Table of Contents

Brief Setback

The monkey on her back

Had a manipulating hand

Half way up her fanny,

Causing the panic, 

No less than memories

Of her rape by that Hispanic.

The kitchen made the top of the list

Of unfortunate locations

Fated for this day's evisceration

Of it's usual order

And humble,

Aesthetic countenance.


Were the props

For her fingers of anxiety,

Sounding out

Like the rattle of vibrating cannons 

In the confines

Of a cold rusty barrel,

Making tables tilt

And float;

A convincing drama

That could fill a spiritualist's coffers

And prevent any veiling

Of the pleasure,

Begotten by the night's take.

A manic face-pull 

Accentuated her teeth;

They became the size of piano keys, 

Making up-and-down motions,

Not unlike 

Those made by the jilted;

Cutting up

Pain-making love letters

On a heartless night alone.

A delicate child 

Prone to fainting spells, 

Could no longer be found

In her stringy visage;

Almost masculine build 

From a decades' dalliance

With her pharmakoi muse,

And the ingredients for temporary moods. 

The concoction also bruised her,

Deeper than skin deep.


Reached her delicate soul.

That wasn't a concern.

The concern was her need to find 

What she fiends;

Anything less than victorious recovery

Would be seen inexcusable;

The seriousness for a win, 

A symptom

From what her connect told her;

"No more cuffs."


Burdened With Awareness


A tourist's eye tears up

Looking down 

At a foreign human spectacle

Walled in by ditches piled high 

With the laundry of vagrants

And accompanying rejection notices

Hastily scribbled on vulgar parchment;

All observed through a barrier 

Of tourist bus windows.

Mud-streaked faces 

Stained with unmistakable sad

Failed to escape his notice; 

Contrasts too vast to contemplate;

Those with his home's neighbors' 

Pre-adults crashing college kid keg parties

In a different flavored neighborhood.

Hunting for answers

To tragic world reality

Competed for most probable unsuccess,

The challengers being an expedition,

Hunting wild elephants 

With Hasbro dart guns.

The traveler,

Feeling buttock fatigue 

On seats too stubborn to give way

To an average man's weight 

Lost hold of his self image.


Reflections mimicking the long ago reflections

Found in resin-caked bong glass. 

Symptoms of this nature

Were children of a society

Fermenting like spoiling fruit.

Even bedroom mirrors 

Were infamously two faced.

The climate hosted suburban pillows

Who tattled wickedly 

On their respective above-the-neck jockeys.

The obscenity made a laughing stock 

Of formidable disgust

Brought on by the insane 'what-if' day dreaming;

A Flintstone and Rubble swinger's night. 

The bus wheels' ball-bearings

Continued their grind 

Out of the cage, 

Keeping poverty's greatest numbers

And into places 

That opened up wide

Like a canyon vista on plains,

Arrow-straight as railroad ties,

Stretching across country prairie.

If nothing else, 

A compulsion was born

To garner efforts 

Securing front-cover to back-cover inertia

For a book he remembers

Awakened his consciousness

From a decades-dead apathetic slumber.

Back To Work

This day was christened

The Day of No Rest;

Not even Ferris Bueller

Could get this day off;

Even God was ordained

To suffer writer's cramp

From writing a book

With 66 chapters.

We worked in a shop

Apathetic to our sweat;

Turbocharged assholes with ambition

The size of King Kong's balls;

Politically anointed

And tattooed with Inc.;

Casino and whorehouse

Rolled into one;

Incentive worked like elbow grease;

Sweeter than the rack

Freud's mother had.

It was Compromise Central;

Where angels choose

Pearl necklaces over wings.

I'd bet the Pope's upside-down cross

This was the last lifeboat afloat.


Behind the Curtain


Like stars that extinguish

And vanish in the firmament,

So mote it be

With the notions of man;

Their imaginings of events before them

As a roulette ball

Dancing in the air,

Condemning it to eternal spin

On the wheel

Of fate's blind destiny:

The fruit

And results

Of which its author could neither feel

Nor foresee.

It is not as the confused mind

And eyes of man

Imagine it to be.

Voices from invisible beings cried out,

Exciting curiosity

By disclosing hidden secrets;

Pouring forth the fullness of days

As an unraveling scroll

Tumbling down a perpetual hillside:

The seer;

No longer thwarted from his love;

His tendencies;

His aspirations.

A panoramic vision of men on horseback

In the air,

Clad in gold brocade

And armed with lances

Now share his native field.