today god today 

may we have

the guts to tell

the truth


semisweet end

when i die bury me pen in hand

typewriter for a stone. do not trust your sight

or touch the body scentless

cold and frightful in the ground

while my spirit seen there

wanderin the cemetery grounds leans

off a row whistling some

semisweet show tune


march of the mobile homes

when water boils down

relationships and typewriters take

dust my health i try to care. the country the past

the future depression a sensual affair

worlds in the saucepan wander the

march of mobile homes. a paved road

beneath which all

life settles and

i won’t

you cannot care too much

i got keyed up

tearful unable to speak

reflecting what you told me

had happened 

they called me overinvolved they

said i lost perspective

they wanted to pull the case

out from under me. i

fought back 2 show it only

makes me work harder

to help



938pm. the silence breaks

arise with words and the endless expressions

alive i am laughing 
@ the past @ the future 

the sky


rockstar #1201

the city outside



they make

windmill inflections
metal-dipped harp strings 

a door off its hinges they

lean off the wall 

listening to it all
talking to self ina 

wistful way like a 

lost son’s 




rockstar #1200

a rockstar like they used

to be thin as rails

bad attitude

couch surfing or up all night

drinking smoking

never rest

wishing they were dead


pushed on the stage by

the manager hassled

by the label

rarely paid littered 

with dead



pale and glow

the lake was calm  

took him in running 

diving forward and

down. the voices at his back 


gravity mollified

he turns to sand

shock of hair a sea 

creature reaching 

limbs pale and

glow they know 

never to be seen

above or 



life after psych meds

gave you back 

what you lost you

wake up wanting to 

face the world

though frightened

you live a little

life after psych meds 

feel yourself falling you 

twitter like a baby bird

arms high

full with down 

now fly


leaving cali

the straight edge of coast

the icon of west meets

east the rush of gold 

lost its allure

big capital fled big 

government’s reach

the fire and smoke 

income and sales tax 


with great nostalgia

for the beach