poetry writing

two lumps

Sunday is the day

your old ghosts,


and crushing failures

drop in

for a spot of tea.

life poetry Uncategorized

the year 2015





addiction Americana analysis art behavior biology books civility ecology education family happiness history human behavior literature local color nature non-fiction parenthood physics poetry psychology publishing punk relationship studies religion rituals science society sociology Southern Gothic thanatology the arts war writing

to spit or to swallow

the patience and wisdom

coming with age

are fast becoming

my favorite shoes to wear


as my own horseshit

and the shenanigans of others

become less excusable

with each passing day

every birthday candle wished upon and blown


there comes a point

when you’ve been told

you know better


repeated behaviors are either psychosis

or selfish forms of masturbation

such as the poets who write

their daily vengeance poem

scribbled in shit and crayon

on unsuspecting

psych ward facebook walls



grant me the serenity

to zip my lips when called for


to know when to spit

and when to swallow


but mostly

when to say

fuck off


activism film journalism poetry sociology writing

where have you gone, joe dimaggio?


is the purest

form of journalism

in an age stripped
of its innocence


where the huddled masses

are reeling from the latest

upgraded Halliburton version

of the vietnam war


as children of the eighties

we wore throwback peace signs

waxed romantic for woodstock

and tie dyed everything

because we wanted in on the optimism

the blatant irreverence

we wanted a hit off their cause


now we have our own vietnam

and our children are craving

the eighties


a time we considered

a decade of decadence

coining the phrase greed is good

yet they view it as a simpler time


i suppose

that is the natural order of things

in an unnatural world



in the eighties

we still had food

that would biodegrade

because it wasn’t

made from polymers


pete rose

didn’t break my town’s heart

’til 89

after having made it swell to heaven

in 84


don’t make direct contact with another human

don’t believe anything the government tells you is the truth

and don’t drink the water

as mr. murrow would say

ladies and gentlemen…


good night, and good luck 




Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

i am nothing

perhaps it is because
i hold no place in his daily life

in no way requisite

my long dark hair
his lack thereof

he says i give him goosebumps

he wants to buy me shoes
even though he knows i don’t need another pair
i will think of him each time i wear them

acceptance offered by warm bosom
sweet breathed mother sighs
his face nestled into my pale pink sweater
where tears wet dark skin

the allure of the old country
in the last season of life

i am nothing
but someone
he lost

so he brings me fruit too beautiful to eat

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

in 1994

i just explained
to my 17 year old son
who kurt and courtney were
and how
in 1994
that meant everything