activism affectation Americana art belief humanity poetry punk shitty shit sociology Uncategorized

struggling mites of the planet

standing in the shower

this morning

i saw a spider die fighting

against the current of water

and i thought to myself

i could write a few lines for that lost arachnid

his own rime of the ancient mariner

an ode to the minutiae

the miniscule struggling mites of the planet

but what’s the fucking point of flowery conjecture

regarding what does and doesn’t matter

i can’t save him with words

or write an appropriate memorial

nor can i save

a gassed syrian baby

or a woman standing

in the way of an exploding madman panel truck

the waning poet in me cries out for a god

who stood us up

who split with our luggage

who never checked in

at the hotel airport

yeah, i could write a poem

if i remembered

what a poet is

what’s more poetic

than a poet

who doesn’t

feel like a poet



Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

just to kick my cat

he counts the syllables
of my haiku hoping my math is wrong

he sets his alarm clock for 2 a.m.
to wake up and purposefully misdial my phone

he would deny me water after soaping

he would wage war on my dinner plate
by squashing to death all the baby peas

he fantasizes about my being seated
on the bus seat in front of him
so he could pull my pigtails

he would rip off all the heads of my dolls

he would walk a thousand miles out of his way
just to kick my cat

he wears a hair shirt
and regularly gives himself a good lashing seeking store brand martyrdom

he curses raccoons
for dragging away the dead horse
he so loves beating

all because i do not desire him

he does everything except
leave me the fuck alone

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

rock star

hey baby
how could someone
who says so much
know so little
but it’s okay
i’ll call your meat
cuz you pair well with my gravy
i hope you’re somewhere
learning how to heal
no, take my water
probably not much where you’re going
she doesn’t know
her heart is just another stop
somewhere passed three stations east
my passion is frozen
oval shaped and blue
in your ice box

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

nixon is still dead

the sheets are department store clean

my tub has been cleansed of it’s sins

there are no shameful hairs
lingering in the corner
behind the bathroom door

the place
where we pretend
others don’t notice

lemons have been forced
into every unnatural crevice

a martha stewart
fresh from cupcake prison
level of futility

but a storm is coming

nixon is still dead

the beloved dog of my childhood
along with him

as i long for a time
when bad men had the decency
to not be your father
and wore ski masks with their suits