Hell must be full
of water. It’s not
burning and you can see
a glow at the base of
the inferno.
of water. It’s not
burning and you can see
a glow at the base of
the inferno.
The end is near
or at least it
seems that way. I saw an
old woman jump a park
bench yesterday.
Constant grind of
inner gears, no
lube or calibration.
High-pitched whine of engines
in stagnation.
Tupelo Glen
double-wide on
a plot of low land that
has no business housing
a trailer park.
Black box on a
telephone pole
in a field of weeds
that nobody wants to
own anyways.
Burnt-out Buick
in a sand dune
that'll eventually
blow away, revealing
a rusty core.
The age in my
lower lumbar
accelerates faster
than the decay in
my balding head.
I miss those days.
I miss my girls.
A simple meal marred
only by broccoli
passes for bliss.
Dick's Sporting Goods,
Kohl's, Old Navy,
Nordstrom Rack and one fat
squirrel crossing Main Street
by Chipotle.
Eating doughnuts
in a parking
lot on a Saturday
with a concrete mixer
painted bright orange.
Precious little
baby suckling
my cheek. Next thing you know
she's on a subway in
New York City.
The sadness of
a gray day in
December is only
matched by - What's for dinner,
ma? Spaghetti?
The other side
of sorrow is
New York and Chicago
at the kitchen table
just one more time.
Every time a
toy goes viral
at Christmas, six tuk tuks
in Cambodia get
extra business.
It hailed, it
rained and it snowed
in one hour on Lake
Michigan, where you will
be tough - or toast.
Age and love bring
31 years
of holding hands over
an Oberweis milk shake
that never ends.
I love her more.
She knows this and
cultivates it. I don't
mind, 'cause when the Bears win,
everyone's happy.
I'd like to show
you more of me,
but for that, you'll need a
poet. I'm just a fat
old ditch-digger.
Please scoop out
a few more words
for the spirit that leads
us on our journey to
the long quiet.
Provide some soothe,
some salve, some false
security in a world
where men drug women to
rape and kill them.
The belt buckles
that follow us
through stoplights and steeples
only go away with
a good soul bleach.
If that is not
possible, there's
always a one-bedroom
in Queens with three cats and
dirty linen.
She eats thorns and
icicles for
breakfast then spits milky
vomit down your throat just
to see you choke.
Despair rules in
America.
That is why we hate each
other. Bile, vomit,
spit, sadness, tears.
I cup my hands
to scratch my face
an itch. Yikes. It's the rough
terrain of an old man.
Son of a bitch.
I walk Wicker
Park. 53
years from now, you will walk
this path, these trees, this breeze...
just you and me.
Help me find the
captain of my
soul. Dead twigs on fallen
leaves. Bulbs that may or may
not bloom in Spring.
Trapped by choice in
a desert cave.
A long, noisy freight train
beckons me to hop in
an empty car.
Distorted mind
dominated
by a pinwheel, two
marbles, guilt, shame and a
hunger for love.
Warm, wet concrete
through your fingers
feels like baby shit
with shards of glass in it
that don't cut you.
Brown make-up skin
on a pillow
that hasn't been washed since
the beginning of
baseball season.
Secrets bore through
your soul to the
other side of anguish
where they'll hang out til you're
ready for them.
Morality
got in the way
of a good lay with Lynn
and Mary Sue but keeps
me sane with you.
The distance from
her shoulder to
chin is seven million
miles. I measured it
twice this morning.
The wet squeeze of
her innards on
my one protruding mark
makes purple stardust dance
on my liver.
Can't see the sleigh
bell that's supposed
to appear this time of
year. Fog and no snow in
El Segundo.
Fellow creatures,
take up the tribes
that rule you, fool you, and
examine them for how
they might kill you.
Splitting the brown
sea of hips and
heaven. Entering the
dark tunnel of must, sex,
and perversion.
We all know it
can disappear.
Love, kiss, a fear, a sneer.
When the clock strikes two, it's
probably you.
A wind-up toy,
I keep talking
until all the women
in Texas ask for a
dry martini.
Climb on your roof
and shout from the
highest shingle - I am
reborn, I believe - and
no one will care.
It goes to the
heart and soul of
our democracy that
you self-deal when no
one is looking.
A used teabag
on the floor next
to a treadmill must mean
something on a night when
it surprise snowed.
I could complain
all night about
how peopled out I am,
but it won't mean two shits
til tomorrow.
And nowhere a
scrupulous man,
nowhere a populous
land. An explosion has
taken it all.
I rolled over
and thought about
doing something, but the
neighbor's housekeeper has
a nice, fat ass.
When you step out
back to moke some
leed and there's snow on the
ground, you are a yucking
clown all around.
Repetition
marks the grave of
many a slave and knave.
One thing's for sure - don't you
go piss on them.
My breath is still
America.
My mist, you breathe, my home,
you leave. In haste, I grieve
America.
That's not how this
goes. You don't laze
around on the sofa
all day and suddenly
a poem arrives.
She has followed
me through several
life changes, none of which
comport with clean laundry
and car payments.
Jean rescues me
every night. I can't
sleep, so I listen to
him from 55 years
ago or so.
Swirling toward a
drain, slithering
through corroded pipes. It's
death by a million gasps
for food and air.
I'm a fake, a
fraud, a dawdling
dowd. I shall be found out
as the dastardly lout
you always said.
There's nothing to
do but accept
the torment of luncheons
and grand openings for
eternity.
We watch TV
on my couch, her
son sleeping peacefully
on the bed in which I
defile her.
After all these
lessons of loss,
if you still put yourself
aside for something else,
then that's on you.
We're still burning
for a cause that
may or may not exist.
If it turns out not, I'll
be really pissed.
Lemme outta
here. Push me through
a five-pound bag of bad
potatoes and a sea
of rotting kelp.
It's all about
cork-shucking with
Whitman. You can just see
his beard going up and
down in rhythm.
We walked across
the Brooklyn Bridge
holding hands to an orange
sunset partially blocked
by a huge ship.
A coffee pot
comes to Kevin
in the middle of the
night. Burnt grounds line the
bottom filter.
I know what it
means to be in
jeans when all you wanna
do is get dressed up and
go to heaven.
If you still think
I'm crazy, walk
Wicker Park and pick a
daffodil from the base
of an old tree.
Here they are, these
cash jockeys in
cages meant to keep us
out and them in... looking
down, counting cash.
Give me something
to talk about,
not murder, child rape,
robberies, arrests or
bad accidents.
Stop the madness
of poems taking
over my nostrils. I'd
like to breathe in without
words coming out.
Snowplow driver
slamming down his
blade has no idea
that I smell his breath from
inside my house.
It's all I can
do to keep from
running naked in the
street, in the dark wind, in
the biting cold.
Pressed up against
bodies, nowhere
to go, low ceiling, hot
air, can't breathe, can't move, and
now I am dead.
Leave me alone,
you poem-writing
marauder. You're drunk. We're
out of toilet paper.
So go get some.
California
rocks are pink and
orange and look like desert.
Indiana rocks are
cold, grey and dull.
A killer in the
sky reaches down
and shoots another kid
in Gary. He reloads
and does it again.
There is always
the night frights, and
if you touch the floor to
go tell mom, a monster
grabs your ankle.
Footsteps down the
hall flatten my
heart... girlfriend now moans
to someone else's fake
poetry piss.
I hum a tune
as a silver
refrigerator groans
rhythmically, as only
small engines can.
Grit you lose as
you get older.
Regret will linger, your
heart will smolder. This is
what I told her.
Somebody plays
Rolling Stones
a block away... I left
some roses in a hot
summer sewer.
We get old but
erotic love
does not. An open jar
of coconut oil
helps get us there.
I have long been
waiting for a
Sherwood Anderson night.
It has finally come,
without a pen.
This push, this gush,
this flow, I know
will leave as soon as I
roll over and answer
another text.
Sometimes it's just
not what you thought
it would be, like when some
kid plays loud videos
inside Starbucks.
It's gratitude.
Love, asphalt, bongs,
hate, grass, stench, spanks, kisses,
rebirth. It all adds up
to one big thanks.
Cadillac grills
are ready to
pounce, bite, devour. Porsche
grills say "on your knees and
I don't mean please."
Butts and sweat aren't
the worst thing for
your soul. Pop some tunes, moke
some leed, shower, and read
some Chuckie B.
What could you two
possibly have
to say that is so damn
important you talk through
rest period?
Sawdust tavern,
music way too
loud. American beer
owned by Brazil. Joe says
he wants to kill.
Neutralize the
baking soda
that bubbles in your blood.
Calibrate the culling
of your next herd.
Universal
milk thighs and one
more inconsequential
imbroglio until
you ride away.
It's a witches'
curse who you are
and when you'll get there. Black
cauldrons are only for
dreams and cartoons.
What's your life mean
anyway? These
roads, these stores, these floors, these
doors go on without you.
There's your answer.
Wind howling and
cobras laughing
can be put in the same
category when strife and
your wife team up.
my foolish heart
still craves every
flutter of her eye… still
waiting in line for the
end of restraint
A mass of flesh
on the asphalt
looks awful. It reminds
you of death and the dust
you will become.
gray poopy day
technology
tumbles into a sea
of used watches desktops
and plastic toys
when it’s all said
and done and we’ve
blown ourselves up at least
there’ll be white lilies
to wave goodbye
I can feel
the tension of
all the people still stuck at
Ohare and Midway. They
just exhaled.
I’ve seen a light
at the end of
a long metal tube on
Lake Michigan during
a night drowning.
broken beside
the bed while it's
hovering above the
lamp radiating in
a puff of smoke
one day he just
gave in to the
moment. that was before
all the snow globes in East
Hammond blew up
it's hard to sleep
knowing that there's
my sister's cheese cake in
the refrigerator
in the garage
once you figure
out there's beauty
and order in the soft
swail of a honeycomb
show's almost over
my wife's sleeping
a floor above
where i write poems all night
how she puts up with this
is beyond me
these fears disrupt
my mind and then
i shake my head and groan
out loud. these fears disrupt
my mind and then...
you can tell a
whole life story
in the sparkle of smooth
concrete on a six-step
stoop in Park Slope
i smoked a bowl
then another
and by the time it was
embers i was off thinking
bout something else
cars whiz by fast
on calumet
avenue as bent old
women dust candles in
the sacresty
a janitor
throws sawdust on
mark smitley's puke happens
every time they serve cheese
burgers for lunch
lisa scott's hips
don't have bumps but
she can kick a football
farther than I can and
that means something.
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
slap each others heads three
stooges style while i
try but fall short
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
set pins in erasers
on Anne Miller's chair one
time it drew blood
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
both had belly laughs and
general disregard for
white shirts and ties
joey shrubby
and chris klyczek
taught me to have fun at
the expense of others
but guilt remains
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
didn't fool my dead mom
dishrag knowing in the
kitchen cleaning
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
taught me how to have fun
which is more than i can
say about books
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
teased ernie fenyes til
he shit his pants in third
grade science class
for some reason
i wake hungry
gnawing on balsam wood
spitting out chunks of steel
made in EC
fragments of my
mind chip off and
next thing you know we are
smoking a bowl laughing
about Cheetos
the length of life
perplexes me
some days life lingers and
the next day you blink and
you're old and fat
Pretty girl
brushing teeth. A
lot of years of bumping
into each other
at the faucet.
It's the rhythm
that matters. All
else scatters when it's the
middle of the night and
you are afraid.
What is it you
want me to do
for you? Are you mean, a
machine, a Queen?
I need to know.
the worst thing
a poet can
be is a poet. Mow
your lawn, travel to Bamf,
have a career.
I really was
not looking for
someone to answer to,
but at night in our bed
it's not half bad.
Someone gave me
a radio
station. Now what? All I
can think of is news, talk,
sports and weather.
I would like to
commune with the
geniuses of the past,
but I’m just a fat slob
from the Midwest.
A green goddess
amongst dumpsters
sifts through cigarettes, coins,
cardboard juice boxes and
lost dignity.
A gray Brinks truck
turns the corner
into a pile of black
slush and stops at Cash
America.
or at least it
seems that way. I saw an
old woman jump a park
bench yesterday.
Constant grind of
inner gears, no
lube or calibration.
High-pitched whine of engines
in stagnation.
Tupelo Glen
double-wide on
a plot of low land that
has no business housing
a trailer park.
Black box on a
telephone pole
in a field of weeds
that nobody wants to
own anyways.
Burnt-out Buick
in a sand dune
that'll eventually
blow away, revealing
a rusty core.
The age in my
lower lumbar
accelerates faster
than the decay in
my balding head.
I miss those days.
I miss my girls.
A simple meal marred
only by broccoli
passes for bliss.
Dick's Sporting Goods,
Kohl's, Old Navy,
Nordstrom Rack and one fat
squirrel crossing Main Street
by Chipotle.
Eating doughnuts
in a parking
lot on a Saturday
with a concrete mixer
painted bright orange.
Precious little
baby suckling
my cheek. Next thing you know
she's on a subway in
New York City.
The sadness of
a gray day in
December is only
matched by - What's for dinner,
ma? Spaghetti?
The other side
of sorrow is
New York and Chicago
at the kitchen table
just one more time.
Every time a
toy goes viral
at Christmas, six tuk tuks
in Cambodia get
extra business.
It hailed, it
rained and it snowed
in one hour on Lake
Michigan, where you will
be tough - or toast.
Age and love bring
31 years
of holding hands over
an Oberweis milk shake
that never ends.
I love her more.
She knows this and
cultivates it. I don't
mind, 'cause when the Bears win,
everyone's happy.
I'd like to show
you more of me,
but for that, you'll need a
poet. I'm just a fat
old ditch-digger.
Please scoop out
a few more words
for the spirit that leads
us on our journey to
the long quiet.
Provide some soothe,
some salve, some false
security in a world
where men drug women to
rape and kill them.
The belt buckles
that follow us
through stoplights and steeples
only go away with
a good soul bleach.
If that is not
possible, there's
always a one-bedroom
in Queens with three cats and
dirty linen.
She eats thorns and
icicles for
breakfast then spits milky
vomit down your throat just
to see you choke.
Despair rules in
America.
That is why we hate each
other. Bile, vomit,
spit, sadness, tears.
I cup my hands
to scratch my face
an itch. Yikes. It's the rough
terrain of an old man.
Son of a bitch.
I walk Wicker
Park. 53
years from now, you will walk
this path, these trees, this breeze...
just you and me.
Help me find the
captain of my
soul. Dead twigs on fallen
leaves. Bulbs that may or may
not bloom in Spring.
Trapped by choice in
a desert cave.
A long, noisy freight train
beckons me to hop in
an empty car.
Distorted mind
dominated
by a pinwheel, two
marbles, guilt, shame and a
hunger for love.
Warm, wet concrete
through your fingers
feels like baby shit
with shards of glass in it
that don't cut you.
Brown make-up skin
on a pillow
that hasn't been washed since
the beginning of
baseball season.
Secrets bore through
your soul to the
other side of anguish
where they'll hang out til you're
ready for them.
Morality
got in the way
of a good lay with Lynn
and Mary Sue but keeps
me sane with you.
The distance from
her shoulder to
chin is seven million
miles. I measured it
twice this morning.
The wet squeeze of
her innards on
my one protruding mark
makes purple stardust dance
on my liver.
Can't see the sleigh
bell that's supposed
to appear this time of
year. Fog and no snow in
El Segundo.
Fellow creatures,
take up the tribes
that rule you, fool you, and
examine them for how
they might kill you.
Splitting the brown
sea of hips and
heaven. Entering the
dark tunnel of must, sex,
and perversion.
We all know it
can disappear.
Love, kiss, a fear, a sneer.
When the clock strikes two, it's
probably you.
A wind-up toy,
I keep talking
until all the women
in Texas ask for a
dry martini.
Climb on your roof
and shout from the
highest shingle - I am
reborn, I believe - and
no one will care.
It goes to the
heart and soul of
our democracy that
you self-deal when no
one is looking.
A used teabag
on the floor next
to a treadmill must mean
something on a night when
it surprise snowed.
I could complain
all night about
how peopled out I am,
but it won't mean two shits
til tomorrow.
And nowhere a
scrupulous man,
nowhere a populous
land. An explosion has
taken it all.
I rolled over
and thought about
doing something, but the
neighbor's housekeeper has
a nice, fat ass.
When you step out
back to moke some
leed and there's snow on the
ground, you are a yucking
clown all around.
Repetition
marks the grave of
many a slave and knave.
One thing's for sure - don't you
go piss on them.
My breath is still
America.
My mist, you breathe, my home,
you leave. In haste, I grieve
America.
That's not how this
goes. You don't laze
around on the sofa
all day and suddenly
a poem arrives.
She has followed
me through several
life changes, none of which
comport with clean laundry
and car payments.
Jean rescues me
every night. I can't
sleep, so I listen to
him from 55 years
ago or so.
Swirling toward a
drain, slithering
through corroded pipes. It's
death by a million gasps
for food and air.
I'm a fake, a
fraud, a dawdling
dowd. I shall be found out
as the dastardly lout
you always said.
There's nothing to
do but accept
the torment of luncheons
and grand openings for
eternity.
We watch TV
on my couch, her
son sleeping peacefully
on the bed in which I
defile her.
After all these
lessons of loss,
if you still put yourself
aside for something else,
then that's on you.
We're still burning
for a cause that
may or may not exist.
If it turns out not, I'll
be really pissed.
Lemme outta
here. Push me through
a five-pound bag of bad
potatoes and a sea
of rotting kelp.
It's all about
cork-shucking with
Whitman. You can just see
his beard going up and
down in rhythm.
We walked across
the Brooklyn Bridge
holding hands to an orange
sunset partially blocked
by a huge ship.
A coffee pot
comes to Kevin
in the middle of the
night. Burnt grounds line the
bottom filter.
I know what it
means to be in
jeans when all you wanna
do is get dressed up and
go to heaven.
If you still think
I'm crazy, walk
Wicker Park and pick a
daffodil from the base
of an old tree.
Here they are, these
cash jockeys in
cages meant to keep us
out and them in... looking
down, counting cash.
Give me something
to talk about,
not murder, child rape,
robberies, arrests or
bad accidents.
Stop the madness
of poems taking
over my nostrils. I'd
like to breathe in without
words coming out.
Snowplow driver
slamming down his
blade has no idea
that I smell his breath from
inside my house.
It's all I can
do to keep from
running naked in the
street, in the dark wind, in
the biting cold.
Pressed up against
bodies, nowhere
to go, low ceiling, hot
air, can't breathe, can't move, and
now I am dead.
Leave me alone,
you poem-writing
marauder. You're drunk. We're
out of toilet paper.
So go get some.
California
rocks are pink and
orange and look like desert.
Indiana rocks are
cold, grey and dull.
A killer in the
sky reaches down
and shoots another kid
in Gary. He reloads
and does it again.
There is always
the night frights, and
if you touch the floor to
go tell mom, a monster
grabs your ankle.
Footsteps down the
hall flatten my
heart... girlfriend now moans
to someone else's fake
poetry piss.
I hum a tune
as a silver
refrigerator groans
rhythmically, as only
small engines can.
Grit you lose as
you get older.
Regret will linger, your
heart will smolder. This is
what I told her.
Somebody plays
Rolling Stones
a block away... I left
some roses in a hot
summer sewer.
We get old but
erotic love
does not. An open jar
of coconut oil
helps get us there.
I have long been
waiting for a
Sherwood Anderson night.
It has finally come,
without a pen.
This push, this gush,
this flow, I know
will leave as soon as I
roll over and answer
another text.
Sometimes it's just
not what you thought
it would be, like when some
kid plays loud videos
inside Starbucks.
It's gratitude.
Love, asphalt, bongs,
hate, grass, stench, spanks, kisses,
rebirth. It all adds up
to one big thanks.
Cadillac grills
are ready to
pounce, bite, devour. Porsche
grills say "on your knees and
I don't mean please."
Butts and sweat aren't
the worst thing for
your soul. Pop some tunes, moke
some leed, shower, and read
some Chuckie B.
What could you two
possibly have
to say that is so damn
important you talk through
rest period?
Sawdust tavern,
music way too
loud. American beer
owned by Brazil. Joe says
he wants to kill.
Neutralize the
baking soda
that bubbles in your blood.
Calibrate the culling
of your next herd.
Universal
milk thighs and one
more inconsequential
imbroglio until
you ride away.
It's a witches'
curse who you are
and when you'll get there. Black
cauldrons are only for
dreams and cartoons.
What's your life mean
anyway? These
roads, these stores, these floors, these
doors go on without you.
There's your answer.
Wind howling and
cobras laughing
can be put in the same
category when strife and
your wife team up.
my foolish heart
still craves every
flutter of her eye… still
waiting in line for the
end of restraint
A mass of flesh
on the asphalt
looks awful. It reminds
you of death and the dust
you will become.
gray poopy day
technology
tumbles into a sea
of used watches desktops
and plastic toys
when it’s all said
and done and we’ve
blown ourselves up at least
there’ll be white lilies
to wave goodbye
I can feel
the tension of
all the people still stuck at
Ohare and Midway. They
just exhaled.
I’ve seen a light
at the end of
a long metal tube on
Lake Michigan during
a night drowning.
broken beside
the bed while it's
hovering above the
lamp radiating in
a puff of smoke
one day he just
gave in to the
moment. that was before
all the snow globes in East
Hammond blew up
it's hard to sleep
knowing that there's
my sister's cheese cake in
the refrigerator
in the garage
once you figure
out there's beauty
and order in the soft
swail of a honeycomb
show's almost over
my wife's sleeping
a floor above
where i write poems all night
how she puts up with this
is beyond me
these fears disrupt
my mind and then
i shake my head and groan
out loud. these fears disrupt
my mind and then...
you can tell a
whole life story
in the sparkle of smooth
concrete on a six-step
stoop in Park Slope
i smoked a bowl
then another
and by the time it was
embers i was off thinking
bout something else
cars whiz by fast
on calumet
avenue as bent old
women dust candles in
the sacresty
a janitor
throws sawdust on
mark smitley's puke happens
every time they serve cheese
burgers for lunch
lisa scott's hips
don't have bumps but
she can kick a football
farther than I can and
that means something.
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
slap each others heads three
stooges style while i
try but fall short
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
set pins in erasers
on Anne Miller's chair one
time it drew blood
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
both had belly laughs and
general disregard for
white shirts and ties
joey shrubby
and chris klyczek
taught me to have fun at
the expense of others
but guilt remains
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
didn't fool my dead mom
dishrag knowing in the
kitchen cleaning
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
taught me how to have fun
which is more than i can
say about books
joey chruby
and chris klyczek
teased ernie fenyes til
he shit his pants in third
grade science class
for some reason
i wake hungry
gnawing on balsam wood
spitting out chunks of steel
made in EC
fragments of my
mind chip off and
next thing you know we are
smoking a bowl laughing
about Cheetos
the length of life
perplexes me
some days life lingers and
the next day you blink and
you're old and fat
Pretty girl
brushing teeth. A
lot of years of bumping
into each other
at the faucet.
It's the rhythm
that matters. All
else scatters when it's the
middle of the night and
you are afraid.
What is it you
want me to do
for you? Are you mean, a
machine, a Queen?
I need to know.
the worst thing
a poet can
be is a poet. Mow
your lawn, travel to Bamf,
have a career.
I really was
not looking for
someone to answer to,
but at night in our bed
it's not half bad.
Someone gave me
a radio
station. Now what? All I
can think of is news, talk,
sports and weather.
I would like to
commune with the
geniuses of the past,
but I’m just a fat slob
from the Midwest.
A green goddess
amongst dumpsters
sifts through cigarettes, coins,
cardboard juice boxes and
lost dignity.
A gray Brinks truck
turns the corner
into a pile of black
slush and stops at Cash
America.