Wednesday, April 27, 2011


The present has become the past,
The future has become the present
And the wheel continues to turn
The pigeon on my stoop is a voyeur.

The pictures on my wall and
The chimera cigarette burns on the floor,
With the leftovers of you and your scent
Memories of my conformity.

Fear has become biblical and my home consequential
So I burn sage
Without reasoning but I was told to do such
Just in case.

Just in case the supernatural might smell
The incense of my sincerity
And of the ritual cleansing of my failure
Thusly expelling desire.

Born on the morn of a day
Only historical to me, taught me,
That my suffering can only be derived
From carnal desire to be free

Of suffering and of the strings
That attach me to shit that harms and is irrelevant,
To the community at large
Forging distraction and destruction.

I'm as pure as a misguided bhikku could be
Asking for nothing unless offered
Willfully accepting when given
And praying for contentment and rebirth.

Sunday, April 17, 2011


With prehensile cognizance
I read the obituaries
And I saw my picture but
Didn't like the look on my face.

I didn't like the way that my eyes
Were squinting in the light,
Or the shirt that I was wearing,
The fact that I had conformed to a complicated life.

I was taught to be sensible
And nothing that I ever did would
Be considered sensible,
I was a rolling stone.

I didn't believe in god,
Slept in all day
Found beauty in the cracks
Laughed at silly liturgy.

I was on everyone's prayer list
I hated the smell of success
Voted for the rights of my brothers
A social outcast.

There was a crowd outside Green Street
At the mortuary and another across the way
With Guinness and bangers and mash and smiles
And I hoped to be there instead.

This must be heaven.

Sunday, April 10, 2011


Sometimes I wish that I still felt as I did in my youth, struggling for identity and acceptance but sill innocent nonetheless. This one is just for fun...


I was a punk
And now I am just a hipster, semi-wanderer
Who sometimes forgets youth
Those guys, I'm flashing back in time to, running around in circles
On dirt floors of the Seaman's Lodge in the hills
With trench coats harming no one but punching each other nonetheless

It was mad, innocent fun and the energy
Was something out of an indie film that my parents wouldn't let me see,
And that's why I liked it so much.
Anarchist sheaths who sat on the grass
Waiting for mediocrity and brilliance
A beat up bass amp used for a regular guitar instead.

Freedom and rolling and rolling down the slope
Like it would never end and there was no end.
I wished that I had a Mohawk
Or that I did drugs.
I wanted a nickname.

You can call me Smalls
Duct tape

I wanted a cigarette but I was scared.
The other 16 year old kids were doing it
But what would it mean for my soul?
I wanted to be remembered
But I was a good kid and rarely did anything wrong.

This was so un-punk.
The music squelched to deafening levels
And the circle of pseudo violence commenced again.
Yelling at my comrade for the night over the sweet noise
I said, “Punch me!”

Without hesitation, I flexed my stomach muscles
And with even less hesitation, he hit me in the gut.
I wheezed and he marched with a crooked smirk.
“Oh!” He yelled at my neck, “What was that for?”
“Punk rock, baby, punk rock,” I screamed back.

Visit One Stop Poetry for more fun!

Friday, April 8, 2011


This is based on a photo prompt for this photograph via One Stop Poetry

It has come to this,
To the point when pain
And suffering and
Struggle can no longer
Keep the lights on,
The gulls have found

Brighter shores
Somewhere off in the distance
Across oceans without war
Patience dissipated
And hope dilapidated
“Just take me now!” I screamed.

I've had a good run
It's time for me to go
And I'm tired...
My eyes are growing poorer
But I can't pay for solution
Just take me now.

The papers say rain
The papers say coma
The papers say racism
The papers say one more innocent child killed
The papers say..shit.
Just take me now.

I'm talking to you goddess
Are you listening
To the plight of others
And not just the plight of mine?
It pains you and you are conflicted
But what shall I do this time?

Just take me now please
So that I won't have to
See what is happening all around me,
And ashes to ashes
And dust to dust
Will be a simple memory.

For One Stop Poetry


I'm wired incorrectly...
There is something clearly wrong with me,

I have trouble functioning in the box that was
Created for me, or by history, or by religion,
Or maybe it was American society
That caused me to be an outsider
Or to become fearful of feeling different, as if I don't belong


White picket fence, don't forget to pay your rent
On time, because there is never enough time
And you scare me with your tactics,
Why do you do that when you know that it
Fuels fear and that if the tables were turned,
Your legs would buckle from explicable trembling and,
You would beg for mercy,

But hey's just business,
What's not to understand about that?

I'm wired incorrectly...
There is something clearly wrong with me,

And when I'm scared, I'm scared and you are scared
About what is going to happen to your home
When Rosie the Riveter meant less suffering
Because you, you had a job and whilst you had to get dirty
You were proud and were no longer afraid of what was happening
Outside of our comfortable little box and war felt like redemption.

Ah, those were good times...when we rounded up
Anyone and everyone who didn't look like you
Placed them in a cage and forgot about the holocaust,
But damn did we quell our fear of bunnies.

I'm wired incorrectly...
There is something clearly wrong with me,

I've tried to but no matter how hard I do try,
I can't seem to figure out how to fit into your box.
Did you see me on the streets? When I asked you for some spare change
And you said that you couldn't help?
I was lied to and you lied...
But I realize,

I'm wired correctly.

Monday, April 4, 2011

A Prayer

I saw you thrice tonight
But there was no notice,
No noticeable acknowledgment
Of me, as a human being
I am background
I am an afterthought
I am noise
I am poised
On the Brink of non-existence
But I am smiling for some reason,
Watching you go about your daily duties,
Goings and comings about,
Your invisible stress only visible to me.
I wonder what it's like to be on your side

I am a matchbook
I am your mortgage
I am your newspaper
I am a candle
I am your prayer request
I am your new phone book sitting on your hopeful porch
I am that guy on the street
I am protest
I am enlisted
I am ignorant by choice
I am baseball and crackerjacks
Cracked into little decadent pieces
And I am your advertisement

Where did you go that night when you walked out?
I was waiting.
For a glimpse of understanding
But I understand when life just feels, oh too real
And it's hard to breathe.
Breathe deep and I'll breath for you because it's simple
To breathe and soon ugly will disappear

And I will be your prayer request even though you really were never here.

For One Shot Wednesday!