Category Archives: POETRY: Culture


Rivalry of the head, a laughable
act of war waged on thought
and silent action.

Your Honor, it is unforgivable and
irrational and scandalous and…
that you should put on trial my
thoughts and their bloody results, which
sleep soundly

For what of consequences? The
apparatus has nothing to engrave but
humiliation and hardship. So the driving
ambition and legacy of judicial lunacy
hold America strong.

No head or scholarly art exist in the trial
from the first seeds of conflict to the
end of the performance. Ideal retribution
against everydayness and ordinary and
the impoverished.

A strange cannibalizing machine–by the people for
the people–humiliating all to conform and protect
ourselves from ourselves by condemning and
punishing ourselves.
The crime? Being.
Pray we don’t lose all our good heads by our own hand.

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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Culture


Myself: As a portrait of everybody

Higher the mind wanders to cloud
formations communicating wind and
alter egos swarming in webs of chaos
Living in noise and rambling through
market places – life strains to differentiate
with purposeful stares, taking in the

A universe of untold stories trapped in
heads wrapped in bright colored bows
and unsent letters written in sand. Lovers
soar in twilight then turn their masked droned
faces to greet the new day – oneness

Morphing between two and back into one
relationships repeating lessons unlearned for
this life. Alone I find myself whole for once and twice.
Solitary. And we can breathe in tomorrow together.

As difficult as it is to dream through all this pollution
we must.

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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Culture


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An Un-American Dream

There are those, I know them, who still
Dream of good fences, fine back yards
With friendly neighbors who manicure
Lawns and drive shiny cars with freshly
Pressed clothes. They dream of happy
Babies who grow into obedient soccer-
Playing children. They dream of successful
Husbands who stay fit and are kind, mostly.
And these are good dreams. For them. For
Me, this is a fucking nightmare. I would rather
Beat my head in with a block until my brains
Leak out of my skull, leaving a damp, sticky,
Smelly mess. My dream is far less familiar.

I dream of lithium-laced sunsets, with hot
Sand between my toes and the gentle
Thud of yesterday’s hangover slowly drifting
Away with the icy rum drink in my hand. I
Dream of revolving and forever changing
Backdrops where downstage I will play out
My life. Scenes changing through road trips
And train rides and flights to far-away lands
Real or imagined—a blend of hallucinations
And nomadic drifting to keep my eyes from
Developing a steady gaze, fearing anything
Familiar. I dream that words will pour out
Of my head and onto pages, inspiring and
Informing and igniting others. I dream of
Music fusing jazz, punk, opera and rage to
Form a perfect sound, representative of all
This. I dream of art, sculpting culture and
Painting all the strange creatures that dwell
In my brain. And I dream of a dance that brings
The community together in beauty and expression.

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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Culture


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The Making Of god

If dignity knew its place it would
Scammer away from me like roaches
In the light. Happiness would know
It does more harm than good with
It’s temporary smiles and fake
Laughter. And success would dull
Its glow and transform to the modest
Flicker of a cardboard match. I tend
To find my way to gluttony, and
Getting too drunk on these things
That don’t know my name and
Couldn’t pick me out of a line-up.

I’m learning to raise up my sweaty
Glass in celebration of disgrace and
Pain and failure. They are my true
Friends on this journey, and I will
Never turn my back to them again,
Replacing them with these shiny
Charms meant for other people. These
Others who will never be God. My
Friends are the bedfellows of deities in
The making. They are the water and
Air of creating, invention and all that
Is sublime. Without them comfort
Is too numbing, and change takes a
Seat at the bar, drinking itself to a
Snowy oblivion. No, my friends, they
Keep me hungry and calculated. They
Have encouraged all greatness in history.
Watch and learn.


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The Opportunist

And grace is known only through
Her antithesis. All else is a grand

I thank the tall weeds for gripping
My ankles so tight I could not move
Or dream. I thank the rain drops for
Clouding my eyes so that honesty
Was unrecognizable. I thank the
Swamp mud for filling my mouth
Absent of voice or opinion. I thank
The wind for chilling my heart so
That logic took over my thoughts.
I thank the waves for washing my
Brain and soul, melting individuality
Away with the tide. I thank the sun
For burning my skin, providing a
Crisp hide to weather life’s scars.

For had the weeds and the rain drops,
The swamp mud and the wind, the
Waves and the sun not subjugated me,
Had they not torn freedom from my
Gut. Had they not stolen my desire
For ambition and faith—I would never
Have recognized the sweet breath of
Liberty against my cheek. I would not
Have understood the tune of her song.
I would have never known to grasp her
Sturdy hand and become a new citizen
Of opportunity and dreams and… redemption!

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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Culture


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