fire down below

revolution

dear prudence

Purple Haze

mean mr. mustard

really he isnt mean at all

hes just a writer

an artist

insufferably shy

perpetually preoccupied

hiding behind cameras and glasses

and pens

taking it all to heart

Love

here comes the sun

shes dusting the dust away
and cobwebs of spiders
shes sweeping up dirt
mopping the floor
straightening books on book-
shelves putting them back
in alphabetical order
she gently runs her finger
down the spine of each one
thrilled to be thrilled so
thrilled by the touch
shes so fucking heavy

(previously published in Media Cake)

Moonshadow

come together

come share the dream everybody
turn on
turns out
peace and brotherhood
bring us goo goo eyed to the trap
we are dazed sheep
standing at the juke box
we dont know
we are at war with somebody
we dont know
we are at war with ourselves
sticking it to the little people
sticking it to the man
sort of like falling
within love
without love all over again

(previously published in Poetry Victims and Sketchbook)

War

The Tangerine Dream

Deep orange skin conceals
Sweet juice dripping like raindrops
From a burning sky

(previously published in Sketchbook)

Peace Frog

(previously published in Downtown L.A. Life Magazine)

dino

party dolls and scotch
on the rocks
smooth
on the stereo
in the background
and on t v
all my life
in black
and white
surrounded
by pretty women
gold diggers
pretty much sauced
every time
chain smoking
flirting but oh
so syndicated never
the less

The Sky is Crying

johnny ono

no one drives a band
like johnny can
no one
drives a band
a rock n roll stake
a sharp butcher ballad
country two shoe blues
rock of gibraltar
right through your heart
like johnny does
demanding it
slamming it
driving it
flat out
blazing
finger tips
like johnny does
no one does it
i mean no one
no one
belts it out
like johnny does
no one does it
electric
like johnny can

(previously published on Poetry Super Highway, in Downtown L.A. Life Magazine and The Poetry Victims)

Get off of my Cloud

broke before love shack

im down with the three frogs
ive come to celebrate something
sits so comfortably on me this
neverending adventure living
life so ill mingle for awhile chat
listen to the kickin country kareoke
couple who are onto this game i
play come fridays thanking god
my week is done i thank god
the beatle butchers not back and
my busy bartending bee is attentive
as ever eventually reba will sing

(previously published in Unlikely Stories, Blinkzine Arts Magazine and The Poetry Victims)

Strawberry Fields Forever

sonny boy

driving bootleg
harmonica
driving moonshine
hauling
for pennies
swigging
and driving
back-
firing
putting pedal down
another bad ass
dusty
country road

(previously published on Poetry Super Highway and in The Poetry Victims)

Industrial Disease

Asleep at the Wheel

This feels good
Feels solid
Eight beats to the bar
The weight of the cameras
Keeps me grounded
toe tapping
I am packing
I am invincible
I have missed this power
The drumming in my heart
Stand-up bass piano
Scratchy guitars
I mean I have missed
This means with which to
Capture my rebellion
In shadow and light

(previously published in Blinkzine Arts Magazine and The Poetry Victims)

Riders on the Storm

One More Time

(for Norah Jones)

Your velvet voice
Flutters like butterflies
Hardly breathing
Just under my skin
A tingling purple itch
Taking me places I’ve never been
A lover against me
Tongue touching mine
Olay fingers tracing
The ages of my face

(previously published in The Poetry Victims)

One After 909

my wind up ringo doll

drums on the cabinets
on the linoleum
on the formica
in the kitchen on the table
on the door on
the walls
the lampshades
on the fuzzy dash
board every time hes
in my car its so
distracting

Stairway to Heaven

My Bag

Is made of paper perhaps
From some butcher’s shop
The skin of butchered trees
Bleached white and creased
Like a starched dress-shirt
I stuff it full until it bulges
With pretty poems and pain
I sent it to all the ends of
The earth and to your door

(previously published in The Poetry Victims)

It Came Out of the Sky

cd318

mister gould has gone away he
wandered off into the arctic one
day i will find him a crane in the
snow a frozen note lets say this
doesnt surprise me considering

(previously published in The Poetry Victims)

mrs.vanderbilt

did you read the review
the classic mccartney
the one about
the axe grinding
in a newpaper
in africa
in english
in nineteen seventy three

Crossroads

Blue Suede Blues

headlights beaming disco
diamonds in the eyes the
rain clinking like pianos
cymbals clapping puddles
fingers snapping thunder
rolling out the bass drum
beat smooth old blue feet

(previously published in The Poetry Victims)

Rain

What in the World Can be Wrong?

(In memory of Stevie Ray)

Maybe an urgent guitar
Couldn’t bluff trouble knocking
Like a fist full of faith is said to do.
Maybe the love struck baby
Just wasn’t strong enough
To hush the rough ride home.
Maybe he know too much, or
Maybe the magic was a shade too blue.

Maybe the blues wouldn’t do.

(previously published in The Poetry Victims)

Middle of the Road

Green Tangerines

They can’t help but be loud
And obnoxious for sake
Of simple want of knowing.

Mostly they wonder why oranges
Hold so very tight to themselves,
Allowing only to be pulled apart
By the sheerest of seductions
Or
Why the oldest of the tangerines
Open wide at the touch of a finger.

Imagine, sometimes they think
They can even relate to tomatoes,
Suddenly reeking odor a lot like fish
Or lovers when they sweat,
Or is it onions?

Watch them wonder where they fit.

(previously published in The Poetry Victims)

Bad Moon Rising

I'm Happy to See You Smiling

(for Joan Baez)

As a child
I was indifferent to your fame,
Who can blame me
I was indifferent to life.
The strife simply passed me by
Like a motorist avoiding
The hitchhiker’s eye.

But looking back
I can’t deny your treasure
Singing loud ringing proud
Revered!
I think Dylan would have said that
Had he not been distracted
By your disarming alarming charm

And looking ahead
With millions waylaid underpaid
Stricken with AIDS
Afraid,
We are grateful for a smile.

(previously published in Hammers and The Poetry Victims)

Highway to Hell