Dirty Love

A riff with a whiff of Zappa,
Mother’s invention flying solo
above forbidden yellow snow,
outside St. Alfonzo’s
at the foot of Billy’s Mountain
where Ethel sniffed the riff
and rattled her limbs,
flicked her Bic
and almost burnt slam up!
Thank God the Rangers were still getting paid……..
Saved her ass.
“The riff has some wit,”
Billy quipped as he quaked and coughed and lent an ear.

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“Now that’s some Dirty Love from the boys in D.C.,” a handsome parish lady joked, dodging a boulder loosed from Billy’s shoulder; turning a phrase outside St. Alfonzo’s.

A riff with a whiff of Zappa,
And a free pancake breakfast with no munchers,
Because the park is closed, man.
Dirty Love, indeed.


To Kill Your Brown Ass

Fire traps the bear,
Prison hot and smoking,
Ever eating all escape,
“To kill your brown ass!”
Flame whip crack in hooded waves
Burning blood on boarders raped
Hate divides a mom and babe.

A den,
Burning, smoking, gagging – cub,
separated below a purple mountain cliff,
A child,
dying below a purple mountain cliff.

“To kill your brown ass,”



Where can we breathe? When can we choose?
Swing axes – exhale – build houses – again.

Riptides hide in haze and crazed days;
Nostrils stained with shards of cheap booze.
Darkness rattles … lungs and throats;
Why did they come? Why did we lose?

Meantime, beware, beware of death’s ruse.

Smooth skies feign, calm breeze a myth;
Ghost ships float on morning mist.
Tongue-less pirates unfurl black flags;
Dropping scarred anchors and watching them drag.
Families are dead from cannon’s roar,
Choked of their breath and chewed to their core.

Meanwhile, beware of the breeze, the breeze that is more.

Why did they come?
Why did we lose – it all – again?


A Requisite

An apparition of midnight’s kennel,
nocturnal tongues slurp stray light – lost;
is a symbol of peace – bled/spilt/unguarded.

Under failed stars slumber,
I reason with one friendless theory,
as we stoop behind stony piles – and spy;
where choke-chained loco diablos, deep in black forest hardwoods, howl – – eyes bulging red.

A requisite to treasure dawn.



Her mask is on – she lives alone
Her hands sweat – – on their own
Her hips move – – round and round
The song plays – there is no sound

She can’t see – – she can’t dream
There’s no walls – – she’s not free
She can’t breathe – – her lungs scream
There’s no light – – her skin’s green

Listen – when you say – she isn’t you – locked up tight – in your room – always night
The mirror’s right – the lies are wrong – the volumes off – your words are drowned
Listen now – and listen loud

You want the rhymes – but you can’t write
You’re typing fast – with ink that’s white
Your lips move – – in silent light
Another drink – and you’ll be right

To be a slave – is what you crave
Your words cry – there is no save
They’re all gone – – an empty page
The rage trapped – inside your cage

Listen – when you say – she isn’t you – locked up tight – in your room – always night
The mirror’s right – the lies are wrong – the volumes off – your words are drowned
Listen now – and listen loud

Your mask is on – you live alone
Your hands sweat – – on their own
Your hips move – – round and round
Your song plays – you have no sound



Cowboy Dance

Dusty, tattered, stretched denim. Sundried, desert etched skin. Sand blown, chapped lips – bleed. Sweat-stained, shredded Stetson sways back. Frayed riata strands drag behind a bull legged – limp.

Adonia is loose; white frame racing; black spots prancing; ‘cross green prairies – grassy.

The cowboy spits, sips beer, hears the Appaloosa’s laugh, as sun sets, red.

“Tomorrow, again, my beautiful senorita; tomorrow, we dance – once more.”


Lunch Returns

Surly ambiguities interrupt lunch
A brutish gust
Thumps the back door shut
Window shutters stutter an eerie rattle
Goosebumps rumble
Familiar hands blind blinking eyes
Whispers re-arrive
Hands sweat
A noose restricts
Nabs last breath
I will not fear death’s trace
Slips though blue(ish) lips
Another day escapes
Lunch returns


Sylvia Plath Tribute

Another one of my favorite poets. I like the way her words move lines, and her lines move image, and her repetition, which I like, tattoos her work on your soul. For who ever checks out this, I thought it would be a good treat. I hope you enjoyed.


The They Conspiracy

They sprinted away from the railway bridge.

Twisting passenger cars seemed froze in mid fall;
Buckled steel,
Bent iron,
Screams, muted in a naked moment of realization;
Vomiting, unwanted – unprepared for – understanding.
Witnessed seconds before unimaginable – change.
THEY – won’t care about this observation.
“Who were, ‘they?’” the wolf will ask.
‘You said, ‘They sprinted away from the bridge.’”
“Because hell was falling.”
“Not why, but who? Who sprinted away from the bridge?”
“The sheep.”
“Yes, sheep.”
“It’s hard for us to imagine sheep sprinting.”
True, that was my thought, unless, they were wolves in sheep clothing. Now I’ve seen wolves sprint. What do you think, Mr. Wolf?