Monday, September 28, 2009

Hunter S. Thompson's Muse Stops By to Commiserate On the Eve of Blake's Death As Told to Robert Service

Hunter Thompson's Muse Stops By to Commiserate On the Eve of Blake's Death As Told to Robert Service

It was in a moment dark, I couldn't see the sky
an angel hovered overhead, she was the reason why
She brought me hope of the returning of such fun
and a bottle of gin, and a loaded gun

With the .45 I shot the beefeater, and drank from the hole in his heart
so bitter like my own, but what a place to start!
Then Jose C came slurping by, with his girlfriend Margarita,
but I got sick of them after a while, and became a Technicolor repeater...

That Fat Bastard Shiraz, his redness stained the floor
irking my little angel, who showed him quick the door.
My Technicolor yawning was ever “abondanzo,”
I briefly felt, for one brief click, I was living my life gonzo!

We drank and shot, and shot and drank until the night was dawn
and passed out in the front yard after puking on the lawn.
Our bullet dreams chased doggie licks, aroused by the neighbor's barfeater,
when down came the curtain and the lights went out, thanks for watching misere theater!

Tonight's show was brought to you by pain and greed and loss
and the letters L and D, and some tacos that we tossed,
and by little shoulder angels, and the little guns they tote,
and a finger to pull a trigger, and that's all that she wrote.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

The Wrong Poem

The Wrong Poem

I’m sorry.
In my haste to get here
Rushing around at the last minute
It seems I’ve brought
The wrong poem.
See I had this poem
That really would have worked
Right now.
Especially after that last reader…
You know the one I mean
It’s that poem that I do
The very utterance of which
Changes the course of rivers,
Increases glacial density,
And heals the ozone layer
But I’ve brought the wrong poem
You know it well
The one about clowns, monkeys
And surly banana peels.
But now I don’t want to read it.
I want to read that other poem
The words of which enlighten
Our otherwise dull and hollow politicians
Brings progress to congress
And balances the budget.
It’s that poem where I reach out
And caress the oyster
Of your soul
And heal its pearls
It’s that poem where I dig into
the silt of my own heart
and sift through the
roots and the mud
of me
until I reveal
my own lost diamonds
that sparkle brightly

it’s that poem that cures cancer
frees all would-be slaves
and reconnects the telepathy
Yeah, if you had gotten to hear
That poem of mine
It would have
Paid off your credit cards
Cleared up your skin
And then brought you to climax
(the women and the men)
But, you see,
I brought the wrong poem,
If I’d brought that other poem
That makes men cry
And women forgive
Brings peace and harmony
To all the continents
And archipelagos
Creates nirvana in samsara…
We all could’ve broken bread
Together, without fighting
About how light or dark
It should be toasted.

But I didn’t bring that poem,
I brought this poem,
The wrong poem.

Yet if this poem made you take a breath
And cry,
Or laugh,
Or smile,
Or just pause,
Then I can live with that.

Because, even though
It’s the wrong poem,
There must be a little something
Right with it
After all.

Friday, May 1, 2009

A Rosy Thorn

A Rosy Thorn

My love for you is the thorn
That perturbs my everyday.

I cannot build a new castle
Without its bubble bursting!


Monday, April 6, 2009

Cue to Verdant

Cue to Verdant

Rampant, yellow forsythia herald the breaking dawn
Of spring, while late daffodils sip coffee, and
Redbuds catch their by-a-nose breath.
Dogwoods bark in pink and white
I go outside to wake the sleeping myrtle.


Thursday, March 19, 2009

13 Black Cats Crossing Under Your Ladder

13 Black Cats Crossing Under Your Ladder

People are always reading
into every little
like the wisdom of
must be heeded,
deferred to,
“just because.”
Like when you see
a banana peel
lying in the road
and you know that
you must,
you must,
you must write
a poem
about clowns
& monkeys
driving amok
through town
until that
errant banana peel

unless, of course…

it’s a day like today
where that lack of banana peel
is an enigmatic
void filled
with a claxon’s call
a four-car funeral procession
& a jury of buzzards
in a Kodak moment
sitting on fenceposts
hoping, hoping
one of those nearby cows succumbs
to the humidity.
instead of attaching
to ominous portents
prefer to talk about
clowns and monkeys
& surly
banana peels
that just might be laying
across your
path today…
or not.
Because life’s
just a salad
bar of ideas and
you can either load
up on garbanzo beans
(unless, of course, you
happen to call
you can walk on by
in something


Thursday, January 8, 2009



The writing is on the wall…
With dirty, ochre fingers, black soot
Crocus yellows, and white wax,
I smear my woes, my dreams, my story,
Onto the granite canvas of time.

Bison, horses, buffalo run,
Run off my fingertips
Into a forever story of running.
Run solo, run with the herd,
Neither toward, nor from.
Run in dreams… finger dreams.
My own dreams of running free,
Free from hungry thought.

By firelight,
My oily fingers caress
Stone walls of home, so
That my grandchildren’s
Grandchildren may learn
Of the herd and the hunt,
And my dreams.

I tell of my dreams
With soiled fingers –
That they may learn
To tell their stories
With their own oily hands.

Friday, January 2, 2009

60 plus degrees - a SoCal December in Maryland.

Nothing new, but after the recent weather we had, I find this oldie apropos.

Heat Wave

it’s a heat wave in December
so people hit the streets -
tank tops, sandals, gaucho girls
no cars, just on our feets.
we cool ourselves with melted snow
and chase it down with gin.
we praise the greenhouse, “Glory be”
and celebrate in sin.

it’s a heat wave in the winter
the ozone layer’s gone,
I think I’m getting sunburn
from my head down to my thong.
I’d really like to see it snow
it would be a thrill,
global warming go away
and let us humans chill.

it’s a heat wave in December
and cats are chasing dogs
the geese all fly in circles
while sleds are pulled by frogs .
we cool ourselves with melted snow
and chase it down with gin
we praise the greenhouse, “Glory be”
and celebrate in sin.
I’d really like to see it snow
it would be a thrill
so global warming go away
and let us humans chill!

c. 2004