Your pedigree
matters little
when you're laying face down
in puke, tears and spittle
from deep inside.
matters little
when you're laying face down
in puke, tears and spittle
from deep inside.
Wing Biddlebaum's
trajectory
changed when he caught some dreams
that were supposed to die
gasping for air.
Hidden under
influences,
fluttering of the heart,
groping on a flat cart
in a farm field.
Ability
to run swiftly
comes in handy at times,
Like when you turn 50
in a motel.
Shut your soul to
comprehension
of the roaring voices.
Hear them, but don't listen.
They'll halt your dreams.
Elected me
will never be.
Too much of an artists'
sensitivity spree.
That and beer breath.
Resurgent kiss
won't leave me be.
Blades of grass mix with us.
Moist moonlight begets lust.
Someone watches.
A bolt of light
pierces my heart
for no real reason.
It glows, but it hurts me.
I can't say why.
Black crow flies by,
Cheerios milk.
Morning newspaper on
a tablet made in Nam.
Global journey.
Lose yourself in
debauchery.
It feels good for a while.
Sex, drugs, a Murphy bed.
Go numb. Be lost.
Messages on
a black wire
high in an evening sky.
Hope there's some truth in there.
Sure could use it.
Constant hustle
isn’t any good
for anyone ‘cept birds.
People burn out, like me.
That's where I am.
Many are dead,
all the people
whose names we've known or said.
We will soon be with them
saying nothing.
Winter white snow,
Summer black road.
A luscious green in Spring.
A casket full of leaves
as death now Falls.
Investigate
your soul with a
jackhammer. Release love
with a gentle whisper.
Clean up after.
People are good,
generally,
when you catch them alone.
But in a group, watch out.
We are vicious.
He went away
way too early.
There's much left to do, love.
We will miss his smile.
For now, we grieve.
No poems today.
There is a dearth
of creativity
and too much saliva
on my mike stand.
Weary shuffle.
Sores, blistered feet.
Rocks on roads, rain, snakes, toads.
There is nothing that will
keep me from you.
Mental viewing
screens from above
don't lie. Dead, you can see
clearly the idiot
you have been.
It doesn't serve
you to worry
like that. The Earth was flat
and now it's round. We've found
that all things change.
Gray slimy mist
overhang day.
An old horror movie
bombards our sinking souls
with wickedness.
Psychedelic
drugs blow your mind.
Search for love, the sublime
and any safe harbor
that you can find.
Won't ever hold
office, I posit.
Too many skeletons
stuck in the closet, poised
to ruin me.
The ATM
won't let you send
money to your friends in
hell. Oh well. They'd snort it
up anyways.
Going to bed
angry sure sucks.
Gears grind you to a sleep
filled with Eagles songs
and gnashing teeth.
When you are trapped,
all you want to
do is escape. Sometimes,
that's not possible, so
dream of blue sky.
We could all die
half crucified.
Guilt that hangs from our souls
wilts with gin, juice and lime.
Ongh Yangh lives on.
What is it you
deserve, asshole?
For all your fake promises
and humiliations,
you'll rot in hell.
Brick wall keeps out
unwanted lout.
Earth berm so you can't see
unwanted people like
the elderly.
What truth you want,
which facts you see,
depends entirely
on what you want to be,
real or not.
14 mushrooms,
six bags of weed.
Another day at the
fart-filled colostomy
bag of a home.
Nastiest day
of the whole year.
Gray, icy slush blankets
your soul and everything
you hold dear, close.
Lay like you are
in a coffin.
Let death take you away
over land and sea to
your final home.
Region sadness
looms large today.
I can feel their sorrow,
longing, callouses, love -
not what they say.
Tunnel coming.
Can you feel it?
White light calls... constant hum
of a hundred angry
souls trapped below.
My aim is true
if skies are blue.
Bubble happiness time
beats solemn gray sadness
any freakin' day.
I can only
go deep for so
long. I know that it's wrong
to linger or stifle,
But this is me.
I give you my
heart and my soul,
my pretty Valentine.
Do what you wish with them.
Be gentle. Love.
A waitress waits
for an order.
Swivel hips say "Hurry
up. It's time for my break."
Nylons, white shoes.
Cold feet standing
still at the stove
waiting for the water
to boil, his wife dead
not 40 days.
Distracted mom
driving away
from a soccer practice
not knowing which way she's
going or why.
High school student
with her cell phone
trying to connect with
other students just as
bored and lonely.
Shared love, best love.
Penicillin
was produced by passion.
Air conditioning, too.
Don't discount love.
Fragile world
held together
by unseen forces that
threaten to go away
any day now.
Flutter across,
little birdie,
take what you want from my
back yard. I don't own it.
Neither do you.
I just want to
be ordinary
and left alone to brood
about how the world
screwed me over.
It is words that
endure, and art,
not radio, music,
video or July
fireworks displays.
Your heart is drums,
your breath is both
rhythm and lead guitar.
Your voice box sings. And your
pud screws groupies.
Now go to sleep,
porcelain girl.
I'll try to protect you
from evil and danger.
But I will fail.
I wanna be
here when I'm dead.
To write down history,
you gotta write it down.
Capeech, asshole?
Plugging in to
the energy
of the highway is like
building a tool shed at
sunset, alone.
Look up, see a
locomotive
coming hard right at you.
You freeze. Oh no. I'm dead
from one bad choice.
Toiletpaper
carousel box
reminds you that after
you are through, you still have
something to do.
Encourage your
fading soul to
reinvigorate strong.
The best way is to get
out of the way.
Gray sky, black street,
telephone poles,
car wash, signs, restaurants.
Six months cold. Somewhere it's
warm and sunny.
A longing to break
free of the noise.
Clear, open terrain, sky.
On the fifth of July
will be silence.
Wandering on
Shelbourne Street,
Sherwood shed sheckles and
greed to wind up in a
cheap warming house.
Pyramid jump.
Eiffel climber.
Dead Sea Scrolls still speak. Poe.
Wright brothers. Jesus. And
all else you know.
The Lake County
poison breath is
sheriffs, mayors, councilmen
stealing funds and your soul.
Dillinger knew.
Sherwood sure shucked
corn correctly.
He also lived in a
Chicago rooming house
that never was.
Life is good if
you let it be.
You want to be married
and also be free. It's
a mystery.
Suburban wife
strife doesn't mean
shit against the evil
of Afghani chieftains
arming children.
Winter serves up
Austerity.
And I'm tired of it.
Cold feet, thick socks, scowls
and car heaters.
There are days when
you just don't know.
We could be ready to
explode or cure cancer.
You just don't know.
It's Hoosier
Hysteria.
Radio covenance,
TV too. Fans rejoice
cuz Winter's over.
Though Lady could
not hear or see,
she knew what soon would be.
A doggy doctor pricked
her dead, with me.
Forget the wood
and bricks and stone,
your mansion by the sea.
Lay down your life for your
soul, not money.
Life is a lily
pad you step on
and fall through. Muddy, drowning,
you frantically swim up
to the surface.
Recurring thought
that Winter sucks.
We've taverns, TVs, dread.
"It could be worse," she said.
"You could be dead."
It is Hoosier
Hysteria
not malaria that
cakes our minds and makes us
shout – “Hey, time out.”
Each beloved hour
passes quickly.
Next thing you know you are
picking raisins out of
your wife's stuffing.
Undiscovered lore
makes you smile.
The mustiness of book
beats fishing for chinook
even at dawn.
Crocheted blanket
from your daughter
in New York means a lot
on an icy morning
in the Region.
The culprit stirs
all day, all night,
a membrane pulse throughout.
A friend, a foe, but most
of all - a lout.
Motivation
in small doses
is okay. But too much
and you wind up sleeping
alone at night.
Running swiftly
toward a fence,
a stranger stops to pee -
"If I keep this pace, the end
of me it be.”
When winds blow fierce
and rain drops hard,
the fear won't stop in me.
Turn out the lights, so there’s
nothing I see.
Delayed until
tomorrow flight,
Marie makes her way back to
FaceTime with the kids and
a cold night pillow.
trajectory
changed when he caught some dreams
that were supposed to die
gasping for air.
Hidden under
influences,
fluttering of the heart,
groping on a flat cart
in a farm field.
Ability
to run swiftly
comes in handy at times,
Like when you turn 50
in a motel.
Shut your soul to
comprehension
of the roaring voices.
Hear them, but don't listen.
They'll halt your dreams.
Elected me
will never be.
Too much of an artists'
sensitivity spree.
That and beer breath.
Resurgent kiss
won't leave me be.
Blades of grass mix with us.
Moist moonlight begets lust.
Someone watches.
A bolt of light
pierces my heart
for no real reason.
It glows, but it hurts me.
I can't say why.
Black crow flies by,
Cheerios milk.
Morning newspaper on
a tablet made in Nam.
Global journey.
Lose yourself in
debauchery.
It feels good for a while.
Sex, drugs, a Murphy bed.
Go numb. Be lost.
Messages on
a black wire
high in an evening sky.
Hope there's some truth in there.
Sure could use it.
Constant hustle
isn’t any good
for anyone ‘cept birds.
People burn out, like me.
That's where I am.
Many are dead,
all the people
whose names we've known or said.
We will soon be with them
saying nothing.
Winter white snow,
Summer black road.
A luscious green in Spring.
A casket full of leaves
as death now Falls.
Investigate
your soul with a
jackhammer. Release love
with a gentle whisper.
Clean up after.
People are good,
generally,
when you catch them alone.
But in a group, watch out.
We are vicious.
He went away
way too early.
There's much left to do, love.
We will miss his smile.
For now, we grieve.
No poems today.
There is a dearth
of creativity
and too much saliva
on my mike stand.
Weary shuffle.
Sores, blistered feet.
Rocks on roads, rain, snakes, toads.
There is nothing that will
keep me from you.
Mental viewing
screens from above
don't lie. Dead, you can see
clearly the idiot
you have been.
It doesn't serve
you to worry
like that. The Earth was flat
and now it's round. We've found
that all things change.
Gray slimy mist
overhang day.
An old horror movie
bombards our sinking souls
with wickedness.
Psychedelic
drugs blow your mind.
Search for love, the sublime
and any safe harbor
that you can find.
Won't ever hold
office, I posit.
Too many skeletons
stuck in the closet, poised
to ruin me.
The ATM
won't let you send
money to your friends in
hell. Oh well. They'd snort it
up anyways.
Going to bed
angry sure sucks.
Gears grind you to a sleep
filled with Eagles songs
and gnashing teeth.
When you are trapped,
all you want to
do is escape. Sometimes,
that's not possible, so
dream of blue sky.
We could all die
half crucified.
Guilt that hangs from our souls
wilts with gin, juice and lime.
Ongh Yangh lives on.
What is it you
deserve, asshole?
For all your fake promises
and humiliations,
you'll rot in hell.
Brick wall keeps out
unwanted lout.
Earth berm so you can't see
unwanted people like
the elderly.
What truth you want,
which facts you see,
depends entirely
on what you want to be,
real or not.
14 mushrooms,
six bags of weed.
Another day at the
fart-filled colostomy
bag of a home.
Nastiest day
of the whole year.
Gray, icy slush blankets
your soul and everything
you hold dear, close.
Lay like you are
in a coffin.
Let death take you away
over land and sea to
your final home.
Region sadness
looms large today.
I can feel their sorrow,
longing, callouses, love -
not what they say.
Tunnel coming.
Can you feel it?
White light calls... constant hum
of a hundred angry
souls trapped below.
My aim is true
if skies are blue.
Bubble happiness time
beats solemn gray sadness
any freakin' day.
I can only
go deep for so
long. I know that it's wrong
to linger or stifle,
But this is me.
I give you my
heart and my soul,
my pretty Valentine.
Do what you wish with them.
Be gentle. Love.
A waitress waits
for an order.
Swivel hips say "Hurry
up. It's time for my break."
Nylons, white shoes.
Cold feet standing
still at the stove
waiting for the water
to boil, his wife dead
not 40 days.
Distracted mom
driving away
from a soccer practice
not knowing which way she's
going or why.
High school student
with her cell phone
trying to connect with
other students just as
bored and lonely.
Shared love, best love.
Penicillin
was produced by passion.
Air conditioning, too.
Don't discount love.
Fragile world
held together
by unseen forces that
threaten to go away
any day now.
Flutter across,
little birdie,
take what you want from my
back yard. I don't own it.
Neither do you.
I just want to
be ordinary
and left alone to brood
about how the world
screwed me over.
It is words that
endure, and art,
not radio, music,
video or July
fireworks displays.
Your heart is drums,
your breath is both
rhythm and lead guitar.
Your voice box sings. And your
pud screws groupies.
Now go to sleep,
porcelain girl.
I'll try to protect you
from evil and danger.
But I will fail.
I wanna be
here when I'm dead.
To write down history,
you gotta write it down.
Capeech, asshole?
Plugging in to
the energy
of the highway is like
building a tool shed at
sunset, alone.
Look up, see a
locomotive
coming hard right at you.
You freeze. Oh no. I'm dead
from one bad choice.
Toiletpaper
carousel box
reminds you that after
you are through, you still have
something to do.
Encourage your
fading soul to
reinvigorate strong.
The best way is to get
out of the way.
Gray sky, black street,
telephone poles,
car wash, signs, restaurants.
Six months cold. Somewhere it's
warm and sunny.
A longing to break
free of the noise.
Clear, open terrain, sky.
On the fifth of July
will be silence.
Wandering on
Shelbourne Street,
Sherwood shed sheckles and
greed to wind up in a
cheap warming house.
Pyramid jump.
Eiffel climber.
Dead Sea Scrolls still speak. Poe.
Wright brothers. Jesus. And
all else you know.
The Lake County
poison breath is
sheriffs, mayors, councilmen
stealing funds and your soul.
Dillinger knew.
Sherwood sure shucked
corn correctly.
He also lived in a
Chicago rooming house
that never was.
Life is good if
you let it be.
You want to be married
and also be free. It's
a mystery.
Suburban wife
strife doesn't mean
shit against the evil
of Afghani chieftains
arming children.
Winter serves up
Austerity.
And I'm tired of it.
Cold feet, thick socks, scowls
and car heaters.
There are days when
you just don't know.
We could be ready to
explode or cure cancer.
You just don't know.
It's Hoosier
Hysteria.
Radio covenance,
TV too. Fans rejoice
cuz Winter's over.
Though Lady could
not hear or see,
she knew what soon would be.
A doggy doctor pricked
her dead, with me.
Forget the wood
and bricks and stone,
your mansion by the sea.
Lay down your life for your
soul, not money.
Life is a lily
pad you step on
and fall through. Muddy, drowning,
you frantically swim up
to the surface.
Recurring thought
that Winter sucks.
We've taverns, TVs, dread.
"It could be worse," she said.
"You could be dead."
It is Hoosier
Hysteria
not malaria that
cakes our minds and makes us
shout – “Hey, time out.”
Each beloved hour
passes quickly.
Next thing you know you are
picking raisins out of
your wife's stuffing.
Undiscovered lore
makes you smile.
The mustiness of book
beats fishing for chinook
even at dawn.
Crocheted blanket
from your daughter
in New York means a lot
on an icy morning
in the Region.
The culprit stirs
all day, all night,
a membrane pulse throughout.
A friend, a foe, but most
of all - a lout.
Motivation
in small doses
is okay. But too much
and you wind up sleeping
alone at night.
Running swiftly
toward a fence,
a stranger stops to pee -
"If I keep this pace, the end
of me it be.”
When winds blow fierce
and rain drops hard,
the fear won't stop in me.
Turn out the lights, so there’s
nothing I see.
Delayed until
tomorrow flight,
Marie makes her way back to
FaceTime with the kids and
a cold night pillow.