Knick-Knacks on my Tracks

there’s a chewed up box of
kick knacks left on
my train’s brain

hear the whistle sound off
in distance, wind’s resistance
depletes with my implied

light teases at the tunnel
like eyelash flutters when
flooded with sun’s

there’s a chewed up box of
thumb tacks left on these
diesel heart’s cracks

and the tunnel eye’s
now bleedin’ black
and not only in



Elephant in the Bed

just my misty window view,
rain clouds stick to
windows too,

our petting zoo’s been
abandoned too

drowned whole towns
in bathtubs too,

and i bathe now in same
ice waters in which i saved
a clown, and drowned
my lover,

it floats o’er me like crazy
and now i only fuck her
like she’s my mother



Monkey Moonshine (Braided Branch in Ever's Tree)

as a frayed child, i once spotted
a blood fanged monkey
as it hung loose from
braided branch in
hollow tree

whether real or thought,
factored not in fears nurtured
n’ flushed through my
viny reeds,

gone by dawn’s good grace
was bloody fang monkey,
yet no fade for braided
branch in tree

still swingin’ low
in fated breeze,
for me.



Chalk Lipstick

this snow blindness suits me fine
i guess it’s just the wine, jack
we better stick a cork in it before
guests hit the floor like last night’s
wreckin’ balls licked bricks
watch the nesting dolls parade out
our front door all smudged
in chalk lipstick.



Jail Words Nailed to Birds

she’s got some wildfire
that’s never seen
the light of

she’s fought off starving
hostiles to find a nook
in sardine hostel sty

she’s caught the guards
off guard, gettin’ on it
in taped off corner

death row inmates as
day’s wank fodder,

makes them sport waxy masks
of dead primates, oh wait-
don’t bother.



i write, i don't know..

“write what you know!”

nah, just write down what you
want and don’t sweat what
who does or doesn’t

though i know fewer things
than i’d dare admit,

heh, ya catch what
i just did?

see? i never know which
secret’s safe or best hid or
dare i admit it?

best part of art is love,
oh! and not givin’
a shit

and i care so little and give so
few shits that i wrote a
whole dumb poem
chewin’ out the



Row Yer Boat, Kid.

kid rowed his boat down sewer
flow past skid row,

no oars, just paddled with hidden hands
to Fleet Street bar where six o’clock
shadows drink horse piss
at high noon,

sold that boat down muddy river
and am braced for tired
tread home,

but only when this ghost bar sinks
into harbor midst a refrain
of grateful groans.