I’m trending very testy
w/everyone wearing earbuds.
Conceivably, it’s not their playlist
but a Big Big Voice
imploring them
to “Kill the guy w/the gray goatee.”
Or the song of a lesser god divulging
“The poet killed your mother.”
It could be the Vicar’s Chant
intoning a code
that blows up a train,
or the murmur of sadists
chaining the young to lightless walls.

How am I to know?
Everyone’s so eclectic,
so compulsive w/
affected piety that
they’re texting my coordinates
to the fat guy in central command.
Marching music has always had
its Top 40. And deejays to play
the Hot Number One every hour
and twice on Tuesdays,
I might add. A Double Shot
of My Baby’s Love. Indeed.


Sudden Death

Sudden Death

Your mother doesn’t vote and your father forgot how.
The mayhem genius went to great lengths
to insure the funeral wasn’t too sad.
A high priority phone encounter
is a nice way of saying
someone ripped you a new one.
Being near-sighted on the far side
doesn’t make you 20-20.
When big boys spit crumbs
they stain their trousers.
My deceptions, though many,
fall short of your legion.

Supple doxies take their wage in gamer points.
The republic’s been trending
this way for some time.
Buddha’s new coat needs repair.
Uneven floors are my sole companion.
Dark w/priests,
Red Skelton mimes through Soho.
Nocturnes surround me,
and as per her suggestion
I took a Skil-Saw to its bones.
The death of Bic 6819
went a lot like this.


The Going Train

The Going Train

My vain elements
swear allegiance
and it’ll be a godless day.

Lurching for a watering hole
miles outside the reservation,
I’m one of them crowd-work poets
rich men own. Who put pennies
in my Paypal ‘cos
I like home delivery
just like everybody else.

The digital scrip
slips down the tube
and I’m updated,
immune to every virus
but my own.

Toying w/escapement,
my daily commute
takes me to the clock tower.
It’s a matter of temerity
before I take a stand and,
w/a hairspring-hold on reason,
defy state orders and
disrupt the status quo.
Alone, if I have to,
for you to then disown.









Two new poems: irony & The Gnomist



I needed to start a fire
so I bought my own book
back for a buck and
skinned a small animal
for dinner.


The Gnomist

A strange, sensational paragraph
inserts itself into my narrative,
chokes the captain’s toupee to the floor.

The producers are watching closely
to see if I’ll pack the house
w/congressmen, w/whores.

Courting the machine’s mask,
a baleful, crying moon
reneges knowledge for desolation.
We all work for warring nations.

And that is how
those Mad Max movies
get started: The money tanks,
the food goes rotten, and
everyone walks in the same ugly boot.