not mainstream

the sun is shy dark weepy sad the red stars on the hipsters Mao bags are dull it is a bazaar of thought living on the tops of the foam of your demon seas rebel rider non Jane Fondaer grown girl he dirty boy military card heir LA west of Hollywood Battleship Potemkin plays let’s go drop bomb on my tongue baby Jimmy Hendrix’s way irony one hundred ways to think that we can go to Sizzler after this and dude your mom has a new car but if i were on that ship ida’ve done the same damn thing he sings to me God Save the Queen and we go fuck behind the dumpster but we can’t seem to fit it in and we go back to talking about politics

a.d. friday 12.27

street mural one
street mural two
street mural three
street mural four




eyed child

limp wheat hair

falls wet in the cold

rain tucked safe outside while the fire of

hate rages inside the walls of your land tenderly wilting all hopes away

a woman red hair blue suit white badge warped picture no passion picks you up silently both walk down the pebbled

path by the time Wilshire Blvd. is reached the bird nest is out of sight and you mature again manila files County words where are the crayons and Raggedy Anns pink Buster Browns forgotten

the clouds bright against tan butcher paper sad faces for the judge of the cages in my heart smile we must

fire suffocated unhappiness averted for a night or two little bird strains away

to reach those pink pebbles and pumpernickel bread

Canter’s chicken soup mummy’s black

eye gone for

now both



photo courtesy of Kristiana


the sun and the moon

shine simultaneously beyond the pale

rotating wildly then dreadful silence

hard knocks

step up time tick tocks

the young are getting older

golden apple bit

Written in response to prompt:

I Write Her Weekly Haiku/Senryu Challenge #12


at long last a home
for the weary bones
chosen and loved
above all
in the classification
of mud and breath

here a kingdom
you will have and
come forth to multiply
as life meant to

however there are
many rivers to cross
and all are made of fire

Ananias of the West (then came Saul) {ii}

once you touched my face

in blessing set me free

to fly and tell my soul

to come to you lost and

frightened in the cage of

the walls of sorrow

she cannot hear me as

i fly by her house of

blue thunder and the rain

melts my body to the


meine schuld

The repulsiveness will pass

and all will be diplomatic.

though the heart might desire

with a Samsonian strength,

the mind’s Delilahian command


i smell the base notes of April

cold and unreasonable

on the gray sidewalk

smeared with shit.

the shoe leather of the

Langer’s years no longer

remands my weight. the thoughts

have become too stained and heavy

with the ugliness of fate.

no longer is it important

how the words fall out

and in what succession they may

land. all that matters is that

you are well and undisturbed

locked in your thoughts

and creature comforts.

the birds will fly and filth

will drift. we will wake up

and toil. spit at the gods and idols.

Strauss will play and cigars will emit

perfumed relic. i wear my pants in

constant grief, i drink the beer,

i take your quiz.

as you smile and walk away

my blood will crawl and

die someday; only as long

as i let you.