Monday, October 31, 2011


The day doesn't care
what you're doing.

The sun will still
make its arc...
the quail will still
scamper across the yard
in the morning...
and all the nasty little children
will pile off the bus
in the afternoon
screaming epithets
that once were the purview of sailors.

You can lie there
on your dead butt
or you can do something heroic...
but you won't do anything heroic
lying on your dead butt.

The day doesn't care
what you're doing...
it will pass you by
without a moment's regret.

It's all up to you.

Friday, October 21, 2011


St.George and the Dragon--by Gustave Moreau.

Night descends
like a straight razor in a morgue...

The cutting edge of the
moon illuminates a blood-spattered
canvas, as art imitates death.

From the tenements there comes a wail--
siren song to the thunderbeat of jackboots
in perfect sync, a mirage or a memory, but
you can't trust a fascist to tell you which.

In the night I sense that he
is soaring over the city
with his searchlight and his megaphone.
Solo flight in a jackdaw dream.
Brownshirt in a black sky.

He wears a silver swastika on a golden chain.
He has come to inspect my paintings.
I tell him that once viewed they
are no longer mine, but belong to the world,
like Saint George and the Dragon.

Pretending to be a Brahman with
high-falutin' ways, his tail switches
like an alligator who disapproves of my shoes.
His lips curl into a sardonic smile.
Flames shoot from the sides of his mouth
as he contemplates his next tactical move.

When I escape, the sky
is on fire in my rear-view mirror.
Pink flambe in a Black Russian's eye.

Is Paris Burning?

Quick, try to remember the year you were born...
and were you in love with Anastasia after all?

Across town it is ladies night at
the poolroom, where Miss Manners
is learning to let down her hair
as she falls off the chair,
lying in a lump like yesterday's oatmeal--
the foam on her lips like white caps
on a sea of unspoken desire.

Her words float in the air like alphabet soup...

Unhand that rainbow, you cad,
and let me color my world like
a purple-assed baboon
walking backwards on the moon!

The hushed gallery waits for her to tee off again.

While I sit lonely
by a fountain
where naked cherubs
are pissing away my dreams,
knowing that collaborationists
stalk their own shadows
while pigeons goose-step
through the square--
but none can tell you whether ghosts
sit up and listen to the footsteps
that echo through an empty museum.

Now, the edges of the world begin
to blur, like a painting by Monet.
I must draw my own conclusions.
And I am running...
ducking down blind alleys
searching for the truth
that will open my eyes.

Thursday, October 13, 2011


Not the kind that come
with your sewing machine
or your vacuum cleaner
but the ones that keep us coming
back to this dubious place
for another merry chase...

the love of the game
(like a cattle herder)
any old diversion

Hypnotized like sleepwalkers
we follow our nose
see how it goes
take off our clothes
any way the wind blows
gleefully ignoring the spectre of karma

So simple
the way Wernher Von Braun put it

For every action
there is an equal but opposite

Don't need to be a rocket scientist
to get that one

You don't learn to share
what the hell do you care
but you think you're immune
let's go to the ball
and pretend that midnight's pumpkin
isn't waiting down the hall
the unmitigated balls
to think you'll get away with it scot free
now you're hanging from a tree

If the definition of insanity
is doing the same shit repeatedly
while expecting a different outcome
(I'm as guilty of that as any
not like the few
just like the many)
then we are all crazy
to be coming back here and thinking
THIS time
it will be a cakewalk

You know
duality guarantees
that there will always be
along with happy daze
the more we cling and grasp
the more our grasp is exceeded

Taken away
taken away

To the land of Nevermore

So quick
find a replacement
a sub
a stand-in
a hero coming off the bench
to save the day
isn't that the way
it's always going to go
until finally
at long last
(have you no shame)
we get tired of this game?

Thursday, October 6, 2011


Funny Bunny Fridays

So is it that you are afraid
I might use your comments section
like the wall
of a public restroom stall?

Hell...y'all should be so lucky.

Some of the best wit
I ever saw
appeared in that little cubicle
where minions sat
and shat
and posted their witticisms
in that minimalist style
so reminiscent of Hemingway
or Raymond Carver
for all succeeding thinkers
and stinkers
to ponder and reflect upon--
next to the phone number
of some girl
who would show you a good time.

I never called
though I was tempted.

And who could ever forget
that timeless classic:

Here I sit
all broken hearted
ran sixteen blocks
and only farted

Those anonymous writers
were carrying forward the legacy
of the prehistoric cave artists--
or less romantic perhaps
they were the forerunners of the taggers.

It was the closest thing to the internet we had--
especially when the crapper
was located inside
an international airport terminal.

So no
I'm not concerned
about offending the laity.

I prefer spontaneity.

So come one
come all
and scribble something
on my wall.

It's only words
(as the Bee Gees once said)
after all.