you hang
there like a
hidden stain just underneath
the fragile layer of a
strained mind tormented by you so
help me God if i forget the
alchemical pacifier to keep you satisfied when will
you let me be at times i feel the
joy of any human soul and other times i muster
that stiff upper lip and paddle up the stream with my
own arms on a rice paper raft tied with uncertainty a compass
with no dial and as i look into the arms of setting stars
i drink a breath of victory and pound my chest in good measure but
when my feet sink through the mirage of fortitude of the tenuous craft i see
you flailing back at me and treasure found in my chest of peace engulfed by oppression

entrance through Bixel Street

time does not exist

walls beige frames colorless

scent not sweet stale

conditioned to 74 degrees

bed metal electric cold

fitted with buttons gauges

noise white with warnings

bleeps bings some hisses

faded aqua marine curtain

surrounds me wrists tied

down the hall polite

whispers then a wail

exploding through antiseptic hall

like Fourth of July

ceiling bland dusty vents

TV monitor spills lies

no music exists here

in and out they

come one after the

conversation bobs up and

down indecision open wide

my eyes now it

begins to lift the

fog how did i


hot the concrete is today

plastic black orchid near the front step

of the Gothic house but only in her head

3:30 a.m. writing session to her congressman

about her old folks home going to the dogs

when at breakfast her and her friends call the nurse speed racer

and lament not having money

and love least of all

Banksy art work on the wall across the street they see

the wind runs his fingers through her thinning hair

after stroke and misery took out her common sense

her doctor dresses in jeans and looks like young Lou Reed

she silently riots at the lies that she is told

and falls into depression dreaming of Marilyn Monroe

the shade of the magnolia tree pokes its trunk on through

and gives Elizabeth another day away from sudden death

always is she thankful in her widowed lonely heart

far away from Montana and the nest home of the Crow

green eggs and ham was never read to her

while empty beer bottles at the end of a long day

forced to collect with laughter at the inn

voluntary ignorance all to chase a dream

Hollywood sign was the destination but opened doors are never guaranteed

if Dylan knew

Zimmy has an old soul

if you look at his eyes

they are other worldly

the color of Earth’s face

from up in space

it means just what is

but when i heard him this morning

while drinking my mud

these words telegraphed

out from Alexa .1

“Oh my name it ain’t nothin’
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I was taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side”

the shame i felt

rose to waterlines of my

green lined eyes

and the liquid it spilleth over

perhaps it’s the hormones

or the brow beat quarantine

and my cat she ate the dog’s food

but i couldn’t tell her to quit

shaking it off

turning the vacuum on

the dog he shakes his

fluffy white tail

and my thoughts run asunder

white hot sun beaming

brown wood flooring

a meeting of the titans

debacled by the cat

does God pick sides




rye bread


and a good fuck while i’m on top

chewing on ice

these things that i like

why am i this way

could it be in black vain

that i ask these strange questions

a dandelion of thoughts

cast into the humidity

answers might or might not


does God get to decide

from where do i find

recourse for sinning

early i rise

eating my heart out

doing what’s right

one moment gets wasted

my faith goes in haste

my spirit is stuck wild horses help me am i on God’s side


sweet fleshy skin warm

kiss like nothing else

your orange creamy tart taste will into honey turn if we lay in the sun together

the smell of green emanates from you within calling me to pull the knife

i strip you down to your ripe round middle and gently nibble and suck you down

and when the time is right i stroke you down as i’m reminded of his long missed circumcision

and our tropical walks through Walmart aisles shopping for the Fourth of July

hey letter X

hey letter X
you’re my favorite
i relate with your
closed off heart center
but four very open ended arms

i too have closed in
and have for many years
but the more the heart shut
i kinda became vulnerable to
the dark underbelly of too much
awareness of things best left alone

some might say through this traveled winding tar soaked road that i’ve acquired more X’s than the Pussy Cat Theatre

i guess it’s the best to have open options not to get boxed in but at times in the midnight hourglass of time

the thought Xes my head that we both have four paths and our keys to the maps are rusted shut deep in our centers

She waits for us

no answer is also an answer

🦅 Hopi Proverb

to stare into the blank horizon

it lacks the pastel colors mother used to love

we the silent types proud and self assured cowards or lost fools

makes very little difference

to tighten my jaw as you purse your lips we know what we are thinking

we have no answer for what is happening to us

all we are not willing to admit that She is critical because of our silence

are we prepared for what comes this way as Her pulse tires and slows

the silence without bird songs is the vilest way to perish