Build Your Name With Sticks

The joy is here, the skunk has died,
It is time to stop the masquerade!

There is sensual buzz saw filling the void
and starlings are walking blind into cars
and we can eat tacos, tasty tasty tacos.
I just hope my dad is alive to meet the kids.

So whether your name is Emmanuel or Imannuel
or if just you want to lie in the sun
or even if you cannot hit a baseball and insist on losing every game you play day in and day out
take a moment
make a phone call
and let everyone know that you really really despise old Dutch pirates.

mors mementi (a dream of the inevitable)

i looked out my window
on a night that was moonlit
but still cloudy so sometimes
this bold reflective lamp
would be smothered, exterminated
it no longer brightening the land

i felt a presence
while Mahler was weaving
a windy web of fog
that whispers ‘Frere Jacques’
in the otherwise calm background
so i scanned the room

and i saw my german shepherd
now smaller than me
jump up to say hello
gnawing at my wrist
though his face was not gold
but white like porcelain

then my great uncle
came knocking at my door
with a red cyst on his eye
he screamed “you asshole”
and exploded before me
spraying blood on the hardwood floor

i stared at the freshly painted room
its glow like the image of the sun
after you gazed for too long
but I shook the exposure from my head
and with eyes still fixed began to walk
past mirrors and night lights

then i noticed a skeleton
at the wooden kitchen table
doing the morning crosswords
this must be my granddad
but he is still alive and fat
and drinking national bohemian from a can

with curiosity i looked over
his visible collarbone
and i examined the puzzle
all he needed to finish
was a 9-letter word for rites
and it began with an ‘o’


just a scene, nothing more

grass almost everywhere
green pencil lines
desiring the setting sun

three wooden light-posts
and four wooden elm trees
are a natural man made bar graph

there is very little time here
but every fifteen minutes
a bustling train reminds me

in the pond, a large shriveled olive
the center is dark, almost black
and the shores are shiny and verdant

four birds in the sky
or are those planes flying high
no wonder superman was hard to describe

the sky caresses them
pink, white, blue, purple, orange
new bathroom tile, but soft like wool

an open eyed child walks behind
he said that as time goes on
his shadow will get longer

lord knows when this was written, the past

candyland, a new interpretation of the afterlife

hearing a slide down loose, metal strings
is all the cure that, that is required

a simple caress of the metal finger
resounds opaque sound
that soothe the insecurities of a scent

as long as the tales have been left in the notes,
before the  journey into endless sands of the candied land

i do not know whether this sweet taste
will be a fired breath
or cherubs sounding horns
or if it even exists outside of the bankrupt vault that is my head

so I’ll sleep at night as i imagine
a sun baked young man
with lent on sunglasses
and pin striped pants
standing outside of a corner pawn shop
after obtaining warmth
and is painstakingly using his ears
and his mind
to know the tune that had been recorded
ten years before his birth
on a rain drenched evening
when the slacked rye was drunk
and the lucky stripes smoked
and the space between fretting was loved

knowing this will make the future move
less like a vision of the earl king
and more of a hold from mother
when the sniffles have overcome
and father won’t go near

Probably spring 1999, though severely edited February 2021


to eat an apple core
bite into the hard black life force
(maybe even sprout a few leaves in my hair)
crunch, crunch, crunch

stick a finger in the fire
be a marshmallow
smoldering on the skin, blackening
melting on the in

          side tracked by the
          buzzle of
                    neon bees

until open eyes 
beyond the bright white wall
into ?something

unmoving, numb irises

on the next ship to andromeda –
scheduled to depart at 10
(there will be complementary seeds)

we leave in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

Unknown, possibly 2001

Commercial Danira

You sat yourself on the corner
I was constructed across the street

A man bicycled by holding a large red umbrella, a shield against the incoming swords of dust
His grocery toting love balanced on the handlebars, bananas peeking out of her bag

More kids, more kids, more kids, and a goat

December 2011+November 2020

Cat Lady Duck

Keep to yourself while the other go out
There are foxes and hawks everywhere
For Trent’s lost his head one snow melted day
And it’s quietly safe in your wire lair

And you laid something to care for
So there’s not time to come clean
But that’s not a worry to you
Let the rest sheen and preen

But on a cold fall morning
Bittersweet leaves lie around
With no sticks as a bundle
Your bones freeze to the ground

November 12, 2020

Look “No Eyes”

We are in state of Cayenne – a bit of
a haze, sitting on a red plush, beer stained couch
while mouthing a chorus of redundant phrases over three chords
that only speak to nihilists wearing shirts with empty sleeves.

Remember though, that opiates have been in pitchers of Hi-C
long before fluoride was introduced to improve our dental hygiene
(unless, of course, you were a rebel with a well).

And our government will distribute a mass issue of Sominex
to be downed by the handful (with a fifth of Jack
to eradicate the null-gel taste) before we drop the ball
in the Big Apple again. All of this trouble because
we prefer Percocet, while others have a predilection towards Morphine.

Sobriety is not the answer mind you, then we’d notice
that god would have to use his JEM-5G electron microscope
to discover our quark sized race (a strange flavor indeed).

There’s a reasonable solution to our specie’s predicament. We should
crossbreed our genome with the poppy, so that both eyeballs
continue to operate, but none of our eyes can see,
especially not the third one, which will become antiquated symbolism
(like opiates, manna trees, and beating hearts will become otherwise).

Let’s Say 2001?  Who knows.

Always Carry a Pen (If You Get My Drift)

Where is my sword?
Where is my tablet?
When a good fury strikes.

Many times a gusher rush forth.
Without a bucket in possession.
If there is one it has a hole
And a hand can only hold so little.
So much precious muses’ nectar is lost
Or quenches the now moistened dirt.

March 1999

strawberry seeds

i once saw a vision of strawberry seeds
salivating and swaying
in the infinite reaches of black

every since then i have lived a life dedicated to

would you like further proof
of the greatness of spirits?

i have waited in many a communion line
to drink the blood of jesus
(and i’m not even french)

“x’s on your hands, not in your eyes!”
you said
don’t you spout candy at me

Likely 2000