Bossy Behavior

What is a Poet?


the poet is

the divine translator


the soothsayer


and momma bird of the

world- of culture


chewing the tough



and feeding the



the world on her

tongue, demystified


the job has to be



the work an

honest gift


otherwise those lines

are only doggerel


and sour

to the ears


Nasty noises

one fist fits all


puke like a pro

you look like my friend

and my friend, she’s dead


and I like the idea

of the world being


with a sound


sentiments aside

you can’t hold me

my organ-  jet powered

my body- torpedo

the no hold of

nets can’t close

you’re the pretty one

let me touch the pretty one



I’m too loud to be creepy

I’m just sneaky


small questions

bare thighs

and nasty noises

The Black Sail Part 1

The Black Sail Part 1



a Black Flight of

swollen tonsil

busy convincin’

the demon to leave

the throat

failing of the

Black Halo



the world of hot neon lines

pickin’ up

Discardin’ the ones I don’t


weaving a poem with Black Hands

a nest

someone has opened The Black Sail

and spilled the dye

The sky a closed mouth

Black Damp


lungs heavy to hang

found sorrow in short hand

some sad Morse code

bury the Black Book and the Black Box

place all my words

down with me in the final Black Room


an itch that’s made

it’s home so deep

a fungal sternum cut and a

cough, a metronome

shrinking from the SHOUT of the Black Sail

started on the rim of madness


Like third kingdom’s gills

sail Flight and Halo

All Black as shadow laid

To defeat

Two days at White Sea

Let my words

Let ‘em shine

those ancient men and ancient women

see a face like a moon

in the morning


those ancient men and women

musta worshiped

its bald pale face

but they all died

and left their remains

for college graduates to find

for their thesis to write

but their sloping sockets

told something and

held something too

there’s was a delicate thing

like the bones of a bird

buried deep in the soils of unrest

and my tools

are unwieldy and I’m far too


for this line of work

so I busted the fossil

and forgot all of my dreams

from last night

look, this is me trying not

to be an animal

this is me

putting human pants

on my animal ass

this is me not giving up or

losing it

or getting lost in rib cage land

on the backs of k-pins

they said

those ancient men and women

were assimilated

that our species

ate their species

what wild wild times

I wonder if I

was from their tribe

cold my cape

I’m tired of this winter

my passion a long vapor and

herald through a conch

the quiet white

covered everything

cold night shattered

its remnants spun in the atmosphere


like a snow globe placenta

I’m a traveler

among bones

milk my entrance

cold my cape

glide on femurs

a boneyard pathway

I equate the great cold

with a sharp sense of


becoming more clear with

every frigid day

bone rider

white shiner

riding bone white knuckle

wide eye socket


a frantic

picked clean leviathan

and snowed roofs

the long hard barren trees

they’re reaching up in agony


Good News


Splitting my back

Washed out

Washed up

Birds silent under traffic

Traffic is all I heard

Change in jars

(not enough quarters

Only nasty copper)

My nose an oozing wound

On my face


I’m looking for good news

In every bottle I find

Lifting my pen

To defend myself

Cutting the clouds

With my own protesting


Showering under the pale


I’ll pretend to be a

Bald face moon




Thanks for coming to see

Me yesterday

You looked like a sweet

Tired stain

To my heavy head and

In my favorite story

truth terror


swimming outside the rim of sleep,

head near the undertow of the tides of dream-

thinking of our words in circles

pencil acting as a catheter

of my worry,

I’ve been puking into my journal,

I’ve been barking up the wrong tree,

I’ve been in a cave

with a broken lantern-

and the water’s been around my knees.

I’m all teeth, hair and eyes.

I’ve known well the-

truth terror

but I’m still wanting it dressed up-

I asked you to put a happy mask on it

but you said

“I cant pretend,”

red locket

I’ve had this red heart shaped locket

for 12 years now.

I got it as a gumball prize

at a rundown Chinese restaurant

(maybe in Germantown?)

A lot of the paint has chipped off

and the tiny keys to it are long gone.

What shows beneath the paint

is shinny tin.

When I was a tacky teen

I would wear it clasped around my

neck imitating Sid but not

knowing it.

I always wanted someone to give me

something like this

but I impatiently jumped the gun and

cranked the dial of the machine


and the tiny Valentine rolled out.


No sentiment to share.

Now I’m nearly 30

and it hangs on my key chain,

a teenaged 50 cent memory

amongst adult responsibility.

If you see me standing crossed arm at a show,

and spy my red locket,

know that I’m an advocate of

living in the past,

and harboring silly passions.

smother the one you love

I lay my love on the string of kite

I admire the thing

as it glides stories high

but detest the burden carrying it


saw you in my dream again

it was as much you as a watered down

pigment of your skin

I dare slit a pallet to paint you

to make the horrors real


too dense to be sunshine


I’d love to be your dark cloud

anchored to your finger with twine


smother the one you love- a slogan I recite

lay only with me

having doubts snuffed into washed out color

a jungle cat full of kill

no desire to hunt

only to smother


one last thing

hold me tight like a found doll you lost

that had been flattened in the road

many times

I lost my button eyes but now


can see who I really am

thanks for writing me every day (reminding me)

do you remember our trip to the south

and how much fun we had?


yes, and how the dusk dozed,

turning the cotton fields purple

and the cranes flew like

living paper planes

and every star was real

and as bright as the

humble candle flame



and the bluesmen sang to us