Thursday, April 13, 2017

On Huntington Avenue

The Gee St. Motel 
was the sort
of place that
police cruised
checking plates
when a car
had gone missing
from the nicer
part of town.
Carla was Queen
and she loved
but Gold Grill
was her man.
The same one
that took
Big Fish's time
right before the
Fish died.
Daphne belly up.
But that ain't
happened then
and Carla thought
I's special
and smoked
all her dope
with me.
Sometimes I
stayed at the
Motel with her
sometimes with
Derek For Real's
baby momma
next to JoJo's trap
down the street
on Huntington Avenue.

Friday, October 14, 2016

One voice talking

A cool breezy
Saturday morning
full of canibus
and coffee,
in shamrock
printer boxers,
I sit down
 to write,
the music
from Tom Waits
to something
by Bach,
featuring cellos.

I can't write to a song
with lyrics.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Pin Drop

She said,

You're an ass,
you know that?
 Look at you.
You are a
fifty year old
man that wears
skinny jeans and
three pounds of
stainless steel
jewelry. You'd
rather jerk-off
to young tatted-up
blue haired girls
that read your
poetry than fuck
and you are
living rent free
in my spare room ...

seriously ...

an ass.
You're gonna
sit there all
sad and tell me
nobody loves you? ...
that I don't love you?
An ass I tell you,
I am going to bed.

Then she
slammed the

Things got
real quiet.

Saturday, April 16, 2016

She knows

Once she read
to me,
like story time
only better, the
most beautiful girl
in the world.

Something sad,
and funny,
quirky but good.
She read of
raindrops bruising
flower petals.
I watched her
read, the way
her lips shaped
the words her
expression framed
each mood.

She knows
I love her.

She watches me
sometimes with
eyes more wonderful
than any seven
things ever,
present or past.
She looks at me
and her eyes that
whisper passages
in French about
love making
hold me rapt.
I do not speak
French but crave her
attentions sans pudeur

and she knows.

A pretty girl took
her away to sleep
under electric blankets
and watch movies
about other times
and loves.
Chick porn I say,
and she laughs
tells the pretty girl
that only
porn is porn
but chick flicks
are great too.
I begin writing
this poem as
they leave me.

She knows no one
will ever see it.

I share her love
with another and
ours is the one held
quiet as sin.
I love her
silent and secret.
It is enough
for me that

she knows.


I wish you
had money,
she said
pausing the
beauty tutorial
and smiled an
apple extending
smile tempting

You mean you
wish your
sugar daddy
wasn't some
broke ass
nobody knows
him poet.

I just know
you'd buy me
if you had

Yes was all
he said,
if I weren't
a poet,
silently implied.

She sat Indian
style in the living
room floor,
cut-off shorts and
a Keep Austin
Wierd tank top,
putting  on
midnight eyes
and matte liquid
lips made,
it seemed,
for kissing.

And she was a woman.
And she was art.

An object of beauty.
A being full of life.
And he thought
I wish I had money
I'd write poems
for you every night
and you'd forever
be art.