Thursday, April 22, 2010

In Tangletown

I am the last lost poet.
At 3rd and Market I sit
at my old table, by the window
on the second floor
and wait, and watch and write.
The trains stopped running
long ago, the nights are silent.
Poems don't come easy.
There are no more saxophones
crying in the lonely dark.
Only the occasional glare
of a window lamp marking
the territory of an insomniac.
The buildings are mute.
Curtains hang heavy and damp.
This place has lost its soul.
The streets are quiet
in Tangletown.

In One Hand Armand's

the cold outside is kept at bay by
the heat from bodies gathered
to drink loneliness and salvation,
to drink the nearness of flesh
and the fleeting pleasures it offers.
Tonight my poison is wine,
cheaper by the glass, better buy the bottle.
The smoke is thick,
and the juke box can't make a dent
in the conversations.
Armand, let me top off your wine glass.
Button down the hatches and load the guns.
Revolutions start in places like this.
We are tinder waiting only for fire.
We may die but we will set the night aflame.

In Tangletown

I walk the streets at night.
I am not the boy I was.
The hardness of this place has
crept into the lines of my face.
The rain soaks me but
I am no longer moved to tears.
The shadows are mine,
and the dark corners,
dead ends and alleys.
When people pass me they don't see me;
I am invisible, a piece of trash.
Bothers me not. I've lived here for years.
The stains on my soul are forever.
Forever the streets of

When we die I believe our essence is thrown back into the stew pot of the Universe

The body does not need us when we die.
When what animates us is gone,
the flesh has plans of its own.
It starts by cleaning out impurities,
the debris of bad living and fast food.
As fresh air starts the transformation
the flesh feels its own rebirth.
No morals, no meals, no fear of death.
It rejoices itself as a garden.
As the spirit flies unattached
to time or place the body reaches for home
to take a long overdue and much deserved rest.
The body does not need us when we die.
It goes its own way.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

iPod muse

Song Title poem

Babe, I’m gonna leave you


Blown wide open

Crash! Boom! Bang!

Everybody knows

Blues in the midnight hour

Feels like rain

Kiss the rain

Fall like rain

Give me one reason

Good loving gone bad

Hell at home

Hey, hey, what can I do?

I’ve got to go now

I don’t wanna

I want to walk with you

Love is a stranger

Nowhere to go

Side of the road

Smoke and ashes


Thank you


Unchained melody

Wish you were here

Monday, April 12, 2010


On a hotel roof
in San Diego, California,
caterwaul of sirens
and hookers muted,
I read my horoscope
and fed my appetite
for loneliness
and chemicals.
The minutes crept past
slow as thunder.
Smog lit by night lights glowed
like a translucent shower curtain,
and I wept,
thinking of home,
of Ophelia's head
resting over my heart.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

I live for the rush.

Words a friend told me.
Riding through newly-awakened
fields and swamps,
critters everywhere,
birds on every branch.
Deep from the hearts of trees
in the stands and copses
green leaked like life-blood,
burning the air with possibility.
I wasn't driving, so my rush did not
come from speed or
the need to remain alert.
Feeling the blues slip from me,
a coat I stripped off
and hung out the car window
leaving a trail of dust, worry,
and the scent of the sickroom.
Between the two Mallards in the creek
and the riders doubled up on big cycles
hunting the long easy curves of these
old roads, there was a space I felt so human
I can never go back to where I was.