art literature poetry sociology Uncategorized writing

a traveler’s guide to avoiding a hell of your own making

it’s taken me
nearly forty years
to learn to say
to fear
to vice
to vanity
to unhealthy people
to intolerable situations
so to hell with
fake it ’til you make it
i say
fuck it ’til you chuck it

communication poetry

key strokes


asked Poetry,


are you trying

to convince?”

addiction analysis art behavior performance poetry sociology theatre Urban Legends womens studies writing

i will burn your fucking bonsai trees

he could not hide

his twisted psychology

behind his volunteering

his social networking

his name dropping

his poorly translated

banal Japanese poetry

his social work

and his damned bonsai trees

that he was a control freak

with a volatile temper

and a duplicitous nature

that he is the man in the bar rubbing his

chino covered cock on your thigh



overly solicitous and hell bent

on getting his penis

into your vagina

anyone’s vagina

perceiving female poets

as emotionally compromised

easy targets

and if his unfortunate victim muse

was able to see his monstrous nature

through his kabuki mask

she was condemned by him publicly

as a crazy woman

of course



behavior biology nature

tennis, anyone?

silence eloquence

heroism villainy

martyrdom betrayal

ecstasy disenchantment


all in that first moment

your bones sense

the coming of spring

and you think to yourself

i feel like fucking something


tennis, anyone?



ecology poetry sociology

blood moon

do not blame the beasts

this night


they know not

what they do

art books childhood cinema comedy ecology education happiness history Jazz Music nature poetry publishing religion rituals Short Stories sociology the arts traditions Urban Legends war

a key mineral lacking

it began to notice it midsummer

when i initiated the ritual

of my daily

life affirming

early evening

bicycle rides

my perfect aerial

machine so blue

cutting through

a synthetic mist

of suburban dryer vent exhaust

lavender lilac and vanilla scented chemicals

emitted from the latest

maytag gag-o-matic

into one bastard cloud

i decided

all of suburban cincinnati is covered in a

gently revolting incidental smog

of old lady perfume

in this gloaming time

the cul-de-sac wives

huddle into two groups

those who drink wine and smoke

while waiting for the pills to kick in

and those who just drink wine

while waiting for the pills to kick in

bitching about their husbands on cue

as they stand indignant

in various shades of pink velour yoga pants

at the end of their driveways

just far enough away

so the enemy

won’t hear

the hot-boxed group

of matching husbands


“i pay the mortgage and the only place

i have any privacy from that bitch and these kids

is the fucking garage”


whist drinking middling domestic imports

in a town whose pricey micro brews they can’t afford

all to protect the delicate sensibilities

of the lord of the flies children

playing between them

on tonka battery powered humvees

bedecked with

nerf machine gun turrets


duct taped half-chewed barbies

with their eyes gouged out

to tiny-tot thailand

i get the sense

there is death in the water

a key mineral lacking

in our national diet

the country is filled

with these fleeting nightmares

communities of sheep

vying for space at a diseased trough


american wastelands

where the coffee tastes of bad choices

and everyone is waiting

for the kids to be old enough

to get a divorce

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

No. 2

over the partition
he kept staring and craning
shifty-eyed and beady
to the point
i felt his glare must be sunlight
by a world’s fair sized magnifying glass
with the intent of melting my face off

well and often breaking
“you can’t check this relic out
so the research must be done here”

so finally he works up the gumption
saunters over
clears his throat and says
i’ve seen you here in the library before
over in antiquities
why do you always tie up your hair with a pencil
you should wear it down

i can feel him
he’s got creep emanating from him
on the inside he’s ted bundy quaking

i don’t look up
all hard
keeping my eyes on the line i was reading

because i may take a notion
to write a poem
or stab someone in their jugular vein

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

love is hunter s. thompson wearing a “polite as fuck” t-shirt

Fucking labels
taped over my mouth.
Three years ago they called me sentimental,
then punk thereafter,
now i’m accused of being transgressive…

You know what i am?
A poet in love
whilst simultaneously horrified
with the times in which I live.
What are we?
Stunned. That’s what the hell we are.
The world as we know it, post 9/11.

The evening news is pornography.
Journalism is an old whore
leaning against a statue
of Edward R. Murrow.

How could any thinking, feeling human
with a modicum of awareness
not feel a bit disgusted or depressed?
We must be the agents of our own happiness,
twas always thus.
The older I get, the less tolerance I have for horse shit.
I’m simply documenting the beauty observed along the ride,
and that I mostly want to kick
human civilization’s lingering ass.

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

no less fire

the opposite of love is not hate
it is glorious indifference
hatred requires no less fire
so i want you to know
that i hate you
i hate you so much
my bones ache

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends


it’s like watching someone live their life
trapped within
the black and white terror
of a hitchcock film

where without fail
every six months
the madness returns

so he puts on a dress and wig

sharpens his knife

then finds a way to become both
his mother
and the screaming
chocolate sauce covered
victim in the shower