14596908000_a7ea2e7d6a_mI am driftwood, imperfect, but good enough to hold onto tightly while you figure out the shape I was destined for–I know you too well, Puzzlemaker.

You are one who must make fit the pieces perfectly, lest your life be unfulfilled. So you place me in the vise, and turn, turn, turn. Hold me fast and examine my form.

Where to cut? Where to shave thin? How do you make me slide into place? This is after all, your love game.



Sky has gone steel-blue, stone heavy

Feeble sun wears charcoal clouds–a funeral shroud

Bass drums fade in fast as growing blackness settles low

Rumblings punctuate with a resounding boom

Enter snare drums, snapping

Electronica rising

Ribbons extend from Heaven to horizon and

Vanish, instantaneous

Thunder rattles rib cages with guttural power

Sky falls down in symphony


A Call For Revolution

I was born a breeze, blue sharp

and breaking Sunday glassware–

social refinement

is over-rated

when innocent blood is spilled

in the name of Peace.

What peace? Fundraisers are crooks.

Uppity mother fuckers

dress up in laurels.

It’s the regular people

who give an actual fuck.

When will real America embrace the fact that we outnumber our politicians? 



Rubbing Alcohol


Drunk driving through towns,

mother rubs me the wrong way–

open intox, pray…

you’ve never been arrested!

And nobody has died yet.


I often wonder, Mom, why I don’t call the cops on you.