White Rocket.

I imagine I can hear him yelling, “Blast off!” whenever he ejaculates.

The stories begin to simply

tell themselves,



science fair

we are minerals
and death
sinewy tongued
carbon based
monstrosities of chemistry
capable of love
television and
hubris enough to murder a planet
and want more leg room on airplanes
we would find a way
to kill the stars
if they weren’t dead

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while falling down

with the exception
of the sadists amongst us
who exert themselves
on naive
we have no control
we do not self-create

the work force
the prison system
the gubmint
the church
have control over
their populations

but are impotent when faced with nature

control freaks
are outrageously deluded futilists

control is an illusion
a man made concept
like linear time
and money

control should be stricken
from our planetary lexicon

replaced with zen
complete non-resistance

the universe will do as it pleases
with your carbon based ass

ask the moon
or any passing meteor

acceptance is bliss


i know it well

as i wrote this poem
while falling down
an unforgiving mountain
of limestone steps

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the sun is exploding

and my drama queen persona has worn thin
my legends are in france begging their gods to shit truffles
their german wives to make amends
and i


this humble poet
i am so glad
to see it end

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the earth will surely shrug

we humans have felt
out of control
for so many revolutions of the planet
our coping skills
have evolved into chemicals

concocting poison
for every pest found bothersome
be they insects
or other humans

we kill the source of our irritation

now the innocent bystander bees
are falling too dead to feed us

but never fear

after the comet comes

when every human footprint
has been filled
with fire and ash

the earth will surely shrug

clock out
now that it’s work is done

then go down to the corner bar
to have a drink with the sun

poetry Uncategorized

i will never write you a love poem

there are days
we wake
with nothing left
no passion for grocery lists
yet we go on living for the sake
of each other

i save a bit of me for you

each day
never touching
a harmonious coexistence

how it must be
because we love

our satellites in proper orbit
we will not crash into floating pieces
the trajectory
for communication
to continue

screaming truisms into the white noise

all is well with the universe
while i
can still hear you

poetry Uncategorized

shooting star

the height of being
to burn, white hot
above the world
so intensely beautiful
form is irrelevant