idiocy of the ostentatious

She weasels past

in a disco shaded gallop,

dropping trou

but only in her mind.

New York's gone retro

for a wink in her honor;

she is wit beneath

the idiocy

of the ostentatious.

And yet she's howling mute,

rendered silent in her fury,

still locking horns

with seething demons in her head,

trapping an overpowering sense

of righteous wrong

left empty -

turning, bending, twisting

in on itself.

She felt her life flashing

between her eyes,

falling down into sickness

and up into the laundry hamper.

But still she's turning, bending, twisting

in on herself.

And still she's shaking, writhing, falling

onto her sword

of Damocles,

chased by a whiskey

with always the work

left to do.

Season's Greetings

The air stands heavy

and thick as mold -

though not nearly so inviting -

as a sweet December

squats rotting Saint Nick


midst a wind-blown snot-dusted ice sculpture called life.

It's Christmastime

for Charlie Brown

as Linus makes love to his blanket

and Lucy mixes cocktails

of Bourbon and Bacon

for Peppermint Patty

and nobody else.

The Puget Sound of Wayward Wasting

I walk down

hallways

of smoke and stucco,



my kicks scuffing

frayed braids

of thrift store bounty.

I float past

the ringing

of party lines calling,

through kitchens

caught avocado

and dining rooms

born singing silent.


I echo down

basements

through backyards to alleys,

then trip on

corner curbs

to vacant lots

even the plum trees scorn.


A gray splash

of rain drops,

melting my remembrance

toward the Puget Sound

of wayward wasting

here

but no less wasting away.

Memories, like the horrors of my mind

My childhood memories

in the light

remain threadbare,

the core hiding hideous

in the muck

of my mind.

Still, they fracture

my senses broken

punched up from

those hidden bygones -

they illuminate

my present horrors

from down in

those dark recesses -

where I dare not follow

lest be consumed whole

and vanish into

the bad old past

for good.

sunday funnies

The cold gun metal

pressed against my temple

is trying to tell me something,

perhaps.

Her razor soft warning

sliced into my longing

is worth a gun's chilled muzzle,

almost.

The acid washed Levis

wrapped around her leaving

are fading into the ether,

a ghost.

The empty bottles

of Grey Goose and Effexor

are dancing on the ceiling

of my dreams.

At least until the barrel

full of monkeys and munitions

has warmed to its calling

in a white hot flash of brilliant blue.

Falling

she grows aloof,

i fall afield;

she's calm serene,

i rage away.

an autumn sun

bonfires the sky.

october blues

melt yellow to orange,

a gorgeous nonsense,

where acid laced donuts

choke sad sacks lost

into the waxy white

winter to come.

The Throbbing Numb

My mind is awash

in the joyful filth of thought

until a wayward worry

scrubs it glassine clean.


I can't write my way

out of this spic 'n span,

hard as diamond

without the sparkle;

I can't think my way

clear of this sanitary muck,

a throb keeping time

to the beat of my breath.

----

Life for me

is but a raw nerve exposed,

torn asunder

lest stoned to stasis,

holding at bay

the fever and flavor,

baking in nothing

but the throbbing numb.