Tuesday, April 18, 2017


You think this is all
but even slot machines
are programmed
to spill their guts
at predetermined intervals...

the only truly random thing
is the poet
and his muse
and when that gusher
may be gettin' ready to blow

so stand back
ladies and gentlemen
because there's one now
(you can spot him by that
 tormented look in his eye)

as we move within range
it's advised that you prudently
cover your heads

we have pith helmets for sale
in the gift shop

Thursday, April 6, 2017


That roach on the bathroom floor
was flat on its back
so I figured it was fixin' to die
(not always the case with humans similarly positioned
with a randy look in their eye)

respecting its process
(I've read Kafka)
I left it in peace
figuring tomorrow I'd give it
a proper burial
after dark
in the neighbor's yard

but when I went in there
it had up and disappeared
apparently righting itself
at some point
and hauling ass
which told me something
after I thought about it
'bout never counting anyone out
even when it looks to you
like the fat lady's opening her mouth...
it could just be you know
she's gonna stuff another donut in there

there is
of course
the alternate explanation...

the cat ate it

Tuesday, April 4, 2017


Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

A birthday boy's tendency
is to replay everything
against the purples
and pistachios of spring

The little white lies
from another time

The past receding
like the ass-end of a train
from which you've just disembarked

Ancient phrases
inside another eternity
and of no import now
the greater truths ignored
for sake of our little tete a tetes

Today I ponder the world's disasters
the worst of which is adding another digit
to that chronological catastrophe
I fondly refer to as me

Everyone gets  a raw deal
and still the clouds roll by 

Coming all this way
drifting across the cosmos
with these inconvenient truths 
on these afternoons without angels
and still we stand
in anticipation of one extraordinary love

Having experienced the moon
in a myriad of exotic positions
I unmask poems
of barking cats
and rats
and elephants
and stand revealed 
to lonesome applause

Waiting for Santa Claus
I blaspheme and bubble
in the center of all infinity
as I bend to softly kiss you
and the world becomes 
my oyster
and you're my clam

Let's go to Amsterdam

From my poetry and short story collection: Last Tango In Timbuktu