Blog Archive

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Those Old Crickets

We look intently back on the paths we’ve walked.
You on yours and I on mine.
Sometimes intersecting, sometimes near,
But more often than not the journeys have drifted to the poles,
Scurrying apart as the gravity of,
Space and time and ego,
Brought brevity to our shared experience.

But here we are.
Now. An ever expanding moment in creation.

And as the crickets chirp,
The me who was, is not the me who is,
And the pain and the wounds won’t hold me,
And the hurt and the regret won’t hold you,
And we live and we laugh,
And we bathe in the chorus of the insects,
As their wings breathe life into our humble bones,
Our irreverent lungs,
Our beating, pulsing hearts,
That bleed loss, love, and redemption.

What’s given cannot be taken,
We share these shoes, these shores, these shackles,
And we won’t be shaken.
The creatures of the grass,
They squeak, peep and twitter as we bravely move forward.

Those old crickets chirp.
And we move forward.
Those old crickets chirp and we old souls walk,
Beneath the leaves and moss and the never ending night sky.

Never hoping,
Never daring,

To look back.

Before You, There Was No Me

I’ve made a recent discovery that has shaken me to the core.
It’s as if my soul is a mattress and the universe a child,
Eagerly jumping on me for the first time,
Relishing every bounce, every shake, every vibration,
Evoking in me all beautiful emotions capable of being felt by a human,
Sensations that I cannot begin to name,
Feelings that history has not yet deemed capable of description,
Let alone designation.

The breakthrough is simply this:
Before you, there was no me.

This is not meaningless symbolism,
Or existential metaphor that attempts to articulate a half realized truth.
As surely as the deer will liberate it’s burdened head from it’s crown of bones,
As surely as the glorious sun will grow weary as the days become old,
As surely as the heart in my chest beats only to the rhythm of yours,

Surely I tell you:
Before you, there was no me.

The feeble fragments of my wild, aimless being tried to find a home,
Like a blind albatross, migrating west,
Pointlessly yearning for the warmth of destiny,
But the clouds, and the mountains, and the bottles, and the ash,
They held me captive,
Incarcerating me for twenty four years,
With promises of totality and providence,
But no matter how many hills were climbed,
Or valleys crossed,
Or flags raised on global soil,
The fullness of my uniqueness could not be realized on it’s own.

Surely I tell you:
Before you, there was no me.

Now we share life, and life shares us.
We are perfectly imperfect, you and I,
Calm or storm, meadow or desert.
A wholeness discovered once in a lifetime,
A new breath, a new tune, a new element yet to be discovered by man.
Because of you I’ve found completion,
Because of you I’ve found purpose, calling, strength, and peace.
Because of you I’ve found life.
Because of you, I’m unbroken.
And no natural law on earth or in the heavens can move me.

Now that I’ve found you, I know who I am.

Surely I tell you:
Before you there was no me.

Surely I tell you:
We will walk steadfast,
Arm in arm,
Hand in hand,

To the edge of eternity.

One Too Many

I often wonder what it would be like
to raise a child on bourbon alone.

Forsaking the nipple,
With its preconceived human experience,
In it’s ploy to create like-mindedness,
The breast is a goddamm communist,
Red in every aspect of it’s productivity,
Man doesn’t need to blacklist the human body
To uncover it’s allegiances.

To raise a child on bourbon alone.

It seems natural anyway,
If you think about it,
The bourbon barrel is a womb,
Dark and damp,
The wooden uterus lined
With all sorts of
Mystical growth,
And magical processes,
The corn and mash gestating to
Form new life,
Too supernatural in nature
To fully comprehend.

God made bourbon same as He made women.
Seems right anyway.

It could be the greatest
advance in medicine to
ever occur.
Children reared on the bottle,
Not the plastic kind,
Of course,
It could turn the universe
Right side up.
Hell, we could raise a generation of
Boys and girls with
Morals and fortitude,
And Sainthood in their bones.
To raise a child on Bourbon alone.

It seems so simple now,
The antidote to all sickness,
The solution to all evil,
The salvation of ----

I know.
I know, Lucille, I can hear you!

Guess I’ll put this lowball down,
Take out the trash,
And wonder on it some more. 

Saturday, April 28, 2012


"A Meditation on LOVE and quite possibly FALLING to my untimely death."

I think you know this already but,
I overcomplicate love.

It’s the scientific mind exploring the vast reaches of the inner galaxy.
Needing definition,
In every alien thought, every gravitational opinion,
And every minute, molecular feeling.
The immeasurable scares the hell out of me,
Like those dreams where I’m falling,
Plummeting stomach first into infinity,
And my damn wings won’t work.

Maybe it’s simple.

Maybe it’s as simple as how,
Even the most expensive coffee tastes lifeless and bland,
Until I drink it with you.
Or how when you taste whiskey and cigarettes on my lips,
You don’t pull away.
Or how washing dishes has become my favorite past time,
Because it means we just ate your latest culinary experiment,
And my belly is full,
And my dogs aren’t barking,
And I got to hear all about your life blooming,
In my work day’s absence.

            Maybe it’s simple.

Maybe it’s as simple as when,
We drove from Mobile to Los Angeles,
Two thousand miles on endless concrete,
Over desert sand,
Rolling pasture,
And sticky bayou,
Both of us too stubborn to stop,
Until our empty stomachs raised their white flags.
You pointed to shapes in the clouds,
And uncovered beauty that my eyes ignored,
Imagining adventure in every sleepy town,
Squealing in excitement with every roaming livestock,
And trying desperately to keep your phone steady,
As you took pictures of vagabond sunsets
In search of their own zip codes.

            Maybe it’s simple.

Maybe it’s as simple as when,
You cradled my head in your arms,
Sitting on top of your lavender-scented bed spread,
As I wept for my best friend Jon,
Who died much too cruelly,
And much too young,
My tears washing away any shred of bravery,
Any semblance of strength,
Any pretence of understanding the cold darkness in my heart.
You never met him,
But you stroked my hair until I feel asleep,
Honoring him until the keening trailed off into,
A still moment of shared life.

            Maybe it’s simple.

Maybe its as simple as when,
I didn’t write,
Unintentionally digging deep into your scar,
And you responded in kind.
The powder keg goes off and we burn together,
As I hate you and you hate me,
And you’ve smashed every plate on the ground,
And I’ve crushed every knuckle on the wall,
Stopping only to realize the wholeness of our brokenness.
Then with the wounds open,
We heal.
We mend the brokenness to realize our wholeness.
And the lights in the night sky seem to burn even brighter than before.

            Maybe it’s simple.

Maybe it is as simple as,
When I met your brother,
Who sees the world differently than anyone else.
His special heart shaped by his special needs,
Rocking back and forth,
Smiling with glee,
As he laughed at the world’s jokes,
That we’ve somehow all missed.
And as you fed him Cheetos,
Wiping orange spit from his mouth,
And playing with his hair,
I saw the green in your eyes glow with pride,
Like the sun bouncing off a field of grass,
Transforming into a warm emerald blanket,
That seemed to envelop all three of us.

Maybe it really is that simple.

So this is me, flipping that switch,
Cutting that cord,
Crushing that cricket.
This is me throwing a pipe bomb at my brain,
Into the part that needs to:
Reason, reckon, delineate, and define.
This is me swan diving into infinity,
Plummeting heart first,
And hoping beyond all hope,
That my fucking wings work.

All I know is from now on,
With you,
I’m keeping love simple.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Hollywood Burning

i saw metal and glass turn into a sea of smoldering glowing seething grey
as if a cauldron had been tipped over
not by magic
it bubbled and surged past the
cinemas boutiques and russian tattooed brothels
devouring chunks of cement
hand prints stars vomit and cigarettes
turning our cultures first born into a pockmarked

i saw the palm tree guardians of flashing celluloid turn to ash
raining down in a flurry of
falling on the shoulders of
the suits the sex the music the apron the immigrant
a knighthood of
of beauty
and everyone looked up
i saw the clouds turn violet and violent as the wind bellowed through
canyons towers mansions and cardboard castles
a voice in the storm asking for its
barely decipherable
wholly untouchable
cutting through the core the heart the mind
a dog like frequency
for human

i saw the world stop turning as the aged moon finally caught the agile sun
and all eyes looked up
every knee crashing to the
the concrete the dirt the carpet the dust
as heads bowed
and the letter L plummeted off the

hollywood sign

White Knuckle Boxing

My city breeds
White knuckles

Five by five they march
From the
Highest pedigree
To the
Lowest strain

They smell fear
And multiply
Like rabbits

Fists closed so tight
They become
Purple orange

Crowned with
Pale militia
Waiting to shatter teeth

To throw the first punch

And this city smiles
Best believe
A shark’s
Lined with broken glass

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Commercial #1641

there's shag carpet beneath my feet
the color of kentucky hay.
shifting my navy vans makes me think of
where i've been and
where i'm now.
an old godard film plays on silent to my right and left,
the subtitles yellow as a
chain smoker’s fingernail.
the avant-garde art sneers at
my pathetic, amateur endeavors.
it feels like a cave in here.
cold and dark.
moist with eager hopes
and common dreams.
i'm sticky with sweat.
not from nerves;
fear said it's sweet fair well long months ago.
experience told my nerves to fuck off and
i haven't seen them since.
no, i sweat because my parking meter hides from sight
and it beeps in my brain.
the little red light haunts my imagination
and my 7th sense tells me
this won't end well.

not well indeed.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Purple Teeth

there’s that age old

it haunts me,
tricks me, and giggles at me,
as i stare blankly into my
bare, undressed,

since the nativity of that first
the conception
of that foremost
the gunshot pop
of that first pockmarked cork.

the question was

the sour, charming juice that cultivates
debate and sleep.
both the lonely woman and the
esoteric poet.
proof of the messianic and lifeblood of
the artist. 
the elitist scraping for prestige
the homeless searching to put
fire in his belly.

the question

i scratch my scalp. my eyes jump back and
forth and back.
my legs are sore. my brain is heavy. my
feet hurt from the day’s
lengthy waltz. i danced
my employer’s steps far too long today
it feels.

the question.

it’s that grind that
answers; the

it’s a red kind of night. it’s gotta be red
after a day like

yeah, it’s a red kind of night.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Snowballs and Whores On Sunset Boulevard

my tank is empty like a
confessional on monday. i hate the thought of stopping but my
left brain is kicking my head real hard.
real damn hard.

there’s a chevron on sunset and crescent heights,
you know the one.
its actually on the laurel canyon side,
but the thought of that windy snake of a road
annoys the hell out of me.
so shut it.

i havn’t had dinner and its well past
so with the gas i grab a bag of hostess snowballs. twinkie’s red headed
slip the cashier seven dollars and say,
“the rest on pump 5.”
i just need to get
home. plus my wallet seems to be anorexic
as of late.

while my toyota greedily gulps down the
unleaded cocktail,
i pause,
to look at this strange deserted corner lit by the incandescent glow
of a smiling mcdonald’s sign across
the street. the wind howls. a car drives by.

the pump handle clicks a click at me but i’ve already opened my
feast. first things are always
first and with a shrug i bring the sugar mound
to my lips.

“lookin for a good night hun?”

just like that my meal is interrupted.

“i’m sorry?”

i quickly glance towards the voice and it belongs to
a woman.
i knew i shouldn’t have chose the pump closest to the sidewalk
and that syphilis contracted bench.

“what you sorry for sugar?”

she has hair like a broom, skin like coffee, and
is wearing a dress
four sizes
too small which
encourages rolls of flesh to try to escape their fabric prison. Its
some sort of animal print. leopard or cheetah
i think.

she smiles at me. a sort of sad, accepting smile.
she has
a gold tooth that nods and tips its hat at me. and a
piercing on her upper lip.

“don’t know.”

i shrug.

“you don’t want nothing do you?”

her smile fades as the breeze whistles by,
catching the words
from her mouth.

i looked down, thinking: this city thrives on
rejection. it’s lifeblood.
and i,
am no different than these cowards
and thieves.

“i’m starving. you?”

i reach into my plastic bag and offer her my second
there’s that smile again. there’s that
waving at me.

we stand there looking out on
sunset boulevard
as the wind howls and the cars
grumble, and the
bums bum. wiping pink coconut and sugar off
our lips.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Melodic Deliverance

There’s a lullaby that sweeps across the desert within,
And each note played is peace,
Every bar sung is tranquil and sweet,
And as fingers tap on the keys of grace,
The ghosts inside wither and die.

There’s a ballad that floods the city within.
And each note played is love,
Every lyric is powerful and deep,
And as two voices unite in truthful harmony,
The giants inside shriek and shrink.

There’s an anthem that charges across the forest within,
And each note played is hope,
Every string plucked is electric and charged,
And as horns trumpet resounding triumph,
The wolves inside bow their heads and weep.

Sing with me now.

Close your eyes,
Until you see glowing spots.
And sing with me.