Rocamadour (early '90's)

Headlights kiss the mountain face
Winding, cool tires to the pavement
Spinning, noiseless spheres of motion
Kissing.

Outcrop kissed by spheres of light
Reflecting, speed of light does no damage
Speeding, noiseless streams of light
Kissing.

Fires kiss the leaves afloat
Twirling, oak leaves to the sunset
Twisting, noiseless flights of fancy
Kissing.

Leaves kissed by spheres of speed
Jumping, no does not exist here
Floating, noiseless fall from grace
Kissing.

Winding spinning noiseless kissing
Reflecting speeding noiseless kissing
Twirling twisting noiseless kissing
Jumping floating noiseless kissing spheres

starlight bubble (early '90's)

starlight bubble
dead surroundings
cactus fizzle
warm

chilly vista
life is pounding
misty drizzle
spray

moon

glow of water
rain of light
California California
cover me tonight

Stick To My Fingers (early '90's)

stick to my fingers
you suck you seeds

here I pull you out of your
home and make disgusting
faces at your slimy texture
(how rude) and yet...

you're sick you stick
you suck you seeds

I'm sorry I'm awful
this is my fault you can't
help it that you're

sticky and sick
you're slick you suck
you seeds and stringy
mass spongy morass
like from out of my ass

forgive me I'm awful
it's just that you're
sticky you stick to my
fingers you suck
you seeds

you orange pumpkin pulp
of a think you're vile

I'm sorry I'm awful

Peel It (early '90's)

peel it
don't beat around the bush
slice the tip
crack the whip
point me towards the sky

peel it
don't hem don't haw don't stop
tighten grip
do not skip
dress me down into the ground

peel the peel
feel the feel
drop my yellow slicker quick
and eat the seed

put the tip onto your lip
and do not skip or
loose your grip or
step on me
because you'll slip
and reel away
peel me today

Zuluman (early '90's)

I threw my spear at the sky
it landed in the dust

I carved my name into the shaft
and sank it in an elk

I cleaned the blade and ate my kill
and shit it out into the dust

I threw my spear at the sky
and almost pierced the moon
but it landed in the dust
I trust
because I haven't seen it since
somebody pinch me is this real?

I just know it's gonna
land on me someday
I just know it
Fuck.
I know that's gonna happen.
Just my luck. Fuck.

The Occasion Poem (06/03/93)

Written for the...
To conclude (conclusive, decisive)
Now deviate from -

Can I speak the truth?
Can I
Can I speak the truth?

...and above all, congratulations!
And I might add (might equals will)
Now deviate?

Deviate.
Deviates.

Justin's Old Guitar ('92)

An African plain rolls out of your head this time are you
sane and are you Fred or Jesse James and can you
ventura-guess at that body ol' crow were you scared
as you left or was it right for you to go drums that'll
talk can tell you tales of rivers flowing and of men who
try to find themselves in simple acts of going and they
wrap their lives in boxes and they shame at those
they've killed and smile at times when they were rats
and the bowl blown through was spilled but there's more
to it than just this symbol precious symbol that it be and
you can touch it as it flowers red the seal the wax the
tree and a fish can dart away from the patchwork
quilted hull which bounces gurgles off the shingles breaks
the gorgeous lull and you can tell me of your father's
words you heard that tree grew tall and here and now
I play your old guitar.

Untitled (NY '96)

How could you allow your letters to fall
into such hands as these?
An honor I would not bestow upon myself...
in doing so you have altered my image,
sung me my praises in vulgar descants,
pointed your flatulence out windows to spare me,
kept food in my mouth and blood in my penis,
and regaled me with dreams full of dance.

Untitled (09/03/96)

I know that you've passed
through my electrical fences
you've picked all my locks
and skulked down my halls
you've mounted my stairs in
search of a clue, you've
gone through my closets pen
flashlight in your mouth, pulled
paintings from walls hoping for
safes, thumbed through albums
to feel for my taste, tasted
my food to see how I cook,
rifled through desk drawers
reading my bills to see what
I paid for.
I hid in my attic, and wished that
I could have come along for this
tour, straining for noises, proof
of your presence, which proves
that you care, don't leave me up here,
reveal yourself to me
and I will do likewise
Leave your guard down
I won't be afraid

Wisdom Tooth (09/03/96)

It sneaks through me, the
disintegrating powder pill,
thickening my speech, slowing
my thoughts, deadening my
pain.

So I take a moment for inspection.
I taste my breath, I
linger over blinks
I am an addict of sorts, so
the artificial changes are
startling and frightening.

Having used marijuana as a
creative stimulant, I am
tempted to let this pill
stay gathered around the
hole in my gums, and this
literary excursion feels, well,
dangerous.

If it wears off mid-poem
will my metaphors disintegrate
like the pill in my stomach,
falling from sublimity to
doggerel?

Who am I with this additive?
This traveler in my blood?
Do I change in a fundamental way?

A Woman In The Stoa (08/21/96)

When I try to swing my balls around
And throw my maleness like a net
Or smell the urine dribbled on a tree -

I feel my ruffled feathers coalesce
And curl around my neck
A choker of testosterone
A boa hewn from stone
I'm a woman in the Stoa, lowered voice
Volume and tone

Lo-Ku (2001)

the ancient art of truthful living
the modern heart of many chambers
i've made my choice i'm all for giving
i'll sanctify all i've remaining

i will hold you relaxed inside an impenetrable ring
there's a cloud it's in your throat
there's a pocket full of secrets
there's a bite without a sting

i prayed for you before you came
i stay with you to state my name

yours, secret, is lo-ku

Eye Bullets (06/02/93)

Eye bullets, sneer lip, spitfire
Man made of home and ink stain

Tilt neck, hand splay, knee walker
Indignant music draws him to the sea

Ireland awaits thee, bastard son,
tell Apollo he shall deceive Death no more

Anger of the righteous, humor of the left
Union of the union and the bard

From this pool of clay we'll sculpt a
stage and wait for Tom, he beats

Godot because he's penniless and sore,
he smells of cider presses clocking

Fruit in measured cups and a
Single day in Dublin's all it is.
Rejoice, beckon, sing.
Joyce, Beckett, King.
Walk, wait, kill. ('em all)

At Rest In An Orchard (06/21/96)

realization.
the process of intentional fruition, and,
just the same, sudden knowledge,
new to the brain.
the apple to the noggin.
a proof of great import and
just the same, a meal,
cool to the tongue.

a funny thing about apples,
which any runner knows,
they give great energy.
but running too soon after consumption
causes cramps. best to let them settle.

it comes down to this.
a wind on my skin,
a meal in my mouth,
a thought in my head,
a love in my heart.

Remembering Pangea Via DNA (06/05/96)

Connections made through dreams;

1) A slug, small, white, friendly, created from the
carcass of a cat (also white) found floating in
the ocean.
1A) The slug, or harmless leech, seems to be sucking
quietly on the hand of the dreamer who is
repulsed but knows that the slug is benign and
born of the cat, a more easily liked creature.
1B) The slug is then thrown into a large vat of boiling
water where it seems to fold out into larger
versions of itself with the heat, these new
portions resemble tofu.
1C) The tofu then breaks apart and reveal themselves
to be full of large green beans, in the
dreamers mind gargantuan limas or capers.
1D) The whole vat liquefies into a soup.

We dream of one world, we live in several.

Gift For Enormous Language (mid '90's)

Gift for enormous language

Drunk behind the sausage
Drooling repulsive fluff
Beauty will storm

Butt blow
Hot pound
Smell love

Mother rock my mad skin
Raw peach
Easy blood beneath
Gorgeous apparatus
Crush the moon with your moment

Sordid whisper
Bare moan
Fiddle fast

Recall sweet power
Manipulate vision
Lick worship

Chant my elaborate symphony
Wax frantic at breast
Cry me
Ache me
Smooth a diamond

Can You Keep Your Wits (New York mid '90's)

Can you keep your wits about you
or do you crack and
wither quickly?
Is there a bit of both, I sense
duality, a strength sewn
out of weakness, a cracking
tenacity, a bending rigidity, and
truly don't I speak of me
whenever I speak of you?

Blame It On Paul (New York mid '90's)

Paul called all of the shots
Paul made all of the deals
Paul was the one who planned it all
Blame it on Paul

Paul was my man
He was my hero I guess
But if you ask Paul why he kept me around
He'd say, "To clean up that fuckin' mess"
Always sayin' "CLean up that fuckin' mess"

It was Paul's idea
It was Paul's baby right from the start
He didn't even tell me the god damn plan
He just told me my little part

The pantyhose were tight on my head
I could barely see at all
And when the flashing lights arrived
I didn't see Paul at all
I couldn't scale that son of a bitchin' wall

I was Paul's right hand man
I guess you could say I was second in charge
But I'm the one who took the fall
And now that bastard's still at large

Vheissu (New York mid '90's)

I have returned from Vheissu
to find that tea still tastes the same
folks still speak ill of murder
unless they are to blame
in Vheissu I drank from sand
and tasted tea
I wrestled with an ivy plant
climbed to your balcony and in
the toaster dinged and smoke escaped
there was a tumbler full of gin
there was no sign of you

The Accomplice (01/06/96)

Blood, and spilling it,
connect us.
Keep your opinion to yourself,
once it leaves your mouth
it has no meaning.

And if I'd turned away
instead of towards,
what of all this then?
Where would you be then?

JR High (Fall '08)

I walk behind you down the hall
I memorize every curve
I would talk
If I could find the nerve

You can look at my test if you don't
Know the material all that well
I don't care if they say
Cheaters go to hell

Science class early morning
Glasses braces and braids
I see each button on your shirt
Worrying about my grades

You and your friend called me gigglin'
So we have now spoken on the phone
I lent you my sister's nail polish remover
Which you used when you were all alone

Everything's weird because this Friday
There's another stupid dance
I have to make my Mom take me to the mall
To get some not high water pants

How do I ask? What do I say?
Now that so much has changed
Oooh
Check out my Jr High
Oooh
Check out my Jr High

Sick Poems (May 2010)

Transition One

The Atomic Nucleus (Family)

A Pamela

The cold dark spotlight roving that she seeks
Is the inverse of a prison break
So as she shimmies under fences
Crawls along beshitted pipe
She cannot bear that she’s not lit
That she is hidden from the crowd
Forever re-arriving
She digs herself inside
Back inside again
Back to that soft gray cell

A David

He spools his heart out into shapeless skeins
A kind of kindness far less kind, more blind
The threads enjoin; they molder - then
They form a burlap sack
As the drawstring closes over
That hot darkness takes him under
Forever re-arriving
He finds himself inside
Back inside again
Back to that nice gray hell

Michael

His toys are just outside his growing reach
In pools of light that dim each passing day
Eternity has shrunk: One size fits all
Imaginary friend
At least a poltergeist of one
Waits to play unfathomable games
Forever re-arriving
He turns himself aside
Back aside again
Back to some gray pale swell

Transition Two

The Protons (Positively Charged)

The neighborhood bartenders hated to see these two coming
She hung on his arm until she’d had a few
And then she spun around the room
Like a top with sharpened edges
While he sat back and laughed until she spun right back to him
Often as they poured the drinks the barkeeps thought -
“Where the hell’d they get the cash?”
As Carla pointed fingers, Gary calmed her lash
And the folks who lived below them rolled their eyes and wrote them notes
Their friends all fell away until they were huddled all alone
Two alone against the cold
Then there were two
Then they were one

Transition Three

The Neutron (Neutrally Charged)

1. She’s lessened all her loads, it’s true
2. She’s faced her demons down
3. But like a phantom limb they linger
4. Like the locusts lie in wait
5. So she sweeps the forest floor
6. She ignores that ghostly itch
7. And a faint echo of sin
8. Brings to her voice a hitch
9. Jeannie will share it with you
10. She must, you see, she must
11. Or else all that weight will reappear
12. Even though it’s made of dust

Transition Four

The Electron (Negatively Charged)

Circling the energy
Waiting for a path
No interior direction
No particle ignored
All the world’s a game
Energy encircled
Everything is will
All be black and white
Gray is for the weak
There is no doctor brown

QE3 (Winter '03)

Her name was Betsy
She was born Queen Elizabeth
I'm still sequestered in
Her empire long gone but festering
Yeah, I'm still court jestering

So tired of kneeling down here on the ground
Bowing and scraping to the crown
Banished from my sovereign land
Dismissed with a wave of her hand
You shouldn't draw lines in quick sand

Fa-diddle-dee-da-die
Fa-diddle-dee-da-die

Read your history books to see how long its been
You can hear the kind of song its been
Longing for nothing at all again
Sipping coffee at the mall again
I step off the pillar and I fall again
My head hits the pillow and she calls again
But its just Chuck Barris banging on the gong again
Reminding me how wrong I've been
But I would do it all again
You know I would do it all again

Now all the laughter is canned
Burn me like a book that's banned
At least then the ash would rise above the trees
Drift slowly towards the sea
I always knew I'd be a royal we
Fa-diddle-dee-da-die
Fa-diddle-dee-da-die

Her name was Betsy

Every Poem I've Ever Written

Have you ever been afraid that someone will find your diary and read it? That the unabashed revelation contained therein will be so embarrassing that you immediately curl up and die on the spot?

Me too. Which is why I'm revealing the existence of this blog. It is a preemptive strike, a revelation that will hopefully keep me from blushing too hard when these poems are actually perused.

In the beginning of 2009 I decided (perhaps foolishly!) that my next project would be to go back to every notebook of poetry I'd ever filled with scribblings and transfer them to a digital state.

Part of this was practical. I have so many of them, they sit around, they take up space. I wanted to feel as if they could be truly PUT AWAY. But I feared losing them, feared they would be damaged in a flood, feared I would spill coffee on them. So I slowly started the process of transferring 800 some-odd poems from old pen and paper to this newfangled notebook you are reading right now.

I would stuff three or four of the notebooks in my knapsack and bring them to work. Obviously my job is not filled with pressing tasks. I averaged between 30 and 40 poems a day while I was doing it. I worked at it from February of 2009 until late July. I've added a few new poems since then but in essence every poem I've ever written that I can find are here.

Some I'm proud of, some make me cringe. Some come from real events that I can pinpoint down to a facial expression, some I have NO IDEA WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT or who.

I wrote hundreds of poems before I actually wrote one that I thought was worth reading. You might get through the whole blog without agreeing with me. I started writing because I was a lead singer in a punk band called Fecund Youth in high school (hence the address of the blog). We needed lyrics and I just did it without thinking about it.

For the first few years everything rhymed. Then when I was in college and realized that poetry didn't mean it had to rhyme, I went through a phase of jotting anything that came to mind down, slapping a title on it and calling it a poem. Some of these are priceless! I read one William Carlos Williams poem and I was off and running.

I began writing my own songs in earnest in the early 1990's and it was only then that I truly began to work at it. If I was going to get a bunch of guys together, learn the song and play it in public, the lyrics had damn well better be good.

So. Here it is. My poetic history. Enter at your own peril. Oh, man, some of the ones from the 80's are fun, though! Teenager extraordinaire...All my lyric.

Excitable Ditch Digging (02/17/10)

There is real magic in enthusiasm. It spells the difference between
mediocrity and accomplishment.

- Norman Vincent Peale

Oh that dirt could be a burden
It could break my back in two
The shovel could destroy me
It could cleave my skull right through

But the sweat that flows out
Doesn't care the why the where the how
It only joys at its release
A captor sprung from cages it had
Not known that contained it

So I swing the lead, forget
My chains, give over to that vision
Floating somewhere in my mind
Of what I might be building

A Coil Of Gray Snake (0213/10)

The man who never alters his opinions is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind.

William Blake

Folding back upon itself so tightly and compressed
That were those twists to unconstrict the globe
They would encircle

A passageway once infinite compacted like
Bones pressed between a tar pit and a glacial spill
Until what had been a structure built for movement
Now sits motionless in stone

Where else could all that power be unleashed?
You stood in what seemed a luscious field
And were incinerated in a flash
As the tunnels once conduits to transport
Now funneled into furnace blasts of ash

Licorice Paper

I used to roll my own you know
A practice I felt happy in
I bought the flavored shorter kind
A brand I favored thick and thin
I mixed the Drum and weed most sweet
A cigarette with benefits
I smoked at leisure, wrote my tunes
A high without the pits

But Icarus and licorice both fly rather high
Daedelus had warned us from approaching sun too nigh
For years I ignored this counsel
For years I had my fun
But as Ben Franklin once opined
"If your head is wax, don't walk in the sun."

So now I take no smoke inside
No matter how I crave
I shun the sugar too you see
For it makes me rant and rave
But I miss that burning soar
I miss that turning flight
I give a bellowed roar
I kiss that flaming night

Not The Suit (02/11/09)

An imaginary man quoted his long lost father
As having counseled him in the following manner:

"Let them see you and not the suit."

Perhaps what leeched through in the end was something more, rather
A faux grandeur which gained strength from such a false banner

And left the point more or less moot.

The arch of a brow in response to the swirl of a gown
Holds us in sway as we tumble through grace that you grant

Carried away 'gainst our will to be loved and gently laid down
In the west where we may gaze at the flower you plant

While you perform back flips to boot.