The Search

 
So fruitless is the search,
any search. I thought
the wetness of fresh
strawberries were
diamonds but I am still
poor, though my
spirit rages bright.
The ghosts of my
grandparents are
working hard in
the nothingness
of afterlife.
When it is my time,
they will be at an airport
holding a sign with
my name, waving
wildly as an oak
during a storm.
I will wave back,
not knowing
the ubiquity

of rain.

---

Serpent

 
a red serpent lives inside me
keeping venom in my blood
and I don’t mean this as a sin
or shame but rather a reality
like toxins in the grass and
in the fruit we eat, everywhere
everywhere silent killers lurking
in the stems of tomatoes growing
rapidly, the chemicals in me
and in your child, oh god,
there’s a serpent in your child
and if we yank it from his throat
our serpents will bite and bite
until we forget the garden

Blessed agonies of love__


Gleaming eyes starry, No
More like a fireplace glow

Intimate wide glimmering

Interactive energies
Communicate

Surging echoes

The electric emissions
Between bodies

Between shadows
Heart beats

Pantomime mirrored
Realities
Two stay two
Yet combine

Both pain & ecstasy
Orgasms

Blessed agonies of love

I Need To Move Out

 
Of this apartment.
Next door neighbors,
They fight all the time.
He screams that
He’s more of a man
Than she’ll ever be.
I don’t wanna know
Anything about that.
They just keep it up.
Seems, he gets his but
She’s giving it away,
No remorse at all.
She knows that on the
Other side of Heaven,
She’ll float on a cloud.
Float on a cloud?
In the meantime,
I hear the unmistakable
Sound of a shotgun
Being cocked.
WTF?

Midlife Creases

 
From womb to tomb,
Time takes its toll.
We shed these skins,
Like Russian dolls.

From breath to death,
We grow and slow,
With selective
Mem’ries in tow.

From one to ton,
We become more,
But still remain
The ones before.

From cord to Lord,
The time is brief.
From ward to ward.
From Eve to wreath.

 


chained to free verse

 
i find it fucking hilarious

that the great thing about employing free verse
is that it enables poets to be completely free and unique in their writing

but that almost every modern poet seems to only employ free verse
to imitate bukwoski

Florida Chihuahua Haiku 

 
Hazel likes to bark  
at big dogs, imagining  
she’s a Pit Bull. Not. 

Hazel loves Lowes. Wears  
her pink dress. Sits in the cart.  
My little angel. 

I ask to transfer  
to the Florida office.  
Goodbye, snow. I’m done! 

Know what this means? New  
beach outfits for Hazel. (Lots!)  
Petco, here I come… 

I got the transfer.  
Miami. Palm trees, sunshine,  
white beaches. Oh, yeah. 

Packed up the car. Got  
Hazel in her car seat. Drinks.  
Snacks. (Lots!) We’re ready.  

Stopped in Dayton. Snow.  
Stopped in Knoxville. Ice. Stopped in  
Tampa. Sun. At last. 

Hello, Miami!  
New apartment. New job. Hot  
temps. Heaven. It is. 

Like A Dog Chasing Cars

She was in her mid-twenties,
two kids with different dads,
and smelt like an unplugged
fridge.

Her first sperm donor killed
an infant while drunk driving.

Her second got caught fingering
a sleeping pre-teen and fled before
anyone could boot his teeth
through his lips.

On summer evenings,
we flocked like sheep
without a Border Collie.

We drank cheap booze
around a small garden bonfire
made of household rubbish.

And as the flames quivered,
she would say, All men are shit. All of ‘em.
Don’t need ‘em. Never did. ‘Specially since
I got me eight-inch dildo waitin’ at home.

And we would all laugh.
And drink more cheap wine.
And someone would toss something
onto the fire. And we would watch it burn
away into nothingness like so many nights.

The following summer,
we found ourselves back
around the same fires.

But now she had a new man,
she would say, He’s the best. I deserve it.
He works. He cooks. He takes us places
on the weekends. He loves ‘em kids
like they were his own. I always knew
a good one would come along.

And our nights passed
without significance
until a coke dealer
from down south
came sniffing around.

He scratched his crotch
by the fire and said,
Fuckin’ caught somethin’
from a girl who pays
with her pussy.

And the hours filled
with his spurious stories
before he slipped her
a tiny white wrap.

And she thanked him
by sucking his scabby cock,
in sight of everyone,
while her new man
and kids slept
in a house across the road.

Science Lesson # 4: Space

It is said that, in space, dig,
No one can hear you scream.
At about 250 miles above Earth,
In the space station, who would?
It has been found that, in space,
Zero gravity messes with the eyes.
Eyeballs change shape causing
Visual distortions.  Also, getting
Slapped up side the head with
A beer bottle could mess with
Your eyes, too.  Maybe pop out
An eyeball.  Which you may need.
Testicles would do the same.  Not
Pop out an eyeball, but no gravity
Would cause the shape of each
Nut to change, creating some real
Screwy ass kids with the affected
Space spermazella (spermazelli?).
Speakin’ of space, didja know that
Shit don’t fall from your ass up in
Zero gravity?  It just stays as a sticky
Shit wad on your asshole.  You gotsta
Vacuum it off or wipe it off,   You must
Dispose of it properly so that you don’t
Have shit paper or loose turds floating
Around the space craft.  Nasty stuff.
There’d be a good chance that could
Piss off your fellow space freaks.
Kinda reminds me of using grampa’s
Outhouse in the old days and some jerk
Runs off with the Sears and Roebuck.

Now And Then


These groove stained walls
if they could speak
to the hours, days,
years, moments I
sat freaking out
always it was
the moment, the now,
a series of now s
the beats of my
heart a song
marking time
my time
till
the musician’s
silence
doodles
memories
increasingly forgotten
or remembered
in the soul
amid the striving.


Let’s Talk!


Wind
flowers in golden
bloom
smell blind
with no eyes
hearing
a world
a sensibility
a joy, dare
I say
in a six or seven
day life span
- getting eaten
by the female
after mating -
we so-called
higher beings
just can’t
grasp the glory
and ecstasy of
yet
till inter-species
communication efforts
ramp up
and we cease
the murderous rampage,
call off the insect war.



A special thanks to activemuse.org

A Cold Morning in Stalingrad

on the Volga, sun
hidden in swath of
clouds;
I am blowing my nose
all morning long
my feet are
frozen, and
Hans says we attack 
at noon--
a bunch of Ivans around the
corner, holding up
our advance;
we will kill them all
because they do not surrender
the crazy bastards
they die like flies in Winter
and still, still more arrive
each morning--
shipped over from the 
opposite bank of the river
(that fat Herman was suppose to reduce
but has not).
Hans says we should pull out
this Hell hole, what sense, he asks
this slaughter? The swine Shitler, he says
got us into this--the GOFAZ, ha ha, an
Austrian arsehole--"I would give him such a kick,"
Han's says "he would be unable to sit on his
Lebenstraum for a week."
Sergeant Ludwig gives Hans a dark look; the
Nazi prick will probably report him, and
Hans will disappear, like some others.
When we get about twenty yards out. I think
I will shoot Ludwig in the back of the head;
I will save Han's bacon: He is a better man
than me, and deserves saving.

Hello Beat Poets,

Our Best of Beatnik Cowboy Version 5 is now out. Better get it ‘cuz they’re going fast. Not sure how, but get it. No cowboys, nor beatniks, were harmed. One dog got a splinter, in its paw. I pulled it out Rip Van-Winkle like. Soma got us all that day. Whew! Poems burst as puzzles in our brainstorm/stem. Set them free. Write them, using your words, grasshopper. Make sure of the following. The Cowboy is blessed by all able to bless, God bless. There’s an old cat, white of beard and hair, who guides you in, dead fella, I just reread Revelation.

Write like the success of our magazine depends on it. And thank you, stars one and all! Poets, writers of the finest mettle. Submit, relish success.

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The beatnik cowboy rides...viva le art!! And fated success!!

The Editors,

2/18/2024……. the high season for poetry.