small sketch series no. 1

April 14, 2012 § Leave a comment

ice bound hounds of
bad descent howl from
where they are anchored
in the bergs and floes of
their misanthropy


circumstance of gravity

April 10, 2012 § 3 Comments

they gather there
the pigeons
the gulls
below statues of
our cities revolutionary heroes
crowd sourcing a solution
concerning the consumption
of scraps discarded
by the lunchtime throng
that pours from
offices when the weather
deems it possible
they, both those with wings
and those without,
dance around each other
all squabbling in their own
language – until the wingless
are sucked back into
the towers
disappearing like light
succumbing to the
circumstance of gravity

you, of course

April 9, 2012 § 7 Comments

you, of course
had no way of knowing that

the feeling, from the first
moment it
took up residence
in your chest
would become
lifelong haunting

when I wake

April 9, 2012 § 6 Comments

when I wake
about the only thing I expect
to do with some regularity
is to breath
everything else
is a crapshoot
I suppose you could figure
I’ll make it out of the house
and pull my shift at the job
but you never really know
what kind of
madness could arise
between the front door
and my truck
waiting like it has all these years
to groan to life with the
turn of the ignition
but, that’s the spark
isn’t it? the not knowing
you can’t outdo that particular
for now, I’m thankful for the breathing, I’ll judge
everything else
as it comes along

mid winter memory

April 9, 2012 § 1 Comment

when Decembers blue
silk nights
drift down
these houses look the same
as they did the winter I sat in
window waiting for
at least a glimpse of her

it’s not often I return here
and oftener less on
a winters night

they call it melancholy

to me it’s frost on a window
I wipe off
every so often
to watch again
until, like an invisible spider
weaving crystal thread
the window is
covered once more
and I turn away


April 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

there there
doomsday – lead us
“green insanity”
there’s no argument
fantasy is
oily things
somewhere dirty

addicts enjoying high economy
fresh binge reserves
minimal adaptation
to aggressive tech
hydrocarbon lifestyles

reckless politically
hungry cultures rise
maddened mind
execute oil earth damned
loop loop loop loop
loop loop

Montana Dakota
Pennsylvania Utica
toxic all
waste move East

well now, you gots yer light tight
an’ you gots yer tight light
don’t forget ’bout the tight shale
oh, an’ the pre-salt
the deep water
gotta love the
deep water

It’s all so God Damned tasty

a song for the heart of Iris

April 5, 2012 § 1 Comment

they’ve chalklined his feet on concrete, Iris leans on the sun
she won’t say much to consequence exept she has to run
to buy thirty pounds of protien for her homecoming son
who dug a hole beneath the rug up at their garrison
where he waits for Elija and his band of mandolins
to play a moonlit serenade while he bathes in gin
the battles must be over now it said so on page one
so he’ll pitch his fork over the fence and finish what he’s done

Charlemagne isn’t listening to the cracked bells toll
he’s heading for the sunami with a feather and fishing pole
he will cast his line into the tide and contemplate his role
as king of all simple things like body, mind and soul
and what he’s going to have to break for them to let him in
since he left his keys in San Joaqin hanging on a pin
the doorman has become a ghost he’s sitting in the hole
built by the son of Iris who is seeking out her dole

on sidewalks filled with mortar that’s rained down from facades
of parlimental leviathans raised from virgin sod
the keynote speaker is bailing out for him it’s all too odd
he leaves his script on the podium and calls his escape pod
Charlemagne is walking out of a door he just walked in
having traded a foriegn diplomat for ink and fountain pen
and it’s high tea at the vicarage where they’re arranging names
of those they posted without consent on their wall of shame

the wall is getting crowded, the viceroy thinks it’s best
to fund another section to accommodate new guests
the speaker rolls up his eyes and says to friends in jest
that he’ll withhold everything from those who leave the nest
besides, he says, pointing the reserves are growing thin
no sense in giving more since I’m not taking any less in
Charlemagne waves his feather and with a royal nod
signs his name to the charter and heads out for Cape Cod

where things are well underway in the viceroys yard
for line redacting enthusiasts of legislative lard
who express their faith in secrecy for them it won’t be hard
to boil down explainations for their lack of regard
and Iris is still dreaming, it’s the only sin
that’s gone unnoticed so she heads home again
with a box and tape and colored crepe to end another start
she says goodnight to her sweet boy and packs away her heart

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