art literature poetry Uncategorized writing

a poet is

a poet is a towering painting
in a sunlit gallery
of an ancient museum
gilded frame displaying
a livid angel whose face
gapes in horror at the past
fiery sword in one hand
cradling a cherubic baby in the other
whose innocent eyes glimmer toward
all hopes for the future
their wings raging
in the storm
of the present

education writing

sonic boom

i am a poet

my job is to chronicle

the time in which i live

then deconstruct it

invigorate thought

change minds

sway hearts

and screw

activism addiction Americana analysis art behavior Uncategorized

posthumous letter mailed to the marvelous hunter s. thompson at his trashy extended stay suite nestled on the briny shores of hell’s lake of fire



hey louisville,

long time no hear from, don juan try hump fat

i’m about to get waynesburg on your stubborn ass

and i want you to know for years

i forgave you for blowing your head off,


i applauded your ballsy choice

you were nothing if not consistent

you were proof the most intelligent and keen amongst us

are prone to depression, suicide, and addiction,

because we understand how fucked up the world can be

and simply can’t bear the soul sucking siege and insult of it

no one should be made to suffer,

but you should be alive now

we need your voice now

more than ever,

gonzo journalist,

who thought the best was behind you

and it had only just begun

n’ don’t you tell me all the best kentuckians die young and grandly

you’re dead as a damned door nail

you can’t talk back

and  aye, that’s the rub,  old friend

i’m so mad at you for going away

if you weren’t already dead

i’d shoot you again myself


love you, fucker


analysis literature relationship studies sociology

on falling in love with Hemingway during the war

perhaps one day

i shall meet a man whom

i’m too busy ravenously

claw fuck spit

to have any war stories

to write about

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

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.