Not today.

Teflon waves & sticky graves, 3 hots & a metal cot

not today, not today.

sometimes the fast life takes you places you don’t wanna go

playing with days, these are the matches of our lives

handcuffs are wristrockets for the record

shining light in shadows, bellowing from beneath the gallows

glass windows are shattered in holding tanks

retro convict-shique displayed from behind iron bars

criss-cross metal, holding cells together with shatterproof courage

My memories are plexiglass

carved over with momentary inspirations

Was it a toothbrush or a spoon?

don’t ask me any more questions

off the record- I paid up front & stunted like a drunk

showing out for the daytime hustle,

swaying by the jukebox to bland hangover blues 

hoping nobody could hear my fears

tucked between incoherent articulations

At least our institutions feed us…
silver linings- do our intuitions ever mislead us?

we’re free, right? Bears are scarier than aluminum barium, so kill ’em all California

metal shavings, starting from scratch- fevered perspective misleading prime directions

leadened nightmares, arrested dreams, litmus microscope & golden seams

Amnesia takes a while to forget

stains on my bedsheets or a stain on my record-

see the space between my fingernails?

I came this close.

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Vagabond Reflections

Another opinionated nobody

Living in the fringes of relative obscurity,

“I demand that I share perspective”

But whose here and where’s there?
Careful to explain the unexamined, 

Cautiously treading between sense & the other

A vagabond is nonchalantly policed by an American community, where common sense once met common unity
Shuffling streets compete for famine & feast 

backpacks & briefcases don’t mingle downtown,

Where gratuity is not included

Passing through is the only way out
In silk-lined suburbs,

trench coat lunatics show the whites of their eyes

carrying Louisville sluggers & guns beneath brown cloaks

a flask of clear liquor, containing blame for their fathers
The neighborhood is watching through windows & screens

Trying nightly to forget what they haven’t really seen

Evening news helps to process and relate

With routine commercials during evening debates
Without credentials, a citizen equals wasted potential,

Counterculture turncoats work graveyard shifts

Their idealism crumbled beneath them,

Swallowing their security with some avalanche drift
Cash stuck on the table, in a hand so stiff

From feeding crying mouths that can’t be bargained with

More than we planned, for the greater good 

In the moment, parenthood is rarely understood
A ragged finger is exposed to the bone,

All for the gold on another kings throne-

Tip of my hat to those who must grind,

ceasing their rest to work for their finds
In the eyes of the drunkard in the park,

I see familiar life with a faulty spark.

Somewhere I recognize someone I cannot deny

I watch myself in every drifter’s eyes.
It scares me to think about life on the lam,

Without a job & without a plan;

What will become of me if I remain aimless?

Will I have a legacy if I live a life blameless?
trees listen gladly,

rivers laugh madly,

rain weeps sadly,

There is plenty of humanity without humanity!


So shave my head & don me some robes,

Or I’ll eat from trash cans and live in a cardboard abode!

A student of the world, paying off endless loans,

I have nowhere to go while everywhere is my home.

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Green Mountain, Grey Mountain

Sparrows & jays eat scraps of seed, competing for little. 
So much space to contemplate, gazing through the chilly blue expanse, ducking & curling around fiery autumn hills.

Between birches & berry brambles, a voice calls & comforts me, 

pulling homeward and bound to nowhere. 

I’d like to sit here all day and count leaves.

Family trees, friend trees, lover trees, enemy trees,falling bodies enrich fallow gardens.

Icy winds rip through, 

leaves everything bare;

Nothing stands past death.
Smiling near while some are far,

Gladly talking, taking time to notice 

one another.

If I missed you, I miss you, 

We’ll use a leaf as a tissue.
Sappy as the sweet shit that flows through maple trees, 

cool as a spring trickle 

whispering soft & serene, 

selling us peace at the cost of time.

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Working Title… Will Work For Clarity


I $ave the monie$ doing $hit I don’t really wanna do so I can do cool-a$$ $hit tomorrow. I spend working hours maintaining the distribution of awarene$$e$~

The hourglass in my wallet collects racks that are tracked by no watches, the moments are scoped without relativity, like grains of moments falling down a warped bottleneck of attentive grasping.

The passing time carries my cares under the bridge of regret and onward to lap the shores of silty revelation. These eyes watch the hills change during daylight, reminding that we live in a slowly melting painting.

Time is called money. I may not be clock wise, but I am subject to the same cycles as the everything.
Gravity and distance meet to dissolve all form, sleeping & creeping beautifully like a bloody red sun rolling behind deep ocean blues, there is no way to contain the need to feel, think, & do.

Conceptual hot air takes the winds from corporeal sails and leaves nothing more behind than a snails pace and trails of slime.
Are we living legacies or leaving them?

Destroying preconceptions is tough work, like sawing through sun-hardened driftwood roots to build a fire to cook on. I keep sawing and sawing ’til the sun goes down, the teeth on this small folding blade are becoming dull, my arms burn as I huff and puff, I wonder: is the effort I exert greater than the fuel I harvest?

Time is never wasted, but it can be utilized instead of fantasized.
For a perpetual daydreamer, this is a cornerstone to balance.

“Clarity is power.”

Rambly laymanphiloreligoslaughterosophy musing complete.


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Soggy Remembrances

Fancy fellows follow one another, loaning lends to fires

Trend-setting jet-flying media-spying buyers

Swipe past faces, judgement erases complacency

What else can you do when you won’t let anyone know you?

synchronistic synapses siphon subjects

Typhoons lampoon typewriters, crescendoing nonsense 

following short punchlines with long cigarettes

That ship called “Friend” has sailed

What can you do when all the drunken sailors sober up?

The captain has a cap in captions, shafting daily rations

“Wise cracks will be met with a blithe smack

until the quality of labor improves!”

Stowed away until further notice,

Can’t follow tracks left in murky waters

Trace nothing in the shallows, undulating wellness pervades

Salty suits soiled in semen sing of soggy remembrances

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Legal Hurdles

 Itchy scratches
Moldy straw hats, brown tea

Lemon zest bioavailability
I fell in love with a few alkaloids

courting drugs, now the state wants my urine-

lab analysis came up negative
Like something clever, forgotten

old payday new money

feed attorneys to please prosecutors
debts to settle  

going legal is not a choice 

with all these back taxes due 
Old cycles, new rhythm

Let the watermarked paper hit ’em

let’s make sun while the hay is shining

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Am I real yet?

In response to a post:

“There are many ways to fake authenticity but vibes don’t lie, habibi !!”
Sometimes, I say “have a nice day” but I don’t mean it. Sometimes I smile on the outside but I’m scowling inside. Why do I do this? Who does it help? 
When I act the way I feel, if it is coarse & negative, I find it to be passively injurious to others. So I mask my malaise & conceal my contempt in a vein effort to appeal to the senses & appear as though nothing is wrong. 
Sometimes I want to scream honesty in the face of lies but all I find is myself alone in the grocery store bathroom. Sometimes I think writing a shitty comment poem will resolve my dilemmas and make my strife appear to have purpose. 
Am I real yet?

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Alcoholism for Kids (A song about DIY Booze)

Here’s a children’s song I wrote.It’s about homemade booze:

My bottle is a hole in a bucket, a hole in a bucket

A hole in a bucket
When I plug the holes, my bucket overflows, 

my bucket overflows
If we don’t use the water, we’ll lose the water

we lose’ll the water, we’ll lose the water
California state is hella thirsty, 

hella thirsty, hella thirsty
So let’s make a gutter for all the water

put it in a barrel, put in a barrel
We can to the orchard, pick us some apples, 

pick us some apples, pick us some apples
In that water we’ll pour a little sugar,

Just a little dash, pour a little dash,
When that water starts a-bubbling, we add the apple mash, add the apple mash, add the apple mash
Wait three weeks and have yourself a drink, 

have yourself a drink, before you start to think
Man, with all this juice I could be making fuel,

Making a killing, breaking rules an’ making fuel
We gone to the junkyard to get some copper,

Get some copper, and look out for coppers
Then we cook the wine and sell it to the neighbors,

 sell it to the neighbors, and sell it to the neighbors
Now we got holes in our livers, 

holes in our kidneys, and holes in our heads, 

I fell down the ladder with a hole in my bladder, 

while my belly gettin’ fatter. 
Oh Daddy, my head don’t feel pain

burning high octane, 

no pain And big gains with high octane.

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(don’t give him any encouragement or he won’t ever shut up)

He spends his recent time with collegiate humans. He is living on the edge of a Venn diagram; relative comparisons nearly contrast him into obscure alienation. 

He greets the doorman with an obsolete gesture; the party kindly waives his absence of mind. He thinks, “Charisma will get you a seat at the dinner table. Befriending the chef gets you a slice of pie.” 

He’s busy humming the Uneducated Blues and wondering, “so what does this life have to do with me?” He philosophizes himself into a paper bag. 

Outside there are drunks in the park. He gives them change and fuels their melancholy with paper money; it means nothing to either of them. Generosity and despair are little words printed on pixel and paper; neither gets you into the land of milk and honey. 

All the action lives before our eyes; he sees high society upon billboard signs and wonders, “can life really be like that?” His ruminations achieve nothing so he follows the cracking pavement into the forest. 

Broken-hearted humanity swallows itself whole without his help. The hungry gathering spares no prideful crumbs. He waits quietly for the sun to rise.

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“I hate shitting on acid.” 

Dale muttered as he waddled into the club bathroom. Some sick guitar burped as Dale reflected on his dinner: one double cheeseburger and three tall cans of malt liquor. Sorta like breakfast, he thought. 
Dropping his trousers, Dale considered his fear of being covered in shit. He always made sure to do a thorough job wiping. 

The acid hit him between the eyes and followed with a punch to the gut. His bowels evacuated in a sickly and forced fashion. The bathroom was covered in a fog of methane and partially digested beef.

 He could no longer correctly register the lighting. All focus went to his ass. Anything shaded seemed to be shit-stained: the toilet bowl cast a shit-shadow on his calf so he began furiously wiping his leg with toilet paper. Now his hands looked dirty. He sniffed his greasy fingers; it was hard to discern where the awful smell was coming from. He peeled a wedge of tp from the roll and tried to get himself clean. 

His phone started ringing but he let it go to voicemail. Dale paused to consider his behavior. The little squares reminded him of mail. Mail reminded him of junk.

Organization if futile, he thought. Dale’s inbox has 11,891 unopened emails. It didn’t start out this way. His thoughts began to unravel in a direction of introspection.

Dale considers all the thoughts he has neglected; the horribly honest observations he couldn’t bear to hear in his own head: my heartburn is killing me, the chemicals I work with are killing me, the black mold in my apartment is inside my nervous system, my dick is dying, my girlfriend is trying to kill me. He observes the sheer volume of neglected wordstuff until his butthole quivers; then he shrugs it off and continues wiping himself. 

Dale muses into the toilet. Messy is chaotic. Chaos means fun. The universe is chaotic and organization is futile. Everything goes to shit. 

Dale works as a subcontractor. He hasn’t filed taxes going on three years and only showers twice a week. Instead of using soap, he cut the middle man and uses Palmolive because it’s easy on the skin. He remembers seeing ads for Dawn being used to wash petroleum off of seagulls. Dale likes seagulls.

His phone rang a second time, and fearing the wrath of his girlfriend, he fished around in the pocket near his ankles. By pure reflex, he unlocked the cell phone and answered to his girlfriend.

“Hey babe.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m takin a shit at Cat’s.”

“Why do you sound high? You’re always high when you go to Cat’s. You better not come home disgusting again. You’re gonna get the baby sick.”

“Yeh. I won’t. I’m just seein’ Dave about my pay. We’re gonna shoot a couple games an’ I’ll be home.”

“Alright, jus’ don’t cause any shit while you’re down there. I got enough on my hands with this baby here.”

“Mmm, you know jus’ what to say. I’m gonna come home and put some baby powder in that dirty mouth.”


“I’m gonna strip you down and wash you with baby powder, make ya all smooth.”

“You sure you’re not high?”


“Just come home soon, alright?”

“Yeh; I luh yew.”

He put the phone on the top of the tp dispenser. It was covered in shit. Everything was covered in shit. He took his clothes off and threw them over the next stall.

“What the fuck?!” Some young man yelled.

“Keep ‘em. They’re covered in shit.”

“The fuck you mean?!”

Dale stepped out of his stall and looked at his shit-covered hands,

“This whole place smells like shit.”

The man in the next stall stepped out, tp on the bottom of his shoe. He was drunken and had a faint ring of white under one nostril. He looked angry.

“You fuckin’ pervert!” he hollered at Dale and popped him in the jaw.

Dale stumbled back into the sink.

“I’m covered in shit.” He mumbled.

“You need fuckin’ help, man.” The young man spit on Dale and walked out of the bathroom.

Dale didn’t even feel like crying. He walked out of the bathroom, naked. Everything was dark. Dale took a pile of napkins from the bar and began wiping himself off. A bouncer took him by one arm and escorted him outside.

“You’re all shit.” He hollered as he was ejected into the cool night air. 

Out in the streets, everyone looked at him and then past him; alternately amused and embarrassed. Dale held his hands high and prayed for the skies to rain whiskey and clean up this shitty town.

The club security had notified the police. They came fast and grabbed Dale’s arm. They asked him if he was drunk, if he had taken any drugs, why his face was bloody, who he had fought. 

Dale kept muttering,

“This is all shit. This is all shit…”

They wheeled him off, naked. At the station they handed him a smock and a cell where he could detox alone. He wouldn’t give them a name, so they called him “John Shit”.

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