Table of Contents


He-Man Cave Complete

At last the mancept 

Came into being,

A sensory reality 

With illegal feel,

Revealing the vision 

Of a dried up

Mid-life crisis case

Non-celeb 

Pulp fiction hack

With life slash horror problems

Resolved at damn long last;

A solace wonderland

And sanity maintenance program.

It surfs the lip 

Of Dante's Inferno,

With wall-to-wall wallpaper centerfolds;

Top-heavy topless girl

Adult-theme bottle openers;

Bringing to the surface 

Nostalgic memories

Of those pre-responsible days 

Of 80 cent 8 .oz glasses of draft

And front row tickets 

To the afternoon nudie shows.

Great thought was put in 

To this testosterone-rich

Den of sin;

Booby-traps to catch the wife

Trying to sneak herself in.

Out of sight and earshot

Of the bad place above,

Tonight's feature movie 

Would be one absent of plot;

All face-painted bimbos, 

The characters with parts

Of intimate encounters,

And always a happy ending 

As its parting shot.


Heart Gets The Boot

What divine history

When God pinned the tail 

On schizogony.

I am at once

A pleaser and thanker.

Pleasers are pleased to pleasure us

While thankers thank us

In a spirit of thankfulness.

The sexual excursion

Catches me pearl-diving

And after the untold hour

The photo-op

Has orgiastic splendor

For its backdrop.

She was not as I 

But a thankless one,

Grabbed her slip

And left only remnants of body warmth

Like that of a fired gun.

Polly wasn't home

But the extra key,

As memory served, 

Was still in the glove.

Burning eye-stinging green,

Thin Rizla

In Polly's crush velvet decor;

Terminus Eldorado.

My heart.

Yes, the heart

Has a boot stamp

And my boot clamps the pedal's metal

To the floor board

And my clouds meet God's clouds

Before gravity delivers its grand opus.

Clean up on aisle four.


Hell In A Nut Shell

He didn't mention scotch

But I get a faint whiff of it 

When he talks. 

He reads like a book

Written in languages

That no longer exist. 

He says he's a sin eater

From a long line 

Of sin eaters,

Boasting 

On the sun-scorched back porch;

Pointing 

To a registry, 

Hard covered,

He says is a doubt-quenching list 

Of witnesses' first hand accounts;

Ones who've seen him

Spitting out souls 

Like watermelon seeds.

Now, 

Just showing off;

Hardly eating people any more;

Words come out humming,

Gurgling,

Spluttering,

Drowning 

And speaking,

Both 

At the same time.

To draw out the creature,

Rather,

To bring out the features; 

The castoffs 

Of a greater entity;

Making identification unmistakingly sure,

He tells me he does this

With a whirl of his forearm.

He pools dark energy

In a tight, 

Well-defined, 

Esoteric field;

A left-hand path dance,  

Riddled 

With the right kind of ecstasy.

A theatrical description

Of the madman's method;

The way he pulls, 

In a morbid seduction,

The necessary faithful response 

Of the called.

By way of his authoritative motions,

In plain view of us both,

Seven appeared,

On haunches, 

Paws out, 

Like would any good Pavlov dog.

Spectre obedience 

To these simple commands

Convinced me

It was well-past my better-be-going exit 

Off his property

And safely back 

On to mine.


High Noon

Our country wears renegade denim

And a jacket of blood;

A nation of sugar-coated rhetoric 

And machine gun grins;

The value of foreign flesh;

An out-lived bowling pin similitude,

Fleshed-out agendas 

Of the Powers that Be

Only become visible

Iin the flames.

How cool does truth ring

In the Game of War

Knowing harm rate's excusable

When collateral damage fails

Making the number of lives lost

In a Mexican spaghetti Western?

Sad nights follow sad days

As our hearts get tossed 

On to conveyer belts 

Making good time 

For the mouth

Of the fearsome meat grinder.

Bases are loaded

In this Mayan ball game;

Hat brims are lowered

For the voices of the dissenting,

Watchers stand on the porches 

Of modern day saloons;

Pricked ears 

For the verbal he-said-she-saids at high noon.

We live in a Matrix 

Of Cowboys and Indians

Where the Indians are really Cowboys.

The coming Day pursues us

When we are no longer magnets

For the bullet

And summer beer-swallowing 

Be no longer done

Looking over timid shoulders.