Give me a piece
of the pain in
your heart. Let me keep it
so you can sleep and not
weep. Right now, please.
of the pain in
your heart. Let me keep it
so you can sleep and not
weep. Right now, please.
Love without trust
sucks balls. A cheap
slipup demolishes
holding hands at bedtime
and grandchildren.
Hope, for all it
does for you, leaves
you when you need it most.
Death, loss, despair and you're
helpless and lost.
I forgive you,
mutherf---er,
but I will not forget
the hateful things you do
to hurt people.
You ready for
the ascension?
I'm not sure what that means
but it sure sounds better
than old bratwurst.
Polluted by
people, I do
not hope to find what I'm
looking for among bad
breath and chatter.
Racism and
fascism and
xenophobia sound
cool on paper but not
under a hood.
We care about
our city. That's
the way it should be. Our
streets call the lonely and
the unwanted.
Somewhere there are
green plants in red
brick pots waiting to be
smoked into vapors that
always twinkle.
Squash the moment
with a heel
of compressed ash of the
holy ghost, our Saviour
and host. Amen.
This isn't what
I set out to
do, write poems. I'd rather
be reading the Sports section
after dinner.
If you can't say
it in twenty
four bumps, then what's the use?
Precision is hard work
for bums on crack.
Morning coffee,
back porch glory.
Red beak, black body, news
in hand. Hate still blossoms
across the land.
Sheila Tuesday,
breathe, sweat, bend. She
got a flat tire, pulled
over and never seen
again, my friend.
Strong is often
overrated,
unless you need a red brick
wall to block the sway of
the sun and moon.
Mom and dad used
to do the Twist
in the kitchen. It was
the best of times, not worst.
I miss the smiles.
Flat on your back
you can ponder
what's above and below
and halfway to yonder.
You must lie still.
Some windows closed,
some are open.
Spring is here. Warmth is near.
But Lake Michigan still
rocks and rages.
Separated
by a mountain
stream, we tried to hold hands
but let go and both drowned
separately.
Lift your head to
see jealousy
on your viewing screen. It's
purple and yellow with
a hint of shame.
Times like these, you
are the most beautiful
thing in the world, girl.
Curtains on your cheek, lace
across your hand.
Feel the pulse,
the beat beat beat.
See the scourge, purge purge purge.
Feel the spirit, see
it and hear it.
I may not be
Nostredamus,
but I know when evil
seeps through the leaves. Look, now,
it's upon us.
American flag
at half mast. Cline
Avenue precast. My
sunset gas station of
present and past.
"That should do it"
so said Father
Pruitt. "But if you kill
again, I'll give you a
whole rosary."
Enjoy the rain,
the love, the pain,
the game. Ashes Ashes
isn't just a song, it's
a real thing.
Are you even
aware that you
breathe? Do you touch the grass,
the leaves? What the Sam Hill's
goin' on here?
Let go of all
that binds your mind
and innards. Melt into
the wood that barks a tree.
Hover, float, free.
People seethe and
scream at bastards
owning everything. But
it's always that the poor
want more, so sing.
You are the light
of my life. You
are mother daughter wife.
You rock my world with
grace and passion.
What were you in
'74?
Did you go braless? Did
you have long hair? Wampum
Lake, not a care.
Riding on the edge
of a cliff of
windmills... If they start up
again, then you become
the chosen one.
We're six monkeys
trying to frick
a football barreling
toward an American
oblivion.
Let me stay out
of your scowl,
of your bitternesss, of
your howl at all that is
good, or should be.
Gray skies on an
old lady in
a green bonnet staring
at Tickseeds that just won't
bloom properly.
Ken is crucial
to the future
of America. Barbie
curates whole batalions
with just one wink.
Hey dope, will you
please return my
lost dream? I want to taste
the salty sweat of your
secret requiem.
I lay myself
at your feet. Please
trample on the parts that
you don't like. I will love
you from under.
You hold my heart
in your hands. You
are my everything. Grass
grows strong with a new sense
of hope and love.
What's the matter
with Puerto
Rican women? I like
them just the same as Dutch
ice princesses.
Dancing in the
kitchen after
dinner, she dips near a
pile of dishes he
will wash later.
Your left hand is
dirty, your right
silky clean. Intentions
mirky, you shrug, you're mean.
We're both alone.
Streetlights mark the
way to the north
corner of "halfway to
hell" and "what the frick are
you lookin' at?"
The Juniper
tree out front guards
against salesmen and
sentiment, true love and
chipped up concrete.
Her kiss leads to
a multitude
of irrational thoughts.
For a moment, I thought
we were in love.
Telephone pole
carries true and
false messages. These days,
it's tough to figure out
the difference.
License plate on
a red Mustang
says who you are but not
what you represent or
hold in your heart.
Invasive grass,
pretty, my ass.
It usurps the land, which
is ours, not some native
American.
Rock on a shelf,
car on a road,
man on a woman mean
something. Letters on a
screen mean nothing.
School bus yellow
or at least it
used to be. Now it's orange
rust and peeling paint. Hope
the brakes still work.
The lock and chain
of suburban pain.
Spaghetti of ground chuck
will feed your gut but not
your minstrel soul.
Hammond Clinic
stand up job by
a ceramic white Kohler.
"All employees must wash
hands" (after sex).
I want to be
free of the big
toxic that exists in
America and Highland,
Indiana.
A perfect poem
slipped out of my
memory as I looked
the other way on a
hot day in May.
How about some
recall of a
tiny redhead on the
steps of Sproul Hall for a
march in late Fall.
How do I let
go of all that
you say I gotta get
done before I die? How
can I? And why?
sucks balls. A cheap
slipup demolishes
holding hands at bedtime
and grandchildren.
Hope, for all it
does for you, leaves
you when you need it most.
Death, loss, despair and you're
helpless and lost.
I forgive you,
mutherf---er,
but I will not forget
the hateful things you do
to hurt people.
You ready for
the ascension?
I'm not sure what that means
but it sure sounds better
than old bratwurst.
Polluted by
people, I do
not hope to find what I'm
looking for among bad
breath and chatter.
Racism and
fascism and
xenophobia sound
cool on paper but not
under a hood.
We care about
our city. That's
the way it should be. Our
streets call the lonely and
the unwanted.
Somewhere there are
green plants in red
brick pots waiting to be
smoked into vapors that
always twinkle.
Squash the moment
with a heel
of compressed ash of the
holy ghost, our Saviour
and host. Amen.
This isn't what
I set out to
do, write poems. I'd rather
be reading the Sports section
after dinner.
If you can't say
it in twenty
four bumps, then what's the use?
Precision is hard work
for bums on crack.
Morning coffee,
back porch glory.
Red beak, black body, news
in hand. Hate still blossoms
across the land.
Sheila Tuesday,
breathe, sweat, bend. She
got a flat tire, pulled
over and never seen
again, my friend.
Strong is often
overrated,
unless you need a red brick
wall to block the sway of
the sun and moon.
Mom and dad used
to do the Twist
in the kitchen. It was
the best of times, not worst.
I miss the smiles.
Flat on your back
you can ponder
what's above and below
and halfway to yonder.
You must lie still.
Some windows closed,
some are open.
Spring is here. Warmth is near.
But Lake Michigan still
rocks and rages.
Separated
by a mountain
stream, we tried to hold hands
but let go and both drowned
separately.
Lift your head to
see jealousy
on your viewing screen. It's
purple and yellow with
a hint of shame.
Times like these, you
are the most beautiful
thing in the world, girl.
Curtains on your cheek, lace
across your hand.
Feel the pulse,
the beat beat beat.
See the scourge, purge purge purge.
Feel the spirit, see
it and hear it.
I may not be
Nostredamus,
but I know when evil
seeps through the leaves. Look, now,
it's upon us.
American flag
at half mast. Cline
Avenue precast. My
sunset gas station of
present and past.
"That should do it"
so said Father
Pruitt. "But if you kill
again, I'll give you a
whole rosary."
Enjoy the rain,
the love, the pain,
the game. Ashes Ashes
isn't just a song, it's
a real thing.
Are you even
aware that you
breathe? Do you touch the grass,
the leaves? What the Sam Hill's
goin' on here?
Let go of all
that binds your mind
and innards. Melt into
the wood that barks a tree.
Hover, float, free.
People seethe and
scream at bastards
owning everything. But
it's always that the poor
want more, so sing.
You are the light
of my life. You
are mother daughter wife.
You rock my world with
grace and passion.
What were you in
'74?
Did you go braless? Did
you have long hair? Wampum
Lake, not a care.
Riding on the edge
of a cliff of
windmills... If they start up
again, then you become
the chosen one.
We're six monkeys
trying to frick
a football barreling
toward an American
oblivion.
Let me stay out
of your scowl,
of your bitternesss, of
your howl at all that is
good, or should be.
Gray skies on an
old lady in
a green bonnet staring
at Tickseeds that just won't
bloom properly.
Ken is crucial
to the future
of America. Barbie
curates whole batalions
with just one wink.
Hey dope, will you
please return my
lost dream? I want to taste
the salty sweat of your
secret requiem.
I lay myself
at your feet. Please
trample on the parts that
you don't like. I will love
you from under.
You hold my heart
in your hands. You
are my everything. Grass
grows strong with a new sense
of hope and love.
What's the matter
with Puerto
Rican women? I like
them just the same as Dutch
ice princesses.
Dancing in the
kitchen after
dinner, she dips near a
pile of dishes he
will wash later.
Your left hand is
dirty, your right
silky clean. Intentions
mirky, you shrug, you're mean.
We're both alone.
Streetlights mark the
way to the north
corner of "halfway to
hell" and "what the frick are
you lookin' at?"
The Juniper
tree out front guards
against salesmen and
sentiment, true love and
chipped up concrete.
Her kiss leads to
a multitude
of irrational thoughts.
For a moment, I thought
we were in love.
Telephone pole
carries true and
false messages. These days,
it's tough to figure out
the difference.
License plate on
a red Mustang
says who you are but not
what you represent or
hold in your heart.
Invasive grass,
pretty, my ass.
It usurps the land, which
is ours, not some native
American.
Rock on a shelf,
car on a road,
man on a woman mean
something. Letters on a
screen mean nothing.
School bus yellow
or at least it
used to be. Now it's orange
rust and peeling paint. Hope
the brakes still work.
The lock and chain
of suburban pain.
Spaghetti of ground chuck
will feed your gut but not
your minstrel soul.
Hammond Clinic
stand up job by
a ceramic white Kohler.
"All employees must wash
hands" (after sex).
I want to be
free of the big
toxic that exists in
America and Highland,
Indiana.
A perfect poem
slipped out of my
memory as I looked
the other way on a
hot day in May.
How about some
recall of a
tiny redhead on the
steps of Sproul Hall for a
march in late Fall.
How do I let
go of all that
you say I gotta get
done before I die? How
can I? And why?