. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Monday, December 31, 2018

Advice To Spaceman

So they say,
there is not a thing worse than a little spilled paint,
there is nothing worse than a few sharp memories of pain,
come to me,
dear fallow visitors from the outer space,
and let us partake in the creation myth that "man came from ape",
a thousand years ago he walked with a limp,
with a scratch,
his table-top brow meant somehow to house families of fleas,
now he moves on land-locked knees
still hunting snatch but
detached from those meandering avenues
in the trees,

Great Pyramid,
tell us your Secret,
allowed to keep it for so long despite wandering wicked deacons who
frequent your WELCOME mat in zebra skins and fur seal hats
distributing leaflets about the posthumous deaths
of the sons of Giza,

we fall at the porcelain sandals of saints atop statues with
inscriptions of virtue but beg daddy to withhold the belt
waiting to be dealt against our pale pelts when we sneak in
past curfew
without even so much as a thank you,

if you're here on vacation,
dead little space man,
my advice to you from a heart long overdue for review,
is to get back into your metallic hovering transportation,
reverse the gravitation (or whatever it is you do),
set your navigation for the farthest constellation,

and find recreation elsewhere.


Thursday, December 27, 2018

Not My Ginger Boys

I want my ginger boys bled,
with ginger-covered blood
flowing like fine wine
from the empty eye socket holes in their heads,
crows perch petulantly on their stiff corpse bones
cawing laments for the dead,
no one thinks the ginger boys should remain alive instead,
they made their beds
i.e. bright fiery orange pubes between their legs
where from such burning bushes rise obelisks of flesh,
pink poles where carrion claws roost with wings spread,
purebred ginger gentlemen
aligned head-to-toe out back in the flowerbed,
their crimson covered scalps hanging near the garden trowels in the tool shed,
a widespread absence of a freckle-faced race,
I want my ginger boys bled,

those were the words of Sugar Ray Neggin,
that's what he said.


Sunday, December 23, 2018

Sugar Bee

I am blue cheese
and minced meat
dr pepper soaking into the car seat
I am a three-day old three-meat po-boy
soaking up the microwave heat
I am a lemon tart smile
and cotton candy sweet
I am rotten fruit on the street
I am the sugar beat
but not the sugar bee
I am glucose substitutions
now obsolete
I am a leftover biscuit like concrete
I am ketchup stains on your pants pleat
I am the cute cashier's telephone number
scribbled clumsy
on the grocery receipt
I am flax
I am seed
I am wheat
I am the kind of woman
your momma tells you
you should keep.


Thursday, December 20, 2018

Cold and Pale

We were vexed and rebels
lurking in curtains of whispers
heavenbound but hellish in the present

she slipped out of her golden flats
tip-toed through the morning grass where in passing
dark footprints were all that was left of her sunrise dancing

she shook like a shivering child when she laughed
made me crawl cold and pale from her bed
amble stiffly down dim halls
and run her a bath.


Wednesday, December 12, 2018


Even Linda with the tepid shoulders and soldier's chin
can pour better red wine
when the cold holds close to the house
and the fire is loud,
she stands facing the mirror
in freckles and a dragon's nest of curly hair
pale because of an absent sun
but eager to spill wine until the drinking is done,
in the candle glow her tears fall unexposed to the stone floor
past that fragile spine of her nose
splashing under the sound of raucous laughter
in a room full of Jimmies and Joes,
would Linda could
she'd arrest from the shackles of this spectacle a quick death
after slipping the knife through the hearts of every man there in the dark
she'd slip it beneath her own breast.


Saturday, December 8, 2018

Mother And Mass

Momma poured me over a hot bowl of rice dressing,
kissed my coiled tender flanks and cursed me
with an honest woman's wayward blessing:

"Tis the season," she cried, "to learn life's lessons..."
she spanked me harsh against my underside
until blue my balls dropped in a fresh flesh crescent,
my cheeks reddened and my ruddy ass gash puckered for protection,
I was destined to be this grey-haired harlot's insatiable delicatessen,
but before she could proceed to consume her possession
I posed her only one last question,
with creamy macaroni smeared betwixt my pale thighs
I looked heavenward into her dead eyes and
fixed her with a sullen expression:

"If this be the path to adolescence," I posed,
"and you be but the Lord's servant delivering His ethereal message,
then why overly spike your cup
and spoil this poor innocent vessel?"

She smiled as most mothers often do,
scooped a clump of cheddar cheese from my boy's beef stew,
"I find your questions depressing," she said,
"bend over on the tile
while I sip you like Sunday service refreshments."


Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Of A Man

Love ripped at her soft skin like a wild-eye'd wolf
slathering saliva where his kisses had once been
her bedded burden
she felt the weight of every sin
and every man
pressing in
the cold dead forest breathing o'er her dorsal fin
the twin towers of her breasts topped with bright cherry marbles
pouring from a heaving chest
a startled sparrow in her eyes
an aching emptiness between her thighs
where the lies of strangers
became her savior

and later her anger

the thick black fur coat of time wrapped itself around her
like a bright newborn babe swaddled in a filthy manger
straw and donkey piss the container
all mankind's favor

she tore away into the woods to face the danger
to feel the sting of the branches
beasts be damned
she'd wager her life against the land
Love gotten out of hand
she felt herself
for herself
but craved the touch of a...


Saturday, December 1, 2018


baby oh baby
brown nipples
dirty feet
stay sweet, Susannah
the things that went to sleep in tired Alabama
old people with quarters
no place to spend 'em
no place to send 'em
skeleton crew in overalls and denim
brown grass in the cracks
sticks and needles
artists with easels
painting the portraits of medieval churches
absent their elegant steeples

what you're doing is illegal
Susannah naked on my couch
a roach in her mouth
my personal freak show
baby oh baby blow
take me off the pill
brown leaves
purple toes
Susannah's blood in the fresh snow
true love
true love in the dark forest
where even I will not go.


Sunday, November 25, 2018


riding Midnight
bound downtown
wet towels round my ankles
thankless dirty hounds
barking loud
'cause Samantha
Samantha's been found
chains round her wrists
fists bound
lists of ungiven gifts on her lips
still somehow making pretty sounds
till the tulips
hoe the ground
mow the yard 'fore the sun goes down
she sleeps for now in her wedding gown
drowned by red wine
and renounced by both the clergy
and crown
a stain on her blouse
sexuality thereabouts
painted fingernails
and sincere doubts
she loiters around
the town
and the house.


Thursday, November 15, 2018

Lake Babylon

we were does
and we were devils
giggling in curtains of dancing smoke
while in the woods ran fire
pale skin and the black bark of southern pine
she grinned like a coyote grins
pawing the ground
flaunting in her pink folds
a skeleton ballerina
blood on her long fingers
bloody lips

a dead rabbit in the leaves sinking back into its own open ribcage
a murder of crows clamoring over this tiny lost soul

her belly full
leading me to a lake like a scar in the forest
where we could bathe
and fuck
and watch everything burn.


Sunday, November 11, 2018


In the book store
in her mom jeans
swarthy curls and wet lips
pawing paperbacks in the dusty stacks with her long bony fingertips
the ghost of the dead store owner brushes past me
leaves me in ecstacy

or was that the touch of her bony denim hip?


Tuesday, October 30, 2018

I'm Right Here

You're always looking
I'm right here
white hotel bed sheets
like I'm some sun-tanned son lost on a faded carpet sea
dark dead Samsung on the wall
watching everything
watches me
sucking life's light
all existence even
into that empty screen
soft prayers and empty screams
a holy deity

three long legs and some grey hair
a three-thousand yard stare
hyper-aware he's sometimes faking
profound and prostrated
naked since this morning
the drapes long drawn
wondering all along
should I be yawning?
or rising like a white lion tightwire walking while crying?
white light from the lamp
coughing green contraband
lamb of god took strong Samson's locks
lamb of god looked down at his shoes
when the tall temple
fell forthright
like a million loose rocks
my soul tied up in wet hot knots

I'm right here
in front of you
but I'm nowhere it seems
white hotel bed sheets
and lost dreams.


Friday, October 26, 2018

This Loving You

This loving you
in the full belly of this hot sticky pregnant south
bruised blue and purple summer thunderheads
bleeding sweet relief on the suburbs
and the swamps alike

This loving you
on Friday nights smoking cigarettes and sweating
porch light beacon for bulbous beetles piloted by the blind
dogs out there barking mad cause cats
   have the real freedom
cats come and go
cats with reserved love
teach me feline lessons
teach me to deny you

This loving you
on Saturday mornings wrapped in sunlight and white bed sheets
your breath like a child's snore
an aromatic mix
hint of vodka
hint of tar
hint of the last of me to reach your lips after you woke me up
in the middle of the night
with your teeth
and the sweep of your breasts pressed against

This loving you
in the distances we've allowed
all this time we've wasted
still defiantly believing that we'll live forever
a lifetime is plenty enough time
wait to say what you should say

-not today
come alive then

This loving you
is getting old.


Sunday, October 14, 2018

Through The Trees

I can feel her dissecting me
refusing my reach
preaching about my disgusting phallic infancy
these my propensities
wearing my naked flesh like hunter's orange
stalking wildlife
through the trees
this stiff cock from the shore is the lighthouse beacon
pointing to lost sailors at sea
grab a'hold, mate
secure the line
strive to pull your saturated soul from the deep

she wants me whole
but I hide when she seeks
I smoke too much grass and laugh when there's somewhere else
     I should be
too lazy to clean my house
too lazy to clean my life
too lazy to write good poetry.


Monday, October 8, 2018

The Night Thick

The night thick
like your wet kiss
like a quiet fog rolling in waves over the river banks
glowing orb
either the moon
or a street light
orange beacon throbbing from atop ornamental metal
painted black to cover antique rust
we hold hands
play russian-roulette with loaded shadows
is that a pile of trash?
is that a rapist/murderer?
do oak trees have memories?

camera flash from the sky above
angry mother climbing high over the Spanish tiled roof tops
a cumulonimbus pregnancy
wind rustles through wrought iron
ferns dance on rotten balconies
a thunder follows
rattles tall windows
tourists denounce warnings and drink
and drink
and drink

ruddy we find corners and play with one another
your long white leg
your face turned up to the storm
breathing in the rain
while I at your throat devour your soul.


Friday, September 28, 2018


I'm a capable granddaughter
capable of grand sin
with long legs and mustard quarters
I am often unsure of where I'm going
or where I've been
lower your red lips in my mulched mound with a shy grin
drinking lukewarm crystal water from my spiral tower
like we're more than friends
power hour gin shots from the tip of your pink cock
wearing grandmother's thick skin
and my own ruffled socks

I'd stop
but it's not in my tight-fitting genes
your hand in a hot fist wrapped tight around my spleen
we throw secrets against the wall
tally the score
and repeat
found grammy on the kitchen floor bleeding red and deep
laid beside her
closed my tired eyes
and went to sleep.


Wednesday, September 26, 2018

My Wild

Standing in your lion's toes
proudly prancing like a king of beasts
the king of me
calling with a roar for what is yours
demands in droves
the swell of your pale breast in the open fold of your robe
a lion in human's clothes
lying in the thick grass bare ass'd daring me from repose
to slip like a snake up the long line of your white leg
to poach
dare to hope
take from you what you'd gladly give
if only I'd live like you live
if only I'd put on a little show
twirl my lion wild
my soft pussy willow

but what no one knows
your warm killer's breath
actually blows cold.


Friday, September 21, 2018

Junkyard Blues

Car parts and body parts white gravel graveyard
where nothing starts
intelligent grid-work design to help find
the exact jacked husk
stacked on rusting rims
but nothing out here has a heart
warped fenders
art to some men
slim jeans in the pushcart desert of dead cars

sharp cracked glass where some lad was last seen alive
last drive
put your forehead where his brains were spread
hunt the dash for the history of bashed parts bled

there shredded rubber
here an engine component
I want to own it
but fuck!
what would I do with half a carburetor
from a busted 1987 pick-up truck??


Thursday, September 13, 2018

Born of Diamonds

I was born of diamonds on a lazy Monday Afternoon,
wearing Ray Bans and a jean jacket and leather pantaloons,
marooned in a cocoon of placenta juice pushed
   from the loose caboose of my mother a little after two,
her abdomen tattoo stretched out of proportion
   and her nipple rings lubed for precaution,
Dad somewhere racing street bikes at auction
   while the doc filled out the forms for my adoption,
they offered me stock options,
a stuffed owl,
and a forgotten vile of assassin's toxins,
rubbed me down with a towel soaked in long barrel aged whiskey,
that delicious odor made me typsy
   and since the whole gotdamn affair was so gotdamn risky
   I didn't mind paying a little more for some dirty Sixth St kitty,
   some pretty Creole girl with tea cup titties from the inner city
   who could ride me like Sam Clemens on the Mississippi,

shifty John Cash songs coming out of the radio
   had me impatient to go,
but I had to wait an extra hour for that old Chinese nurse
   to shower my pink parts
   before I could be cleared to depart,

Mom kissed me on the head,
offered me some of her milk and a slice of bread,
"dear boy,
I thought I had to shit,
went to sit,
and had a child instead."


Saturday, September 8, 2018

A Question From The Shadows

You still plan on marrying
that man?

in your bra and panties
pulling down on my hand
into the last strand of black hair beneath a clover-colored cotton g-string
clinging to the sharp bones of your hips
the blood once in my cheeks already streaking to other
parts of me
that man
sleeps somewhere in the night air
dreaming of wedding bells
and the hell of marriage
the devil disparaged because of the way
that man
cherishes the thought of being married
savage loyalty garrisoned in the swell of his proud chest
blessed as he is to spend the rest of his life
with you
blue blood between his thighs
love without lust in his blue eyes
your panties on the lamp shade
and your bra on the rose pattern drapes
my tongue slipping like a snow storm up and down your neck's nape
tasting your sweat under the pressure of my shark bite
the city and the stars and the souls of every living creature
are ours tonight
in the darkness
there is light
in the moment of death
there is life
that sleeping man has no idea how sharp is the edge of the knife

and he is right to be ignorant
rounders placing bets dog-tired and sly
oh how he delights in the dreams of his new found bride
the devil tried to warn him

he tried.


Thursday, September 6, 2018

The Old Tiger

who are you?
you asked

I am the old tiger
satin fur
sliding in and between and through the bamboo
your delicate skull beneath these killer's claws
holding captive the thoughts you refuse to reveal to us
such an interested audience
bent on loving you
on destroying you
on setting your mind as free as the blood that runs like rivers
   through this broken land
now soft claws padding across your night-time lawn
I watch you take your clothes off
holding your breasts in your tiny hands for the mirror
treating your skin in such a sexless way I find absolutely

tap-dancing along the shaft of the hunter's arrow
in the shade of gum-gum trees
where monkeys glide through jailhouse bars of moonlight
the ol' tiger still has his stripes

it could have been any soul

wearing that skin like a blanket
crossing wooden fences after midnight
to steal through stranger's backyards
stepping among the intimate ensemble of their private lives
catching you in the glass
my firefly
in the bent crease of those dusty fading vinyl blinds

an opulent songbird snatched from her perch by the old tiger
on the prowl for perfect things
to feast
to sleep
by God this old man must eat!

and you've got the bones best gnawed on.


Tuesday, August 28, 2018


His foot rested lightly but with heavy menace on the pedal beneath the dash
scars hung like war medals and his knuckles were bruised and gashed
she climbed from the back seat in sunlight and barefeet
into his lap
and laughed
curled lips wrapped moistly around a fresh cigarette
the smoke eloping from the open window
the seats covered in stolen cash
he couldn't be sure she was
he couldn't be sure she was
she grabbed the stick and bit his ear
as he crushed his boot onto the gas
heaven ahead of us, honey, and hell behind us fading fast
the world slipped away in a growling flash
she wiggled out of her purple panties and crawled onto his lap
his tight fists gripped the wheel of that octane craft
lashed to rubber and sheet metal
summer thunder and an alloy camshaft
he all but crashed as she sucked the sweat from the tips
of his curled moustache
she didn't have to ask
but pulled his jeans from his hips
and let the engine rip them into the future
of an already fading past.


Thursday, August 23, 2018

Nowhere The Island, Nowhere The Sea

The salt flats of Balustrino stand empty today
absent picturesque warm waves of crystals washing in from Pin Yong Bay,
the children's mosque is in ruins
and the children in their blue ribbons no longer come out to play,
misfits make their home in the rubble of the Oliphant Theater
huddled in circles around fires in the muffled tunnels
of the old organ's two hundred meter long loudspeaker,
the drug dens of the 8th century Leotard czars no longer wreak of the smell
of cocaine cooking in mason jars
nor of the sweet heated engine oil of their Primo Lixus high end cars,
the peasant's bridge has fallen and either sits at the bottom of the river Avren
or has been washed over Great Avren Falls where it is all expected
to have collected among the sprawl of boulders
at the base of the Falls
whose tall sheer slanted granite facade
the old order of Hispanic monks once used as a wailing wall,
Chyoro Peak is all that remains
shrouded in the cumulus clouds of mystique like
a father
who hides his face from children who seek,
snowdrifts on his cheeks become tears that turn into swiftly flowing creeks
smoothing stones and uprooting trees
becoming rivers at the old mountain's knees
eventually and endlessly emptying into the starlit sea,
tiny Avrill Ocean, the smallest of eight brothers but a wonder nonetheless,
caresses the warm sand at Bahow Beach blessed to be left behind
in a world rushing towards impossible duress,

but without regrets my toes tempt the clear water
and my clothes have been left where they cannot be bothered
and with a half shrimp at the end of a bobber
and with more than a thousand miles to anything modern
I am absolutely forgotten

like a single grain of pollen,

and right now
under the shade of this coconut bough
I would rather have nothing to which I had more in common.


Monday, August 20, 2018

Remember Me

This dear dear
promised child
held so near in my long ashen arms
country raised and keen eyes
is all it needs to detect alarm
farm sharpened blade
sharpens the tongues of those who pray
those who lay with women twisted
and still in some manner are forgiven
driven to keep promises
made in shag carpet living rooms
push push breathe and push my Max from the black womb of his doom
watch the years burn down in pictures he kept in albums and tombs
exhume the fading memories of my enemy's cruel chivalry
from infancy to the grave
remember me

remember me

absolutely freed of all wild thoughts and deeds
learned notions of poison seed
he kisses me on the ear in my hangdog moment of need
the loyal kiss that rang true
and rang deep
the faithful dismissed to spend the rest of their miserable trip
with the rest of the sheep

this winter-woven child leaping from cliff to crag
where none have climbed
where none have seen
no witness of lover brought to life
no lover lost to misery
she weeps he weeps I weep
as the poet in his sandal-woven satchel speaks
I am the divinity
from here
as some say
to infinity.


Monday, July 16, 2018


You asked me here for what?
for this
and him and the sunken dead tunes of your lonely tomb
alone again where the red weather invites hypothetical doom
say it better
say it better between my legs than she did
so I can forget she's there and get her out of my head
pleasure tethered by a thin thread
well-read men with mannerisms dance catechisms while you orgasm
in bed
without me
you'd rather be with your pink dildo instead.


Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Ted's Confession

I am enormous,
like Ted Nugent's self-righteous ego,
like the taste of your tongue the taste of apple pie on the window,
like Apple poised to take over during the dot com crescendo,
Stevie Jobs shaking hands with men in suits
so used to fucking high dollar bimbos,

break yo neck, nigga,
break yo neck, nigga,
break yo neck, nigga,
while you do the limbo,

see the bearded lady crush my balls in the side show,
I am Cool Hand Luke's hand slow-jerking his greasy pepperoni pizza
until it starts to slowly grow,
and I'd know,
though I'd likely not say,

it's probably better that way,
Ted Nugent picking up the pieces of his shattered day dreams
off the side of the interstate.


Monday, July 9, 2018

My Shit Prince

Come dance with me,
you shit prince,
cast in the stark dark bowels of last year's
twirl me around the fish eye lens
until I spin
and spin
and spin
there and back again,
a grin from the devil inside of me
defying me
to close my eyes and be,
be pushed into someone's open arms,
be left standing on the porch in the dark,
be left in the storm,
be broken with a broken heart,
you told me from the start
that this wouldn't work
but I can't dance without my
shit prince,
long days spent stepping in circles
bent to the scent you left behind,
your hard hands along my stegosaurus spine,
all that I am is yours
and nothing that I am
is mine.


Monday, July 2, 2018

Sibling Rivalry

"Allow me to reveal to you my cruelty, brother"
my sister crooned,
she acting like a little girl gentleman
standing with one foot on our mother's head,
her dead smile ivory in the full moon,
"Give me this chance to prove to you that your ugly twin sis
is no sullied grownup's

"Be patient, little love," I barked in my most sincerest
southern admonition,
"Though you felt no fondness for this bitch - listen:
not everyone wished her tits up
succumbed to total demolition,
some glitch in your misguided system has steered you
into rough waters and ultimately into
the tomes of insufficient women daughters"

"Both of you be damned," cried the one father we knew we had
but had never met,
"Take this axe and with its wet blade
cleave the delicate bones
and the long empty chambers
of your mother's alabaster neck,
I have had no greater gloom nor known greater glory,
but shall carry with me her head
reminding me always of the greatest woman
ever to walk this rotten earth on two legs."


Thursday, June 28, 2018


Charge the hill steep as it is
bayonets and all
calling loud to be the last tall tin soldier shouldering a legacy of swamp peoples
peopling the old wood dance floors of our cajun nation's historical lore
carry Father Francois' flag proud and the bastards later handed down
two-step march to war time tunes
high-stepping to hounds braying bloodlust 'cause they treed a doomed raccoon
Paw-Paw got a pair of them alligator skin boots
Maw-Maw in a moo-moo checking the trot-line at the prow of the canoe
a big blue slippery catfish barking at her like a rottweiler behind a chain-link fence
maw full of drool
Lou cussin' Gertrude
Gertrude cussin' the bullhead
not quite in English, not quite in French

Maybe I'm meant to carry this delicate legacy
but not actually live here in this muddy trench
sitting on my fists on the bench waiting my turn to make a play
seems silly
when half the team is simply walking away
is the fight worth the grit
do I keep my head down, throw mortars over the ditch
wondering should I go
wondering why stay


Thursday, June 21, 2018

These My Propensities

My faith
my consistent irresponsibility
my oft-colored nobility
the thick grey blood in the hallowed halls of my bloodstream
the thick grey vesicular knot of coiled string in my shallow balls
dead skin and sleeping dogs
then the empty threat of a shrieking god

and the wonder of it all

my face
my misplaced gentility
my propensity for proclivity
the empty rope coils covering the stains on my bed sheet
the various empty visions that parade within my sleep
cypress knees and pallid meat
heart within this heap
my shriveled core
gone door to door
dust to dust
and nothing more.


Friday, June 15, 2018

In Robes and Regret

Is this Heaven, for Heaven's sake?
call it what you will stumble over your definitions
stumble through your very own joyful heartache
walk with me through the leaves
walk with me to the rake
angels lie awake whispering ghost stories to one another
about the king of snakes
priests fall in love with little boys for pleasure
but live in God's house for the tax breaks
tossed willy-nilly into the lake of fire
succumb to earthly desire
a fat tired black clad friar tosses his nuts in my throat
like a cat in the dryer
if I say I'm not a sinner am I liar?
higher powers call my cell phone by the hour
but I yell
tell it to my face
hang up the phone and send them on their merry way
but stay
the sermon should be swell today
donuts afterwards in the sweltering heat
laced with as much grace as this tiny chapel can contain
I promise, father
to bend my knees
to plead and pray
my soul is yours
despite whatever else I say.


Wednesday, June 13, 2018


C'mon, baby, you know God gave you them fangs
so you can sharpen your knife,

C'mon, baby,
is it too much to be asked to be cut tonight?
ripe flesh flawed but displayed for the cutting,
the deer make haste through the woods
'cause the bucks are rutting,
find me bloodletting,
find me feeding on the dead skin cells in the folds of your bedding,
hasten the good men from the wedding,
may they run rabid like dogs chasing confetti,
may they strike you as lost men,
but deadly,
never to be savored by your harsh tongue of sand
and sin,

C'mon, Betty,
brandish that blade and let's begin this messy undoing
while your hand's still steady.


Friday, June 8, 2018

Mud Hut Men

Is there no kit to welcome the foreign horde to our shores?
bag of last names pronounced phonetically
a list of the best boudin shops alphabetically
(cause no true top 10 list exists)

shift around the contents of this clutch
until your wayward fingers linger long enough
on a mud hut
built by savage men in the marshes
who survived the summer heat
who survived the mosquito sting
who survived the hurricane

but who could not survive the greed of man

dig past the pencils engraved in local stencils
and further contraband
until in the heart of your purse
cursed to see a people ignoble in their struggle
ignorantly denying they were the first to be damned.


Monday, June 4, 2018

The Treatise Endless

Today the wind blew in cruel,
and on top of that bitter bitch's back blew in thunderstorms too,
too concerned with the rain in their bloated guts
to feel anything for a smattering of mortal fools,
zeppelins did loop-de-loops writing sky-cloud truths to warn
us of what would happen if the rain broke loose,

We stomped around in our cowboy boots
and seersucker suits ignoring the signs spelled out so well
o'er our roofs,
ignoring the clues,
invisible Zeus being pulled in a chariot of cumulonimbus clouds
loud with mad power within those tall terrible towers,

And then came the showers,
thunder broke into our homes like intrusive prowlers,
lightning leapt to the ground like the stem of a bright but temporary flower,
we prayed it'd be brief,
but the water fell for hours,

King Howard left his damp throne and rose into Heaven to plead with
the thunder god to lesson his aggression,
Oh, Sky Father, he cried, have compassion,
King Olympian, relinquish your transgression,
son of Cronos and the Titaness daughter Rhea, stave off this
sodden armageddon,
I am deafened by the awe of your legend, oh Pitcher of Thunderbolts,
but am here nonetheless on bend'd knee begging,
call off this wedding of earth and sky before we are buried alive
by water too high even for the mountain tops,
if this is a lesson then may this education session be terminated with prejudice,
we apologize with an emphasis on selflessness,
please, be sensitive of these bodies - our most precious possessions,
so fragile, so reckless,
a gift of your divine essence,
if someone must pay penance, then let ME, a humble king, step into the crevice,
spare us the endless menace of your jealous obsession,

It is said King Howard never returned from his visit to the clouds,
his proud son, the prince, bowed and was crowned,
the rain dried up,
ceased falling from the thunderclouds...
and then came the drought,

Again the people moaned and complained aloud,
groans were thrown like stones o'er the dustblown land,
until a bone-dry wind,
as cruel as sin,
sounded above the shouts,
drying out the words in the people's mouths,
a distant crackling sound,
the familiar fear,
the familiar doubt,

Another long-winded story of the disloyal and the devout,
most likely profound,
princes buried and forgotten in the sometimes scorched
and sometimes sodden ground,
surrounded by a long list of dead nobility under brown'd mounds,
alas, enough of sand and gout,
of downpours and heavy clouds,
that particular part of history,
I'm saddened to point out,
is not at all what this poem is about.


Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Of Termessos

I am the last man of Termessos,
the forgotten chick in the eagle's nest,
sandals on my weather-worn feet and a ring through my nose,
the eye of Bellerophon upon my chest,

I stand alone among stones ruined,
but not by the great Alexander's hands,
these rocks were worn by time and winds chewing,
the only unconquered city in all the land,

last guardian of the city of Termessos,
her valley in the clouds,
a great gladiator prosaic and forever stoically composed,
Romulus and Remus would be ever so proud.


Monday, May 14, 2018


Audrey climbed the old red bricks crumbling now under
her delicate wrists
until atop she perched in lime green cotton panties
and sun-kissed tits
calling down to me to toss her an ice chest cold Miller
so she could watch the moon rise later from that century-old pillar
it's quiet vigil over brackish bay
now accompanied
by a lovely naked girl alit as the setting sun
sitting holding her knees like a queen raccoon
answering to no one
breathing in the loneliness
laughing in fits

happy we got to catch this moment
when so many are missed.


Pic: bewarethebearr

Friday, May 11, 2018

Everyone's Eyes

I don't need your snake oil
or your secret tattoos
frankincense lightly dripped on your wrists
mispronounced prayers to Shiva and Vishnu
I don't need you to tell me you love me
or look starry-eyed when I kiss you
sweep the blue bruises along the inside of your white thigh
with a tissue
after I've misused you
don't place me in the same bracket as every other misguided fool
don't have the pals place bets
on whose the real lover in the room

you give everyone here the same eyes as you give me
same smile
same two-step shaking the bangles on your feet
you bless with a kiss and caress every old timer spinning a beat
meet'n'greet with dirty denizens
feasting on a carcass of rotten gossip like black forest wolves on venison
by divine design you've got a big enough heart for all their need

and it's so GOTDAMN genuine

but I'm not one of them
I've lived my life defiantly separating myself from most of them
and when by fire light it so transpired you chose me
I boasted then
promoted to sprout limbs and walk from the shapeless ocean
into the world of men
oh how we sinned
you and I

don't promise me a future
fuck that
if anything
I'll take the past
I just want you to give me those same eyes
from across that fire light
that first night I caught your glance.


Saturday, May 5, 2018


Alone in my tundra,
tons of bedrooms eyes
but I only want Kendra's,
her pectoral fins inspire
summits of grandiose desire,
collections of liars,
Kendra standing in an apron
by the kitchen fire,
a better woman than I for
having gone through the muck
and the mire,

Alone in my glacial palace,
no solace among the icicle towers
built in how many hundred slave hours?
power to the people
but this is getting ridiculous,
Kendra's tiny fists
and thermonuclear clit,
sit long enough on my lips,
and even I will have a fit,

I saw your face,
I saw your face in the stars,
the whores of heaven sprinkled
across the moon-roof of my old
alone and somewhere very far,
my bed feels like the arms of
the Minotaur,
my mind the maze of his cage,
his cave a prison,
and this lesson on me unknown,

wait for me, Kendra,
wait by the phone,
I promise,
I'll call soon.


Tuesday, May 1, 2018


What highway?
what highway's old signs?
the road trip drag
the disguise
falling sun ushers in the desert night
what design can I trust when I'm cold
when I can't be taught
to keep to myself keep to my mind
manage the pastures others leave behind
the build up
the song that plays over and over
my sister says the cloister bells ring in two-step time
who am I to smoke her last cigarette
the deluge delagate
she lived through bombs and lies
a mistress now
a babe back in 1969

she taught me smack
about smack
and about fire
she was a hurricane of desire
cymbals crashed when she cried
I was on my knees in an alley with a needle in my arm
when she died
a lonely trombone ceased playing somewhere
in the lonely night
in one minute Karina was a mountain of rhythmic pulsing glowing light
in the next

she held a nation captive
while they etched her face into a ten cent dime
a tempest coke whore sure she was
but she had a smile for all mankind
her skin was marked with splashes of blue bruises
and fingerprints
but Karina
Karina was all mine.


Sunday, April 22, 2018

Ode To Revenge

Seven bodies burned bad and took their wonder with them
into the ground,
seven long years later and their killer has yet been found,
I stand alone among their bones by blood bound,
by destiny to the be the hound that tracks this gotdamn fox down,

Seven young women robbed of living while flames flickered
o'er their delicate skins,
alabaster turned into disaster as somewhere someone walked away
with a grin,
do not call me sinner on the day I capture him and dismember his parts
limb from limb,
forget what they say of revenge in the hymns!

Seven reasons to steal my resolve reciting the psalms from holy heights
they melted in that inferno no less a volcano like the leather of a
baseball glove,
such pretty doves drugged on the lies of a muddy thug,

Lee Arnt,

my loves.


Friday, April 20, 2018


Eponin was born in a black back room in 1962,
post-war soldiers became her fathers,
she'd yell a hearty hullo while chasing hoops,
knees like cobblestones
and skeleton bones
short skirts and her smokey purple eyes too,
she refused to give directions
but was happy to tell you what to do,

Eponin saved my life on the River Danube
when the fire began to crawl,
she spit on my wounds
to soothe the pain
and slept with her tiny fist cupped 'round my burned balls,

They told me she lost her mind
on a mountain in the Urals,
a half-finished old-war mural was all they could find that remained
of her name
on a wall
in downtown Moscow,
some say she made it here to there
in a year
but no one can tell me exactly how.


Thursday, April 19, 2018

Mammal Pride

I'm a bit too kind
or like so many caged egg-laying mammals
I'm likely out of my fucking mind
should'a stayed wild but now I'm saddled
drinking my own blood like it's wine

Momma Bird said only the first whiskey burns
her hair wet from the shower her eyes hungry for a prowler
when I touch her she purrs
scorned like a wasp hunting shadows in a thunderstorm
she makes me work for what I earn.


Friday, April 13, 2018

The First Supper

He bade those with ears to hear gather
garnered as we were in
layered laurel
flowing robes
royal garments
garland'd vests
wigs like setting sunlight nests
a thick pregnant mother moon about to crest
firelight glowing amber's orange on heaving cheeks
and chests
so the bard stood
and although the tiny band crammed in the Avalanche
played their lutes rudely on
he cleared his throat and persisted nonetheless

woe the wrist dipped in dripped candle wax
a pheasant's feather spinning wildly in his cap
a parcel packaged thoroughly in very tight slacks
light from the candelabra throwing his long shadow o'er the grass

twas the night
some say
a tale as old as the sea
did pass

how we laughed carefree as the story slipped from his lips
past eggs cracked
past ALL that food
meat pies sleeping peacefully next to cow pies
each awaiting the first morn's first borne dew fall
past tiki-torches dimly but delightfully setting the mood
over our heads
through our hearts
floating lazily up
like paper lanterns growing ruddy
rising steadily
to the moon

this bards words were fire, y'all
like screaming rockets splashing color skyward
and he earned his due
but as with every bard's storytelling time
the ending came too soon

when we grasped the news
we gasped aghast
stricken dumb by this yeoman in pantaloons
we gnashed our teeth
we spit
we swooned
we rang his ears with endless pleads
we even moped and moaned

the bard would not be moved
quite true

and what's more?!
he left the tale unfinished
so he'd be SURE of an invite the next go 'round
for the telling of part 2!


Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Trindell Slipper

He is the very breath and bones of the Lord
taken all those years ago from the rusty swing-set
   in the yard
charged with mayhem and the destruction
   of the saints
   of the stars

And what then would Mr Trindell Slipper do
if he were alone here
with me
with Linda and the kids
   or with you?

They say it takes a man a year to walk the Earth
to unload his bundle of burdens
to leave his footprints in the dirt

they say religion is the answer
they say religion is the cancer

but the truth is people find it difficult
   to tell you
      exactly where it hurts

Mr Trindell Slipper stole my youth
if you would have been there that day
a child innocently at play
   he would have stolen yours too.


Photo: Vivian Maier

Monday, April 2, 2018

Mint Julep

I'm a woman of groceries
stone red tomatoes
iced milk mixed well with black joe
roasted stalks of tall celery
fresh frozen meat kept stable at 32 degrees
curly red hair
bangles on my feet
linoleum aisles for miles or at least
   as far as the eye can see

I'm diving in the lobster tank deep
those little encrusted spindle legged crab apples
should be free to roam the bottom of some
ancient salt sea
I'm diving in my purse
for mint julep
for starburst
   for unsweetened summer ice tea

I'm a woman prowling
purring loudly
fingering the green peas
tempted to flash the register boys staring at me
over black-rimmed glasses like some kind of
cashier bourgeoisie
I'm a woman not unlike the holy trinity
not beauty
nor freak
be done with your judgement
your modern critique
   and let me shop in peace.


Monday, March 26, 2018

That Kind of Fire

Is it true that we once held fire,
that it once burned bright and fierce in our stomachs,
leapt like lightening from our fingertips,
danced in hot, blue tongues along the precipice of our pressed lips?

or was that just a fever dream?

were we comets?

did we rupture the night sky with a flash of white light,
leaving a crystal sliver sparkling under the moon's silver gaze,
fading with the passing clouds?

were we a brightly burning supernova?

did we reach the limits of our unknown edge,
outgrow love,
and collapse into dark matter,
remaining only a shadow of the light that once was magnificent,
invisible to the still bright and shining galaxy around us?

is it true that we once held that kind of fire?
or have I mistook the sun setting

     for someone else?


Tuesday, March 20, 2018


My baby
she's a ghost
host of vocal camaraderie filthy and derogatory
advocating for captivating women everywhere
gyrating like I found her whether I love her
whether I leave her
decipher or deceive her
please her when you nod yes ma'am
yes ma'am!
bend down beggar boy, and be my slave
be damned
yes, you
sweat her swelter she plays the cards dealt her
makes me fantasize I've got the blues like old thick-lipped black men forgotten in the Delta
the truth is -
I've got it good,
but the truth is ruthless
my baby
she's music
hardly human
hardly foolish
she uses me brutally never apologizes but cries her blue eyes out at man's futility
no, not his futility;
his violent tendencies
his quest for countless cock strokes and mother-may-I dependecies
she's lucid, you see
she's confused at times, sure, but not stupid
you see
she's got cerulean swirling in her eyes like lost sailors pining for lost love lost at sea
she's not defeated
she cannot be
she just can't comprehend the kind of inhumane human ignorance perpetuated by under-enlightened but overrated men
she's no believer but believes piously that hate is sin
projects reckless acceptance to anyone genuine blessing those who strive for transcendence
my baby is a life lesson
and I but a lowly scoundrel
a felon
I come when she beckons
steal what I can from her council when she gives me even seconds of that arousing attention.

Friday, March 9, 2018


Can I do to you what the moon
does to the tide?
that moment your face brightens with fire,
the black starlings who hide
worrying each night that the sun has died,

end of desire,

never again morning light,
we play with truth,
and with lies,
trying to balance it all on the dull
edge of a rusty knife,
shaking off a grey layer
from a dusty life,
might as well tell the story
before the details
run dry,
cross the river of your body
at low tide,
before the water gets too high,
under the dull pattern of moon light,
shore to shore,

blow that whistle, baby,
wave goodbye.


Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Plymouth Duster

To the man who tried to sell me life insurance out the back of his Plymouth
mouth agape cheshire grimace begging me for one more minute
trouser snake hunting in the thin folds of his denim lolling on with his gimmick
me distracted
pondering the finish of each poorly designed poorly contrived sentence
him stretching the truth like some athletes stretch their tendons
I felt his pain
(in that moment)
I felt his tension
I knew his mission
he had come to claim his place on the throne of heaven
he had come because he was promised a holy ascension
but because I couldn't afford any life insurance
I didn't listen
sent him off with Momma's three-day-old biscuits
shook my fist in the air and dismissed him

now I simply miss him
long to kiss him
suck the gin from his lips and subsist in a pit with him
if I had to
I'd make do
linger in his perfume
be moved to consume his voodoo
love him until all life on earth is through

love him
love him
love my boo
in that chalky blue Plymouth Duster with the rust holes you can see right through.


Monday, February 19, 2018


Gabriella succumbed to the night and fell to pieces
let the stars inside her head because Death
(that old dread)
had been defeated
in her pleated skirt and transparent shirt her rosette nipples
begged like orphans to be needed
I conceded
for who wouldn't??
challenged her to combat until one of us was left bleeding
until only one heart was left beating
until the crescent moon packed up its silver light for the night
and retreated.