where all the pretty roses grow


my mother said i look bad



i told her i have been dreaming

about my death since i was

8 years old



you know, the usual conversation

in a bathroom as you are helping

your mother pull up her adult

diaper



these are the nights i would love

to take an empty bottle of scotch

and see how many cuts it would

take to get to my tootsie roll



and no, suicide isn’t first on

my list



i figure it won’t be something

planned or poetic



like taking a dump



or inside a hooker



probably a random front porch,

a bottle of something too strong

for my age and a nap becomes

the final siesta



just cremate the body



and spread the ashes

somewhere, next to a pile

of shit

——————————————————
circles around my soul


write through the darkness



the endless cries for help



the myth of love



a friendship that died long

before it should have



you had the taste of a woman

that could dance circles

around my soul



we laughed at the oddest shit



fought over nothing, but i

warned you about my ability

to burn a bridge and never

come back



of course, that stubborn bullshit

has cost me best friends, a few

lovers and arguably one of the

greatest female poets to bleed

on the page



cancer will kill us all



hope the ride was worth

every moment of pain



still remember one long sunset

and what could have been on a

porch somewhere in ohio



hard to believe you escaped

this hell first

Lumerian

I hate my face, framed & cherubic
Fate-eyed, a thousand lifetimes
Reflected on the lachrymose coated
Almonds not yet ripe
Dreamy-dazed, girlhood poster child
Fractured
Dollar store tee worn threadbare
A heart in hiding, livid
Frizzy-risen, tentacled towheaded dolly
I have an extraterrestrial toe,
Taller than the rest, proof
Of my out-of-orbit true residence
Because these mildew-encrusted
Ceiling tiles don’t cut it
To house a mnemonic mystic
I plan to shorten the galactic strings
To blend in better
Peach scrub a smile on, fill it in
With botanical lip oil
Mission control, behavior aborted
Beam me up in the glow of the bug light
Make me love the receptacle
Shrieking, stretched over
The multidimensions that it veils

Youth

behind your eyes
is some sunset landscape of emotion
do you really need reasons?
yes, pain and loneliness
pain, glory, and loneliness

the rain-laden clouds have been driven on
and the wet thistle blooms are so obvious
it's almost obscene
unapologetically purple
and fragile and belligerent
like all beautiful things

Service Industry Bots Serving Service Industry Bots

who needs AI when human
slaves are happily plentiful

in the diaper aisle you see,
in the dog food aisle, I am

staring at paper products
of industrial landfill toiletry

maybe thinking,
porn started this

Oasis

Haven't been here in years,
     a true bar for mad men
traipsing around the dark
     looking for wine &
gossamer breath.

Pool table owns the back,
      man at the bar
seems lost in his beard.
       "So am I, buddy,"
I would say, if I was going
        to talk to him.
But I'm enjoying
        my garage beer too much.

Last time I was here with poets
     who didn't drink.
I drank myself into the stars
      and shattered my glass
on the floor as balls slammed
      into each other on the velvet green.

I'm always looking for that one
       place to go,
somewhere to find America
       at the bottom of a plastic cup,
one that I hope says "Old Style".

Next time I'll come here
          later at night,
when the full moon is out looking
           for a fix,
and someone is willing to say
            out loud,
"This place is a beautiful shit hole."
       And then we'll dance for America,
that 249 year old shattered glass
        on the lovely
piss stained floor. 

The Harrowing of Hell

Jesus went to Hell a harrowing, 
After his time on the cross and before his resurrection,
The story’s often omitted perhaps through a theological narrowing.

Holy Saturday commemorates bringing out the dead unsparing,
His journey to the depths of Sheol in a descending direction,
Jesus went to Hell a harrowing.

Was there contemplation as he died and a need for preparing,
Did his Father promise salvation and protection?
The story’s often omitted perhaps through a theological narrowing.

To return for all those that never believed unerring,
That never sought a messiah or his election,
Jesus went to Hell a harrowing.

He defeated Death itself while descending and never despairing,
Meditate on this and take time for some introspection,
The story’s often omitted perhaps through a theological narrowing.

What Christ perceived on his journey is explained varying,
But only by those who consider what they would do upon reflection,
Jesus went to Hell a harrowing,
The story’s often omitted perhaps through a theological narrowing.

Museum Card for a Battle Hammer


Every hand holding a hammer
isn't busy building new homes.
Not every raised hammer is poised
to smash down on the heads of nails.
This hammer's own dark cold steel head
had cast inside two words - "He's dead."

The End of the Line

The end of the line is death,
At least as far as we know.
Maybe, like some say, there's
More.  You might walk the Earth
Like some voodoo-ass zombie
(Hopefully with a six pack).  Or
You could be reborn, stuck with
Going through all this shit again
And, still, no guidebook.  Come
Back as a pig and live in fear of
People with t-shirts that read
'Bacon is my Spirit Animal'.  If
Come as a chicken, never ever 
Ever accept a free ride to the
Colonel's (either crispy or original).
That poor sundried shriveled up
Worm on the sidewalk most likely
Had way better times.  That is, if
You don't mind pushing your head
Through dirt.  This ain't been much
Of a happy trip.  When Old Yeller
Died, I cried.  When that bitch at
College kicked me in the nuts, I
Cried.  I don't cry that much now but
It seems people have always been
Kickin' me in the nuts.

Needle Point

 
Not all protection is active.
Passive attracts its own victims.
Silence but for pollinator
flight paths,
there is succulence in shadows
beaten from southwest sun.
Don’t leave the trail.
Resist the pull
the pleasure of impalement
on a pin cushion so green
in a land of brown.
Each needle
each rough ridge
a magnet toward
a tattoo unlike all others.
A French kiss in the desert
can’t cost all that 
much 
as another clean
canvas bleeds.

Dark Corners

 
Surely heaven must
have its own dark corners where
the malcontents and
     nay-sayers like to gather
     and smoke clove cigarettes, and
     talk shit about the management.