Single Use Cup



The art that surrounds me are images of images already in place

I am the one who is expected to make a decision

through them, these paintings, figurines….for they are

Copied onto permanent canvas, drawn into form, molded into judgement

Named and named again, endless titles

Serving anger and compassion, attack and defense, pride and prejudice

Stirring the swirling palette of mash ups, in the land of dances

Making me dance, full of fervor, entwined in embedded memories

For my head is a twirling history of black and white atomic bombs

John’s bloody head full of conspiracy theories and Jacqueline’s pink hat

Reagan’s red blushed cheeks and a dusty New York.

This art is frozen into me, stars stuck in my stomach, aching

I vomit up all the dried acrylics produced by the painters.

And there is enough there to make me want to love it all like a pro

For I must believe I am a lover

Even as I dry heave belief in amounts no cloud could contain

Sitting with my head near the toilet

The sound of my empty throat echoes off porcelain

Hoping the sunrise will sober me up

Yet, I will vote for you, my love. Take me.

I drink you while you’re hot, when the paint is still wet in your hands

To soothe my stomach, then toss

The single use cup where your past memories

Never decompose

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Modern Relationship

71f7a57d08eb667989e369684294c23bHave I not responded

To your voicemail?

Don’t worry, baby

I’ve posted a smile for you

Which I have pinned

To remain forever me—for now—for you

On Facebook, that endless e-novel (Free on Amazon!)

About I and I and occasionally you.

Where you know, baby, I’m always

PMing and DMing, liking your posts

Boasts and all the toasts

As well as that trip to the coast.

Like a moment that means everything

When nothing is actually happening

Except our love lives broadcast

Plus a few spats

Thrown in for interest’s sake.

Don’t get me wrong

“We’re in a relationship”

It’s been announced for all strangers to see

Keep me crammed with Instagram

Keep me in a constant state of Tumblr

My text messages mean so much more

With an image mixed, spliced, plum full,

Of emojis that outnumber languages.


The less we speak

The better our communication

Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.

We only have 144 words

To tweet our heat

And that’s counting hashtags

Which, we all know are

More important than what we’re saying.

That’s a Google plus, plus, win, win blog-uation

For the good of the opinionated nation.

Our love comes in soundbites

And we’re streaming high with unlimited data

Playing I-Games with each other

‘Cause that’s how we roll—with no dice

We’re free, baby

Our love notes are wordpressed

With just the right theme

To save ourselves from misunderstanding


We’re just like the news, baby

Ain’t that the truth?

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The Close Distance


In hot summer

With night sky exposed

We sit with backs to the planet

Searching for satellites.

Those stars that move

Ploughing the heavens

In strict straight lines……..and then

Once found, followed, observed, concluded in

A celebration of our simple control

Of a sky so close

That it shapes our visions

Even when the atmosphere

Stirs up dirt or is measured

Carefully for precipitation.

We hold hands for the first time

And it feels like they fit together

Our eyes darting from sky to eyes

Different colors, different light,

To each star, a name, a distance

In this moment of movement

The ground is warmer

Cotton blend flat upon turf

Don’t kiss me yet

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Photo by Godesslife

Photo by Godesslife

Climbing down the stairs,

through the dead living room

Out the missing front door.

how simple the world is,

To leave you behind

peculiar, too easy, resigned world,

Yet irate, torn between silence and wilderness

Both shone brightly. Both were masked.

Outdoors, the sky was hidden in gray,

mundane as if waiting for movement.

The sun was there, peeking through rumbling clouds,

attempting to scold me for the escape

If only I could see it move across the sky,

I could reason with it.

Tell it about the way I walk

If only I could see you move towards me

I could reason with you

Tell you about the way I am

I wondered if this was when time stood still.

Was I missing the world move?

Did I misinterpret your signs, your speech patterns?

I looked keenly at the clouds,

Trying to see what was behind them.

The sun must have meaning today

Beyond any other day past or coming

As I looked down, the grass

appeared as a carpet of swirling chaos, fallen. 

but it quickly vanished. 

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 21 Comments

Present Tense


If guns are present tense and

Hate is present tense, then

The future is presently in tension


If guns were past tense, and

Hate was past tense, then

The future will have progressed perfectly

Posted in Short Sayings | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 32 Comments

Primary Voice


Inside the blue melody, exists

The longing that exudes from us.

Proves, we are all dynamics

Ingrained in buzzed-out bodies.

With arms flying alive

Reaching for sound

Feet uncontrollable, legs alien

Outside ourselves, always, as we

Feel the shake, when

We cry—with the dance in our limbs

And the rhythm is reddened

Beyond our hunger and bite

Even among the simplest listen.

Waves pushed outward

Past our personal magnetic shields

Blooming around us in green

harmonic overtone tone rows

Passed beyond our ability

To move, received by

Antennae of mind and soul

Which is just, just, just

A receiver of the search of flight

Free of gravity and anchored femur

Seeking other statics, scales, and modes.

For the noise of light, which

Has been playing its colors

Upon our very, very, very origins.

And upon pronouncement of our silence

Will paint forever

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I’ve seen the best thoughts, fictions and realities

Imaginations packed tight in urbanities

Blood and bone, filament fragile fragments

Lit in bodies, pulsing, softly stuck on tangent

Building concoctions, cars, and drones orbiting

Heavy carbon thrusters, seeking, always targeting  

Ideals burning death holes into flesh

Righteousness, wildcard bomber mess

Games playing games with gamers who are namers

Virtual reality vitamin tablet takers

Moloch is now a member of the crowd

Owns a hookah bar in a cart downtown

Stinky-ass kiddos, mouths wide open

Full of trash talk, dope-dealing, and mopin’

Seekers of the hot truth talking mama

Pimps with gun tongues sending women into trauma

The newest pope is smoking ganja in a van

Too late for dreadlocks, fuck, shit, goddamn

Progressives aggressive, arguing about Shangri La

Nazis posing as politicians in the land of blah, blah, blah

Zombies escaping to the country, next to the cows

Swearing off meat, cutting tofu into the shape of clowns

Leaves Of Grass have been sprayed for bugs

Ferry crosssings are quaint cramped tourist hubs

Pretty little blurry-eyed scenesters, fully grown

Rewinding cassettes back to analogue, unknown

The clueless, fattened fingers on a digital button

Unaware of the shape and size of deep-fried glutton

Doctorates hunting homophobes, posing as trash

Chasing dumb fucks, lost crackheads, eaters of hash

Hybrid apartment boxes built inside the zoo

Made of fiddlehead ferns, plastic groceries, plus a bit of glue

Collectors of creeps, glory, gods, and sneakers

Meet weekly for a sneak peek full length feature

And we, hoards go gentle into that good night

To secure a first row seat for the neighborhood fight

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 19 Comments

American Work Day


  1. Try to get up
  2. Notice in the mirror, as you get ready for work, a cowlick that just won’t go away. Curse at every known god in the universe. Glue it down (partially) with Dippity Doo Ultra Toxic Glue Gel
  3. Stop at Starbucks. Order a Venti Ice Ice Baby Crappacino in a single-use plastic cup, while ten reusable plastic cups (Free Walmart gifts for applying for a credit card) sit at home in your cupboard, which will be 25 cents each at the next church bizarre or garage sale, which no one will buy. They will be dumped off at the Goodwill, by an unmarked white church van, in a large cardboard box, labeled “kitchen stuff”, ending up next to piles of cheap sunglasses.(Also free Walmart giveaways)
  4. Park your car in a downtown lot after almost rear-ending someone on the freeway, for checking the newest Tweet from some unknown Kardashian (No, it’s not the name of someone from the planet Karadashia) of whom you really don’t give a fuck about.
  5. Enter the office building. Wave to the security officer you feel sorry for, because you think he is a poor pitiful loser with ADD, when in reality he has a doctorate in literature. His area of expertise is 19th century British literature. No wonder he’s a security guard.
  6. Say small hellos to coworkers you hate, but pretend to like at office parties. You hope nobody stops you to complain about their kids and spouse, while at the same time you wish somebody would stop and talk, so you can complain about your kids and spouse.
  7. Say hello to your boss, calling her/him by their first name. (Or better yet, a nickname like Biffy, Bongo, or Chuck) Look around if any of your coworkers noticed.
  8. Reach your cubicle. Refill your foo-foo Starfuck’s plastic cup with pure black gut -wrenching MJB Death Valley black coffee. Reach in your purse and pull out a photo of your nephew, who just turned two with cake all over his face. Stick it on your outdated PC vacuum tube monitor. Even though you’ve never met the brat, it’s a way of making it look like your down with the family you avoid.
  9. Start working on the new project called “Merchant Accountability” your boss told you to do, which is exactly like the old project called “Mermaids Love Dolla Bills Y’all”. It’s all about who you’re talking to. Your boss tells you to “Get into their brains”. Code words for “Get into their wallets”.
  10. Take lunch at a food cart two blocks away. Order the vegan flatty eastern evil noodles. The cook smiles at you because he cooks everything in the same pan with fish sauce, vegan or not. The cook is somebody you really like a lot. You feel, because he is Asian, he must be a wise practitioner of Buddhism, when really he drives home in a Lexus, thinking how stupid white people are.
  11. Heading back to the office you get harassed by stinky kids that have to work just as hard as you for one singular dollar bill, to buy the same bad beer you drink that you think is saving you that very same dollar bill you refuse to give them.
  12. In between working on “Merchant Accountability” you play a computer game entitled Pong (Retro is soooooo, cool), not noticing your boss looking over your shoulder.
  13. Drive home trying to quell the anger you have for Biffy, Bongo, and Chuck, while in the passenger seat the office flyer sits face up for the next meeting called “Let’s make work a community, a family of love and understanding”. It is to be held after hours, off-the- clock, Friday night, and is mandatory.
  14. Stop by the store on the way home and check your American Grocery List
Posted in Lists | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 27 Comments

Remaining Within

From Time Magazine

From Time Magazine

We walked to the wall

holding hands

As dry as sheets of paper

You had LOVE tattooed

On your fingers

I can remember,

Dark the ink was.

The wall held a series

Of graffiti. FEAR

Is a word I remember,

Seeing there

Written in a quick red slash.

“It’s on the inside.” You said

“It doesn’t come from the outside.”

I ran my knuckles against

The rough edges of bricks

Painted upon, over and over and over

Slight changes of colors null

I always felt I could feel

The humanity, even in the most

Hateful things, things that fear

My knuckles became scuffed

I bled a little, stillness—still

I bleed a little more—remembering  

The depth of your tattoo

Dry against my bosom

The wall isn’t finished, can’t be

You said

“There is a bag of bricks

Hidden in our bushes,

Ready to be thrown

at our windows.”

I didn’t put it together

Until now,

why the wall was here

Why you left, why others leave.

We now live in two separate times

I have a child now

I can’t find the bag of bricks

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 29 Comments

Hair Yell


It’s ok to use a little hairspray

To keep it out of your eyes

Glue it down, rearrange it

Before you lose your mind

And yell at the mirror

Blaming your cowlick

On that worn pillow

You named Mr. Flattie

Throwing aside Pregnant Betty

The pillow who’s too fluffy,

Yet leaves your hair alone.

Hey, it’s sleep or style

A choice many make during the night.

No wonder you’re naming pillows.

But, as you yell

At the reflection of a bird nest

On top of your morning-before-work head

You imagine that your hair is…

The split-ended image of a yell

Swept back, bird plumage, Trump-like

Angry words pushed forth

Ahead of any functional thought

As if the loud sound

Emanates from the pre-coffee era

Or the post postmodern alcohol crazy-shit era.

Making you wonder

Who has control of your mop top?

A Yodeler gone idiotic?

A Cavewoman in prehistoric menopause?

Your coworkers will wonder

Who you had an argument with.

Was it the whole of America?

We’re you poking your nose

in some other country’s junk drawer

Hoping to find a flat iron?

But, it’s more complex than that

You could style it all out

If it wasn’t for the damn bathroom

Louder than any other room.

Who designed them that way?

Why would anyone wish

To listen to shit at twice the volume?

Your toilet yelling becomes whiplash

A blowback, an implant, a fierce shot of wind

You can’t wear a hat all your life

Hoping it’ll protect you from overreacting.

You tangle with the hairspray

A cold mist surrounds your aura

Placing your roots back

Into the mild mold it knows

It’s time to catch the train


Remember, for later, at coffee break

If your yelling attempts to fly

Violently to one side or the other

Shut up

Schedule a hair appointment


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