Great Escape
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Got a womb for rent
going cheap
for a tired grown man
who needs a place to sleep
It’s got red velvet curtains
heated floors, so much more
adorned in fleshy luxury
and free of oozing sores
Hide away, deep in my belly
away from the sour world
and coo to the sound of heart beats
and lullaby gurgles, sublimly swirled
The walls so thick, slick
ne’er impenetrable, few exits
make for a retreat, sweet and Freudish.
Dry up and die
Snapshot conversation
“Yes, I can’t remember your name, but I remember your face.”
“Oh, that’s funny. You should be remembering my legs, breasts and the small of my back.”
Mellowfluous
On days like these
ink creeps down the confessing page
rain slides down the windows
and blood weeps slow through my polar veins
the coffee perks and drips in sync
and someday soon
all these liquids will efface
amalgamize in a swirl in the palm of my hand
and I will smear them down my sullen face

Maritime Melancholy

Months lost at sea with all these knots and thoughts that will not hold tight slipping and giving the wind my sails .
The creaking sway a lullaby of loneliness a cradle a heaping ladle of maritime melancholy my flag, a sun-bleached map .
Is it a voyage when you are lost and content to be tossed upon the miles of tumultuous waves praying for landlessness hopelessness, a welcome compass?
Rendered Handsome
catching the afternoon sun How he glistens smooth to touch His sculpted curves give me a rush Apparently, the Lord’s work is done.

Under the Shade Oak Tree
I’m gonna spread myself out under that shade oak tree
and close my eyes;
feel the breeze flow across my cheeks
my arm flung on the ground behind my head
light and hollow inside,
heavy as wind chime lead
singing, clanging songs as it moves me
this serenity soothes me
If I could only squeeze
the essence of this peace
preserved into a vial for consumption
when the fires of hell are raging.
Harbor
The child’s heart, a seed from the mother’s fruited tree grows before her very eyes into ripe maturity .
With guarded heart, she tends his scrapes wipes his nose and meets his teachers watches him shave for the first time and roots for him from the high school bleachers .
The letting go comes very slow if ever it should occur at all she sees the man before her yet to her, he’s still so very small .
No words can touch the unspeakable grief of mother holding babe in arms
an urn of ash from a horrid crash her harbor utterly disarmed
Vulnerabull
Some people wear their vulnerability like a badge of honor.
Even the toughest broad can feel little and scared
when you strip away her shell,
but there are those that sell it, work it, milk it,
wearing their mushy soft armor,
seemingly begging
to be poked, tripped, hustled, fooled, ripped-off,
hurt, offended, insulted, worn-out ragged
a stage of sagas
strung along like snot-soaked pearls
to confirm their view of this unfair world
“I am too weak” or “This is too hard”
is the speech
that echoes on the avoiding crowd
How proud they are to share their woes
and retell the victimization by their foes
Leia said “Help me Obi Wan Knobi, you’re my only hope”
but took gun in hand, killed clone or man
because she CAN
We remember Annie Oakley, Mae West
but not the name of the damsel in distress

Happy Blogaversary
Today is the one year anniversary of my blog. I’ve stuck my first post up on the top for the occasion. Last Halloween, I had thoughts coursing through my head like nobody’s business there was so much to do as there is every Halloween. I needed a place for overflow. I wanted a place to explore provocative themes; experiences both tender and contemptuous; variations on meter, alliteration, adjective use, tone; to dump all the gobbledy gook that clutters my thoughts. I basically set this thing up for me. I didn’t expect too many visitors, and really, haven’t had tons. That’s okay.
I’ve been writing poetry since 1991. I would doodle pictures in spiral bound books to go along with the poems. I felt it was time to centralize all (almost all) of my material, keep it better organized and move it into the 21st century. I’ve never essayed to publish them. I do not care about being famous or recognized. My only hopes are to meet people who may understand it, or who write in a way that I appreciate and understand. I used to show my work to people I thought might appreciate it. Only a few have. I really don’t show it to anyone anymore.
My local circle of influence is shallow, and I really don’t want to expose what I consider my best talent for fear of rejection…or worse, indifference. I am content to be perceived as a mediocre hack who doesn’t do much of anything talent-wise. When asked what I am up to lately, there isn’t much to report aside from the daily chores of life. What I put here represents one of my very few hobbies. If I were to continue announcing what I do to people around me, I would continue to get their eyes glazing over, or if they are interested, perhaps it’s not the type of work they find inspiring to them. There is good writing out there that bores me. It’s still good and skillful, but not of interest to me. So I fear that if someone is actually genuinely interested at first, they may ultimately be let down. In a way, the last year writing here has been cathartic.
I am finally learning to keep my mouth shut, and keep parts of myself hidden, whereas, usually, I am an open book, honest and shamelessly revealing. I’ve learned that people don’t appreciate honesty, even if it’s me being honest about myself good or bad. I’ve learned that social graces require a level of superficiality that I cannot muster. But it’s gotta go somewhere outside of me, and if there is an audience for that, cool. But I hadn’t intended this blog to be a platform for anything but a shelf for my brain.
I appreciate all the people who check in regularly, leave comments, or even silently read, enjoy and leave. I appreciate all the good work I have managed to find on WordPress. I wish I had the time to sort through everything more thoroughly to find the diamonds in the rough. I love referrals to good work if you have them. I love it when people drop in for some healthy discourse, even if we don’t agree. As a toast to the anniversary I had thought about writing a macabre Halloween type poem, but there’s too much to do at the moment. Perhaps tonight…. perhaps.
The Sunday Blahg-Crush Trends
No poetry today-
Below is a chronology of my celebrity crushes. I can see the uncanny trends. Of course, I’ve already figured out what I like by now.I hooked one of the good ones.

Everyone has to root for the quarterback…right? I was about 6 yrs. old.
My favorite teacher from 5th grade bought a dynamite magazine and left it in my desk (when I was in 6th grade and he wasn’t even my teacher anymore) with a note as if Kirk himself had left it for me. He was on the cover, and my former teacher knew i had the hots for him. I liked Leo even better once he came on the show. I liked him up until Titanic and still respect his work, except for Titanic. But I guess an actor’s gotta concede to get a little bankroll to fund projects.

Joe Elliott, of Def Leppard, was a short lived crush. He winked at me during the “Pour Some Sugar on Me” video. He looked old to me then. He looks horrible now.

I always like the underdogs and nerds. Brian Austin Green was off my list when he started getting ghetto.
I still think Dave Gahan is pretty cool. I mean, Depeche Mode’s music is timeless is it not? But I only liked him during his goatee sporting “Songs of Faith and Devotion” era. That skinny, rough bad boy look gets me revved. Any rail-thin guy who rocks the Jesus look gets a second look from me. I had the hots for just such a guy while in college. We spent a little time together, and he turned out to be a gross, dirty, almost bum-like slacker. Ew.

Jon Stewart was a big crush for a long time. Kinda still is. Except he is too liberal for my taste. But, nonetheless, he is ruthlessly funny, and I still do like him. I liked him since the good ol’ days when he was on MTV. Smart funny nerd. Veddy nize.

Then there was the nerdy kid from Mars Attacks. Yum.


It’s not so much James Spader’s looks, as it is his presence. As I saw films with him in it, I began to see a trend in what I think is his real life behavior crossing over into his work. I love his teasing, perverted, defiling nature. All the while he is not loud or domineering, but rather quiet and commanding with his body language.

I know just about everybody loves Johnny. I appreciate him as an actor just like Leo. He’s got amazing range! His stuff with Tim Burton are some of my hands down favorite movies! His looks, since they change so drastically, are not always sexy. I mostly dig the Jack Sparrow thing. Debauchery? Check. Quirkiness? Yeah baby! And there’s something about how he said “Watch the goods, darlin’”. Mmmmmm…
Speaking of Johnny- When Willy Wonka was remade, all I heard for months was how I look like Johnny as Mr. Wonka.


of course, usually, I was not smiling so much. This picture is a rare exception. Probably because it was nearing Halloween.

Mike Rowe is an unusual pick for me. He’s got dreamy blue eyes and a ripped middle age working guy physique. That is not usually what I pine for. He seems to have a respectable personality, his butt looks good in jeans and he does some dirty, dirty work. Maybe he satisfies my farm girl need for a strengthy provider.
All in all, I like the skinny nerds, tall and geeky as possible. I’ve even threatened to lock one in my basement, just to borrow his tech skills at my whim. I also like a rogue bad ass, tattoos and facial hair either resembling a devilish goatee or jesus style black locks. I won a nerd minus the tech skills. He’s a classy Stephen Colbert type conservative, with a wit to match.
Which brings me to the latest. Colbert’s hair is awesome. Shiny, suave and classic. He doesn’t get me hot, but he’s damn handsome to look at. And dare I say he’s funnier than Stewart?





The Clock Struck 2
everything is different than what you know from the last time
because the clock has chimed
it’s erased, replaced
somehow effaced
a gray blob in the heart of everyman getting thicker
it cuts quicker
thin-skinned
a mysterious trend
prodding wonder, inexplicable, unanswerable damnation
god-forsaken, fucking taken
alien invasion
Cold, quiet, pit, icy despair
no, just not fair
but there it is
tick
tick
BOOM
gone too soon
grab yer bottle and follow me to the tomb
sigh and sit
cry and shit,
doesn’t make sense, does it?
along the same incision… okay gash
another account rehash ash ash
stupid echo silence sobs
train-wreck moms
the blob barely throbs
and we wonder what we did wrong
we can lean on each other, like switch-stick huts
barely up and mostly numb
and weather this bastard storm
and for what?
It’s bad art, Lord, those boys
strewn out like Christmas lights on mangled metal
Would YOU settle
for an answer
that answers nothing at all?

Deep Autumn Waltz
There’s a madness blowing in the wind
A kind of sadness forcing it’s way in
A single note striking again… and again… and again
There’s a darkness that smears down sky’s walls
A dreary smirchness in ev’ry leaf’s fall
And the settling house, creaking calls… and calls… and calls
There’s a haziness from the farmer’s burned brush
set to drown from the oncoming drizzly gush
And the scarecrow has no choice but stay hush, hush, hush.
Get ready for a long weary shade,
a blanket cloaked in ashen frigid gray,
wrapped around us and bound with rusty chains
spatterbrain- or my windbag ode to my faulty memory
In the best way I possibly know, I think I can express the reason why I’m such a social failure. Or at least one of the reasons anyway.
I won’t remember a name. We just met, or we’ve met before. I know a lot of people who can’t remember a name. I’m getting better at just admitting that, and finding the person I’m talking to is in the same boat, so there is some improvement in that my penchant for honesty is not always screwing me in the end. But, I think that what my brain requires is that I say it over and over to myself. That is what all the memory experts say to do. But when I do that, this is what is happening: I say it until it links to some other concrete fixture in my memory. It’s like playing the 6 degrees of separation or the Kevin Bacon Game. So while the person keeps on talking, I am not listening .This just thrusts me deeper into the oblivion that will have made my slim chance at remembering their name a pointless venture anyway, because I will totally understand if they find someone else more interesting to talk to and avoid me like the plague at the next social function.
Instead, the synapses in my brain are firing, the little cells, vibrate and fidget, divide, switch partners and rejoin in a wild orgy until finally it latches on to something that helps it make sense to me.
It’s not just with names, either. It’s with every facet of a conversation.
If the person is speaking about something to which I can relate, I am engaged. I volley the ball back across the net. I say things that help prove that I understand, and really, I am overjoyed not to be having another dull conversation that I can’t relate to, and that I’m not the only weirdo in this vast world who feels a certain way.
If the conversation is something which I know nothing about, I slip into the usual habit of trying futily, again, to linking it with an existing knowledge within me. Still, behind in what they were just saying, maybe 10 degrees of separation apart by now, (their planned trip to mexico, chiclets, gum, gums, dentist, numbing, pain, shoulders, shoulder pads, 80’s, Boy George, white people with braids and dreads…”Do Mexican’s ever wear dreadlocks?” ) my response comes out… something totally unrelated, and the person may start to think I’m crazy.(Jury’s out.)
What I SHOULD be doing, as Dale Carnegie suggests, is asking questions about the thing I know nothing about, not only to gain more info and expand my knowledge, but also to be engaged what the person is saying. Their ego will be satisfied that someone is interested in what they are saying. In some weird way, they will like me better, because I am (sometimes pretending to be) interested in what they have to say.
Somehow, and without intention, this does not come naturally for me. I have to have a past experience to relate to. This is my best volley. Otherwise, I sit there in an awkward silence, and then grasp for anything to say, or a quick exit.
Sometimes I actually care, and want to make an attempt at having a new friend. But more often than not, I am stuck in a social situation, where I will not be making a friend. I am making a social acquaintance that I will either never see again, or will only see at other mundane mandatory life-sucking social events in the future, in which another dreadful deja-vous will play out in all it’s fumbling glory. So, really, why should I try?
On the rare occasion, I embrace the moment, gleaning the juicy tidbits of a glance into a stranger’s life. But people are usually not so interesting or honestly candid. It’s really just the same old superficial bullshit, and here I am in this squandered moment-leathering from the dry lack of substance. I know it’s my fault, due to my cynicism and critical and intense nature. What fool am I to think I could find depth amongst the masses? But as I attempt to do well at everything I undertake, I only end up feeling like the geek at the school dance.
The same glorious inanity occurs when I am reading. I am very visually oriented, so there is a greater chance of something sticking when I read. Yet, as I interpret one line of text, my mind starts the same hokey-pokey, flitting on a solitary word or idea to an experience of my own. My eyes, still scanning the text, as if to fool myself that I am still reading; my brain drifts to my interior of some past or future planned event. Is that some sort of form of ADD?! It surely explains why I read so seldomly. Or why poetry is just brief enough to sustain my attention, walloping big punchy words and meatiness into a very small space.
Interesting, though, is that when I am in a meeting, or when I was being schooled, I would doodle. It would appear as if I was not listening, when, in fact, I was. Doodling somehow helped me retain more of what I heard. I’m sure there is a textbook term for this phenomenon. That must be why I feel vulnerable without a pencil, besides the fact that I must jot down my fleeting random thoughts befoer they flitter away.
Since I am very alone in my experiences, and at that, have a uniqueness that instantly turns off a listener, I often resort to siphoning tidbits from my very shallow pool of pop culture. Trying to recount something I have read or seen is agonizing. It was there in my head, while I was there experiencing it. I can vaguely pull the framework from my mind, but my mouth keeps going, as the person tries to actually focus on the subject I just teased. But I come up empty, like a premature ejaculation, forgetting the important parts. It usually ends with, “Oh, nevermind. Maybe it’ll come back to me later. But, really it was _______(awful, rad, amazing, weird, messed-up, fascinating)”
All in all, I really do try to be a good person, and make every moment count. I want to converse and relate. But my brain is all screwy, and I must seem like a total asshat. I don’t intend for it to happen that way. It just does.
I pity da fool that has to interface with me.
Savory Things

dewdrops on eyelids and spellbinding black kittens ascension on alabaster clouds and shameless admittance auburn leaves in windstorms violently rustling
these are a few of my savory things .
chalk colored spirits and cream in my coffee string quartet sunsets and possessions with apostrophes ravens that fly with full moon on their wings these are a few of my savory things . Men in white collars with red paisley neckties his finger tracing softly up black stocking’d thighs blessings abundant, for we have our rings These are a few of my savory things. . When you take things for granted When you get in a cycle of drudgery When you lack common joys Take notice of your list of savory things and life will be more enjoyed
Skyfuck- A haiku about something we humans will never experience in this lifetime, and it’s a shame.

dragonflies mating in tandem
riding the wind, in rhythm with the currents’
air like coaster hills
No Rules

I don’t follow the rules, here.
I make it how I want it, see it, feel it…
This is a cosmic little galaxy commandeered by yours truly. I am the creator, and every speck that exists has come from within my own vision. There is very little in life we have control over. This small kingdom is all to my own. If you’re reading this, consider yourself a deep space tourist. I encourage you to leave a comment about your stay.
If you come across a word that you don’t recognize, look it up. I do not intend to misspell, but sometimes I bend meanings or fabricate words to suit my own personal fancies. Why? Because I can, and it fits what I am thinking. If you want a definition of my made-up words, just ask… Have fun in here.





