death poetry writing

corpses and bloat

his soul was the river thames

during the 18th century

floating fetid

full of shite


corpses and bloat

his mouth was a hellscape

hieronymus bosch’s

early work

his voice was the sound

of two bullet trains colliding

his face

strongly suggested

the need for burial

and yet i stupidly

loved him

the way one comes to love

an old dog



who frequently pisses the rug

you smile from time to time remembering him

but how glad you are he’s gone

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

what i was before time began

this morning my heart wishes to emerge
from my red door
having my feet
find a cobblestone street
in London

on another day it would be old Bombay
or the day
i waved goodbye
to Powhatan

my mind has remembered
what i was before time began

mistress of her own molecules

now my soul is insistent
upon traveling backward

*For John Burroughs, peace to you, old friend.

poetry Uncategorized

london underground

my words


trying to avoid

Grub Street


perhaps a futile endeavor


how the Moorfields

draw us back


it’s so easy

not to think


we are water

and follow

the path of least



juicy rationalizations

plucked as grapes

off waiting vines


is it better to be a thug

than a thief?


why be either?


is there anyone left who measures honor?



i would prefer that

to being

a hack


i take out

my subway map