Friday, October 11, 2019


For Wild Friday at Poets United. Inspired by James Wright (1927-1980) and his poetry collection: Shall We Gather At The River.

A sense of place is a good thing.
A grounding thing.
A sense of time and place means
You remember things that
Have touched you deeply.

Deeply enough to lay 
The groundwork for a poem.

He was rooted in time and place
Like no one I ever read.
Out of the way places.
Lonely places. 

Daybreak beginning to fall on Idaho.

A discontinued railroad station
In Fargo, North Dakota.

The oldest whorehouse 
In Wheeling, West Virginia.

(No mention if they were the oldest whores.)

He understood the poet's mission 
was to take what has stirred 
(or maybe shaken) you,
And pay it forward.
Poignant and plain spoken, he came
from a time and a place
where some things still made sense.

Some still remember. 

Monday, October 7, 2019


For Sanaa's prompt on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads --inspired by Pink's "Hurts 2B Human"

It's getting harder
to be human
when to leave my comment
on your poem
I must prove
I'm not a robot

No easy feat

these days
when it's come down to
a set of rules 
a set of laws
not divine laws
(and not your in-laws)
but decrees laid down
by mortals
often with dubious aims
and dark agendas
but by god now they're set in stone
and we will follow them
to the letter
as we chant

Send them back!

Send them back!

Just like what you want me

to prove that I'm not 
and though it walks
and talks
and seems almost like a person
the human element
could not be programmed in
so before you check 
that little box 
look deep inside your heart
take a moment 
and ask yourself...

Where is the proof  

that I'm not a robot?

Friday, September 20, 2019


Tim Schaefer's new memoir has just been released. Puerto Rico: The Golden Years Before It All Hit The Fan (Memoirs Of A Raconteur Radio Host) is a tell-all accounting of the author's wild and woolly days as a popular personality on WBMJ, Puerto Rico's first English language pop/rock radio station. Set against the backdrop of the free-spirited late sixties and early seventies, Schaefer's prose flows like music wafting on the wind as he shares intimate moments with some of the stars (and those with stars in their eyes) who passed through the portals of Penthouse One in the San Juan Darlington hotel. 

Consider buying this book. It's like seeing "For a good time, call Sadie" on the side of the the public restroom stall. Do you dare call the number?  How adventurous are you? 

Puerto Rico: The Golden Years Before It All Hit The Fan is now available from in both e-book and paperback editions.

--Review by "Cat Man"

Sunday, September 8, 2019


Used to sometimes drop into
The Maverick Bar
just for the hell of it--
back in the day
it was the premier country-western 
spot in town for two steppers
and two timers lookin' to hook up.

One night as I was leavin' there

sitting in my car
these two drunk chicks
came stumbling out.
They were lookin' for a ride
and I would have obliged them
in one way or another.

One of them poked her head 

with all that teased blonde hair 
inside my open passenger side window
and got a bead on me,
sizing me up as best she could
for the state she was in (Arizona).

And then she said to her friend:

Why hell, Betty Sue...
he ain't even a COWBOY!

And as they tottered off in search

of a big Stetson hat
and whatever else might come 
along with that package 
I said to myself:

No, pardner...

you sure ain't no cowboy.

At least you got that goin' for ya.

Tuesday, August 27, 2019


Went to the supermarket 
and you can't even turn around 
without bumping into some body...

Fuken people!
they're everywhere
and the source of all our grief.

Cuz if it were just you and me
there'd be no worry about the economy
we'd barter straight up
one to one
no need for tariffs 
as we'd know each other better 
than anyone else in the world and
trust that we weren't trying
to screw each other over.

If it were just you and me
the skies would be clear 
and the oceans would be clean
and all the methane gas that goes into the 
atmosphere from all the cows and everyone
else farting up a storm wouldn't exist
we'd eat from nature's bounty
brimming on the trees and the vines.

And the murder rate would be way down
no assault weapons
cuz nobody to assault
I could bonk you over the head
with my club if you got really out of line
but you'd be okay.

No white supremacists cuz
having originated from 
somewhere over there in Africa
you and I would be
brown as berries 
(and just as juicy I might add).

Don't dismiss these words out of hand cuz
all the world's major problems
can be traced back to too many 
fuken people
but there's nothing to be done about it now
'cept try to be civil
and don't turn around abruptly in the market
and bump into some old lady
who'll give you the nastiest look
like she thinks you shouldn't even exist.

Tuesday, August 13, 2019


An encore presentation from about three years back. I know that some of you haven't seen it. 

Sidewalks speak
of cig butts and spittle,
old women in door stoops,
poetry cafes and musty smelling bookshops--
the clack of high heels,
the cadence of raindrops,
and children running.

Sidewalks speak
of jackhammers, sirens, and horns--
of just before,
and the moment after,
the corner store
and the ring of laughter.

Sidewalks speak
of dog shit, baby carriages, and
ice cream cones melting in the sun.
Of epithets hurled, flags unfurled,
five o'clock shadows, gutters,
teenagers on the run.

Sidewalks speak
of swirling lights
painted faces
and tango dancers.
Sidewalks speak...
but no one answers.

Sidewalks caution:
for the road twists and bends.

Life is a nameless corner
where the sidewalk ends.

Tuesday, July 16, 2019

O. M. G.

I went strolling 
through this city
of painted boxes
throwing rocks 
at everything that moved

While the hip-hop dancers
fingered their crotches
I gave the sun away
it was just another day

I fed the monkeys
and the peacocks
I danced all night
with three queens
in hot pants and clogs

in the morning
enveloped in fog
I took a marriage proposal
from a guy with a gun
and a dog

We read the Kama Sutra
all night in bed
there is something fragile 
inside your head
that makes you want to be dead

and sometimes you know
exactly what's going to kill you
but you just keep keepin' on with it

I am your God
and you shall seek no other
I carry a horn to blow
in all these streets
to notify you of my second coming
never doubting
that the preachers
will nail me to the cross

Oh never mind
it's the flag
the flag
the important thing is
that it not touch the ground

For we'll still be waving it
long after your silly God
is dead and gone

Tuesday, July 9, 2019


Play it as it lays
no need to cheat cuz 
in the end you'll want to say
 that you won it
or lost it 
fair and square.

There is a little word called

that has gotten lost
under tons of smelly manure
spewing out the wrong end 
of the equine these days
(mouth instead of rectum)
and that makes a horse's
ass out of many of us.

What is winning 

going to gain you
you self-serving twit
when you lose your
soul in the process
and reincarnate as a
dung beetle
eating shit for the rest
of your days instead
of serving it up?

Like the rhino who can
only see 15 feet 
in front of his face
we're all a little 
short-sighted that way.

We'll deal with the consequences

of whatever that is up ahead later
right now just put your 
head down and charge!

If karma exists

then I'll see you 'round
the old dung pile
in just a little while. 

Tuesday, June 25, 2019


Your all day eyes
Sunday surprise
I've been livin' under the guise
of something loosely deemed 
for oh so long

It's time to break out

show you what I'm all about
the monster lurks within
poised to destroy Tokyo
one more time
and eat your head
just a snack before bed

Scoop me up a slice of dat will ya?

that's it...warm apple a la
American Pie
I'm the second coming
of Little Jack

In my day we questioned 

but we never questioned 
who we were 
somehow we just knew
(we were grounded)
these fundamental questions 
are up in the air now
like the balls you'd always see
the jugglers tossing on Ed Sullivan
now you see them
now you don't

snip snip

If I told you I was Godzilla
would you give me
all your loving support...
no questions asked?

Monday, June 17, 2019


I know you thought
that last one was weird
and I could see you
sitting there saying:
Geez, I hope he doesn't 
make this a habit
cuz he was obviously
high when he wrote it!

(I just had to laugh)

When all your angels

have retired and given
up the ghost and you're
out there on your own
existential limb
teetering in the wind
you'll simply tell it as it is
with increasing alacrity

all good people deplore

problems at a distance

appalled by what the

unenlightened inflict
upon each other
(but at a distance)

the power disparity

inherent in all relationships
whether they be between
individuals or groups of
individuals sows the
seeds of abuse

and here's the thing

about Armageddon......

there won't be any time to

look back and ask
what went wrong
when your ass is
high-tailing it for the hills

(jump cut)

If I had my druthers

I'd be walking down
a cobblestone street in Cannes
a few paces behind Brigitte Bardot
whose butt is wiggling like
a sack of Yukon Gold potatoes
in her bright white short shorts
and yes I will take that year
whatever it is to inhabit
like a hermit crab
for all time

The person caught in any

moment in time is
frozen in that moment
because that is his moment
then a much older person
who is caught in his moment
and will forever be comes
along and has the audacity
to claim that he is the same
person as that whippersnapper
from long ago...

identity theft on a global scale

and God said to the monk of 57 years:

You know you could have done
whatever the hell you wanted--
I'm not a prude!

but whatever it is

make it good 
'cause time steals away
like a whore 
from your bedside
at 5 a.m.
and the world 
is made of yesterdays