book love and shower lust

my poem, dogeared inspiration, in FOXGLOVE JOURNALmy poem, dark magic, in FOXGLOVE JOURNAL

I footnoted these 2 pieces in FOXGLOVE Journal before on previous posts, but I should have presented them better,
supporting the wonderful creative journals that support writers and artists – thank you😘
(photos courtesy of Foxglove Journal)

festooned chaos

since Halloween is near and my soon-to-be printed (yea) book
is due mid-December or earlier (yea)
I’m posting the only verse in love of the monster
that pays direct homage to this most wicked and deliciously sweet celebrationfestooned-chaos-text-color

love of the monster, is a black and white illustrated book
color was added here to protect the innocent;)

heightened hubris

no one grinning over my shoulder
down here

watching me etch letters into mold
my sensitive nose, a poor man’s vision replacement
vague air under-pacing
the fast fuzzy spider spinning by the lamp
shut off
sun blazing passed the cheap plastic slats
diagonal down so the mower men stop looking in
though one dude is always smiling, he’s so happy riding his bitchin’ machine
Goddamn, I swore no more potty mouth musing
hope naughty interpretations blossom into prescient ponderings
I read Bukowski
depending on my mood
the man scares the shit out of me with his fast forward funk
or he shatters my drunken heart
clearly his was crushed long ago maybe before he knew himself
his manmind discovered a bolder way to tap that
I imagine Charles Bukowski
not a Charlie, never a Chuck, that would agitate
I know a Robert who is not a Bob
only very Robert, Robert most in his complicated blue eyes
like me, never an Ann even in pixie haired days
definitely not an Annie, though most women confident enough for the “ie” are quite spectacular
bubbly and honest
I am neither
at this particular moment
I’m not writing from my head
I fear

you might not come back
and I would be forced to dig lower than Hell’s hole (she laughs)
I do not sleep very well
the brain

she can be such an ass
I promised her not to become one of those
with heightened hubris
speaking in tongues about only mine

when this wicked whacked world is shaking

God, please don’t let the world shatter, shatter, shatter deep
like Charles Bukowski’s heart when it’s breaking



I made her, if I spoke with her she might tell me she is sad, she wouldn’t have chosen hair to hang in her eyes though she does appreciate inner peace tucked beneath snake scales

is there a beautiful way to burn

heat consumes the lungs
near the soul
overpowers the strongest heart
fire ravages
though in a forest, newness follows
hiding behind a shut door
he waits
for her
she feels his heart pounding
through the steel
her nervous hand reaches
if that portal opens
will things explode

is there a beautiful way to burn

Dancing Flames

Dancing Flames

wasn’t planning on WPing ’til after this insane party weekend but this popped into my head and I didn’t want to lose it
I’m down here in my humble studio basement, I’m supposed to be cleaning and preparing for a grad party

momentarily satiated


god perfection numbs hardened loins
unfulfilled lapses

floating entrapment these cosmic wombs
soul-dead reflections
heaven merges horizon
clouded desire in flawless pain
for these mortals
below the sky
ladders to lust

these grinding mortals
worked over by earth
lichens spill velvet secrets
wrinkled virgin flesh pours
whispering births
upon earth’s mammalian warmth
bowed lips wail for nectar
gilt-edged offerings
carelessly pass sublime mouths
another naked newborn
gossamer Olympus
momentarily satiated

no one was injured in the making of this life

when does the mellifluous voice-over sing
no one was injured in the making of this life
where is he and his satin, solid chords
he guarantees I won’t expire if used correctly
you won’t void my warranty if accidentally bounced around
did I tell you
I want out of my contract
I’m old merchandise
used up
I just want to leap off this fucking shelf
land on that lovely yellow-tooth enamel floor
and beat it
far away where products get a second chance
not a shelf life – that’s so 2015
I want a new paint job
and old money
where is that guy
who can buy me shiny
now see, I’m not talkin’ diamonds
hate ’em
no gems, furs or initials like some brand burned on my ass
I want pure unadulterated gifts
that will touch my heart
in ways
only deep can reach
so bring your old money
and your wet lust
but stay home if you’re not the real deal
I want it all
I’m used goods and my time is precious
so much more so
than those greenbacks

M's Tears

M’s Tears

ah, my brain is exploding and the words are vomiting, sorry…


She waits like a little girl
in her woman’s body
Her skittish fingers keep checking
there’s nothing more
not now
not yet
maybe tomorrow
yes, maybe tomorrow
she tells herself
twirling her long hair into
invisible pigtails
the way he used to
when he said he loved her
when he stripped her bare
of self-doubt
she checks one more time
only eleven
deep in her chest she knows
he’ll miss midnight too
maybe someday
on another midnight
she’ll reach
and he’ll be there
when he chooses
to forget the inner boy
and behave like the man
the woman and girl
need him to be

Homage Picasso/charcoal

Homage Picasso/charcoal

Charcoal/Pastel done back, back, back, way back…