There was no index

December 8th, 2016 — 12:16pm

It’s been 3 days

mostly on the shitter

and I’ve still not found

that Bukowki poem

I read from his latest

unpublished stuff

titled – “Competition”.


Just not lucky I guess.


It’s like life.

There are no signs.

You think you got everything

lined up in a row, organized

until you try to do

the same thing twice

‘nd realize you kant

‘cuz there are no directions

for the recipe

you’ve been baking

‘nd thank god for that.


We all have to stumble.

That’s how we learn how to fall.


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Ask A Poet

December 7th, 2016 — 11:40am

It was a cold fall farm morning

the kind where

you see everyone’s last breath

the cow in the barn

pulled up from the straw

by the nose,

the steam rising up and disappearing

god knows where.


I was 9 or 10 years old

enthralled by Mr. Sparling’s

Popeye like forearms and dark beard

watching as he

put a bullet into the cow,

the cow just standing there

screaming, screaming

like cows scream.


Mr. Sparling slowly walking over to

the barn door

like this wasn’t the first time

nor the last

walking back with an axe

in his right hand

then lifting it and smacking it

backside up into

the cow’s forehead,

the cow kneeling down and

with a few more Viking style whacks

rolling over silent .


Now many years and many deaths later

thinking of this

of Layton’s bull calf too

thinking of

my own time and space

and that

there are no winners.

Go ask Cesar.

Go ask Marilyn.

Go ask a card dealer.

Go ask a grave digger.

Go ask a good poet.


Tonight when I watch

the news

the body bags, the car wrecks,

the heavy eye shadow

on the newscaster,

when I watch all that

like Li Po

I’ll drink my wine

and laugh from the belly

and dream of my

pink row boat in the sky.


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The job interview

October 10th, 2016 — 10:55am


It was only a 5 minute

early morning walk

from Lev Tolstoy station,

17 stories up

a grey, non distinct office building.


A few quick handshakes

a brief scan of my starved resume

and a few quick questions

that was it.

The head teacher led me

out of the conference room

and into the school’s small lobby.


As I stepped out

a small Brit tossed his head and asked

“Join me for a smoke?”.

I followed along, out onto

a balcony, enjoying

the fall’s fresh slavic air

and now looking down

the mighty Dniepr in the distance.


A few more stabs of conversation

‘n small talk

then the guy

flicks his unfinished fag

out into the wild yonder

puts his hands through his hair

and says,

“It was only last Thursday”.

“Thursday, what?”, I replied.

“Thursday, the guy were replacing jumped.”


A moment of silence

then I muttered a

“sorry to hear” and

a “good to know”,

shook his hand and

found my way out

onto the waking streets of Kyiv.


I didn’t bitch much when

I found out I hadn’t got the job.

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Giving Up

April 10th, 2016 — 10:46am


There is a moment in a man’s life

when he realizes deep down in his gut

his groin, his gait

he realizes

he’ll never experience much

that life has to offer.


TV, news, radio, magazines, books, atlases, photos

airplanes, buses, the brain, our imagination

can’t take us there or anywhere

near the sum of experience.


There’s a time in your life

when sadness soaks all and

awareness becomes a chore given

there’s so much you’ll never have or know

in this big candy story.

And the only recourse once you do feel

once you do know this,

the only action, the only response

is to give up

sit down in your garden, enjoy the day’s sun

’cause you ain’t going anywhere important

in this short time you’ve got.


Enjoy your slice and

give up the guilt of not owning

the whole damn chair of stores.

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A Poet’s Work

October 20th, 2015 — 9:57am


Every morning

a new poem

born on the shitter

that place where

time stutters

and thought matters

then drops

into the depths

to fertilize a field of flowers

somewhere far away

in another valley

of another mind.

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Why I turned out the way I am

June 2nd, 2015 — 9:02pm


It’s for your own good

my father belted.

My mother did the same

at the dinner table with peas.

Mr. Drury in grade 7 had me

write lines of “P”s,

“It’s for your own good.” he opined.


Cigarettes are now $10 a pack

and casinos $1,000 plane rides away.

“It’s for your own good,” they say.


Seat belts, sanitariums and saints

always a safe, sane, step away.

My wife, my ever always wife

books me monthly to see a doctor

as much a dunce as a doctor can be.

All he offers are pills and pleasantries.

They both say, “It’s for your own good.”


Wars, weddings, sprayed green lawns

taxes, papal proclamations and government acts.

“It’s all for your own good,” they declare when asked.


My life nearly done and

I have yet to truly taste

what we call – free.

I followed footsteps

and danced to my own good

doing as I was told.


Thinking back, I now know

how I came to be who I am

this man, here and now

finally at home in the world

on edge, aware,

of what is really good for me.


My flusher finally broke.


It’s like one day you wake up

and realize there ain’t no jello tree

or the dictionary was written by a pedophile


you head out the door to plant or write your own.


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It doesn’t matter

April 23rd, 2015 — 9:03am



It doesn’t matter if

the air con is broke

the car got scratched

or the wine ain’t chilled.

It doesn’t matter.


Don’t matter if

the dog went on the carpet

or the DOW’s up or down.

Don’t matter if

there’s an earthquake in Ecuador

or you won the Super 7.


No worries about

missing the 9am meeting

drinking too much

drinking too little

no mayo in the fridge

a bad back, a better world.

It doesn’t matter.


It doesn’t matter if

the bus is late or

you arrived too early


Sunnis are killing Shias


Shias are killing Sunnis


Justin Bieber is doing time.

Don’t matter if

you are this or

should be that.

Don’t matter if

the dog got your cat or

carbon emissions are up.

It doesn’t matter.


It doesn’t matter

if your mother-in-law

hates your guts

or the plane’s delayed.

Don’t matter if

your bank balance is $0

or the remote is broke.

Doesn’t matter if

you don’t finish this poem

or ever do.

It doesn’t matter.



It doesn’t matter.

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April 23rd, 2015 — 8:45am


I am here

this is enough

like the last seed pushes

through the rough.


Want, desire, need

abstract things I

no longer bleed

the apple now in my mouth.


I am here

piss, shit, breath and spit

I lounge and loaf,

there is no longer any

getting on with it.


For other there’s

the buzz of progress, nicer hair.

I lift my glass

I walk not where.


I am here

this is enough

like the glistening ant pulls

the large leaf through the rough.


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April 18th, 2015 — 4:55pm


This poem

these words



like Frank Sinatra

breaking into song

half way up

the Amazon.


Nothing never seems right

like the i

trying to see itself

or beauty gone

just a little

left of right.


We are animals in costumes

made of human skin,

pour another drink


this poem sucks

I have to begin again …..

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Not Going Far

April 15th, 2015 — 8:29am


It’s strange how everywhere

I turn my head these days

I see only people dying.

Each page flip

Each channel change

Each item in my news feed

brings a death notice

and a reminder

that I’m next.


It’s like when you finally

get the cash together

and drive off the lot

your shiny new sedan

and by the time you get

the 10 blocks home

you’ve seen 3 others just like it

and all you can do

all you can ever do

is just sit back and

enjoy the ride

because you ain’t going far.

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