Thursday, October 20, 2016


On a quiet August morning
in Kokura
a child plays absentmindedly
in the street
as the plane passes
way up high.

The skies have turned cloudy
when only minutes ago
they'd been clear
and a snap determination is made--
too overcast to make the delivery.

On that quiet August morning
another child plays distractedly
in the street
of the alternate target.
The weather cooperates
and Fat Man
like his predecessor Little Boy
is delivered.

One of them survives
and grows to be an old man
who still speaks of
"The Luck of Kokura"
Fat Man's primary target
Little Boy's alternate
yet passed over on both occasions.

And while "luck" implies
a random roulette wheel
kind of universe
which his lady of lo these many years
is more inclined to believe
when she tells him
He doesn't play favorites
you'll never convince him
there wasn't something more at play
on that hazy August morning
as he steps out onto that same quiet street
with his cane
and gazes into the heavens
on another crystal clear day
in Kokura

Thursday, October 6, 2016


She superimposes his face
upon her own demons
cuz it ain't easy to beat the shit
out of a nameless, faceless entity,
and a punching bag
is always more therapeutic
when it's someone you love.

She knows

that he will absorb the blows--
bounce back grinning
to a standing eight count,
no worse for the wear.
Knowing in his knightly heart
what she still struggles to comprehend.

That the Devil made her do it.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016


over at da Wally store
da peeps dey waddle in
an' den dey waddle out
an' dat just de employees
cuz everybody fat
in America
fatter den me big fat cat
in America

everybody eat good

in America
compare to where me come from
where many say: "Food? What is dat?"

in America me see dis guy on tv

he cram down seventy hot dogs
just to set some kind of record
yeah, me REALLY see dat

where me come from

dey would call dat obscene

but it okay in America

where all da fat cats be gettin' fatter
fatter den me big fat cat
in America

don't get me wrong, friend

me mean no disrespect
cuz you are da new normal
an' me just a skinny guy
who feel like he don't fit in

wish me had some meat

on me bones like dat
cuz den me could wear all black
an' turn me baseball cap around on me head

maybe if me stuffs down

seventy hot dogs
each an' every day


'scuse me, friend

but me feelin' sick now 
sicker den me big fat cat
barfin' on da carpet
he say dat's what all da cool cats do
in America

Tuesday, September 6, 2016


the only thing he can say for sure
the only thing the irrefutable evidence points to
is that she loves wandering
more than any person, place, or thing

and anyone who wishes to curry favor with her

must first scroll to read the terms and conditions 
and click on I accept before proceeding

it just goes with the territory

or province
where she may materialize
at any particular time

in between

she's a caged cat

pacing back and forth
back and forth


he's happy he gets to rock
her Gypsy soul on occasion
making sweet hot music together
(one ear invariably cocked
for the sound of distant drums)

long past remembering

what she's running to
or running from

soon she'll be coiled tightly again

ready to spring for glimmering stars
though they're only in her eyes

so near

yet so far away

Thursday, August 25, 2016


Outside my window
the raven beckons
to follow him again
as in that kingdom far away
in a time when hoods
of muslin saved our sight
from the diamond in his eye
that blazed like a thousand suns

And wasn't it you

who told me that love
is like a banana
you've got to peel away
the facade

And wasn't it you I saw

seething inside your skin
at the Metropolitan Opera

Grunting like a pig

when the fat lady sang
hooting from the balcony
like a Portuguese pimp
a break with tradition to be sure
running amok till they pinned you down
inside the ladies room

Tempest in a pisspot

And isn't that Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour

sitting right over there
sucking on her
mint julep
trading tales of the good ol' days
when men were men
and women were horses
and giddyup ol' paint
was the prelude to a kiss

Her entourage

of the rouged and the wrinkled
hanging on her every word
well aware that most men in America
in this year of the locust
in this decade of the plague
would rather be sniffing
through the long abandoned ruins
of an old haunt
than to give up the ghost
to some baby-faced whore

And now my old friend the raven

has moved to Baltimore
where he works as a squeegee man
on certain odd numbered holidays
and plays the guitar
with Eric Clapton
and sometimes Charlie Byrd
while all the sweet young things chant

But well you know

the whole world's a stage
that you're going through
just to get to someplace else
and though they stomp and shout
for another encore
quoth the raven: Ain't no more!

It was a lively time

says Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour
well aware that most men in America
take their pants off one leg at a time
all grist for a story of some kind
and you know dahling
you really should write it

Tuesday, August 23, 2016


No one is crazy
about a poem
that goes on
and on
and on
and on
and on 
and on 
and on
and so on
(you gotta get out there and slop the pigs!)

A poem should be

like a good fight with your girlfriend. 

Say it succinctly

have it mean something
make it feel like a stab in the heart
and get out of there.

Come back later.

Approach cautiously

and take a peek
to see if "she" still looks friendly.

Then dress her up a little

and get ready
for her big debut with your friends!

Tuesday, August 16, 2016


Nature procreates
with no regard for the numbers
or the consequences.
I know some peeps like that too.

Bathing in their own pious disregard--

the stink of the river still on them,
as Gaia's icy tears
cascade into the sea.

And I thought I heard her whisper:

There's only one of me...
and far too many of you.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016


When I reach the end
 of that road
I'll be like some of those old cars
I used to drive around
held together by chewing gum
and bailing wire
an old beater
(I know what you're thinkin')
limpin' along
chokin' and coughin' and splutterin'
(but never  out of "gas")
destined for some boneyard
to be gutted for spare parts

Tuesday, August 2, 2016


They slip by



that is life's little trick

as you're not supposed to notice
till one day you glance in the mirror
and reel back in HORROR
then you hear somebody laughing
you can't see them
but that is LIFE
getting such a kick out of
pulling that shit
on some hapless sonofabitch
once again

Friday, June 17, 2016


You remember the wild west
where everybody was a gunslinger
and when the bad guys came to town
an armed citizenry had some
recourse to deal with 'em

I had a vision
of a new America
much like the old America
where east is west
and west is west
in the new wild west

Where pistol packin' mamas

are toting something more than lipstick
and Tic Tacs in their bag--
and they know how to use it

Cuz a shootout

is better than a massacre
any day

Or would you rather be fish in a barrel?

You know as well as I

that day is comin'
there'll be no more debate
just a throwback to a simpler time
when men were men
and women were Miss Kitty
and the cathouse
is right down the street

So sidle up to the bar, boys

and get yer whiskey
and learn how to down it
in one swallow

Cuz a shootout is better

than a massacre
any day

Or would you rather be fish in a barrel?

I had a vision of a new America

where necessity
becomes the mother of invention

Where zombies roam among the populace

programmed for apocalypse
(they're already here)
and they have to be taken out
you've seen the movie--
we gotta take 'em out

Cuz a shootout is better

than a massacre
any day

Or would you STILL just rather be fish in a barrel???