Here’s to those

Capped by special rocks,

Holding it all on their shoulders,


Here’s to those

Dancing the three-six-five waltz,

Gyrating and shoe gazing,


Here’s to those

Silent observers stuck

In knowledge’s gloomy shadow,


Always here,

As always, here’s

To those

Who are here forever


Here’s to those

Who conspire with the rain,

Born from weeping cumulonimbus,


Here’s to those

Desert dwellers and

Inanimate Northwest golems,


Here’s to those

Casting oblong shadows

Without a audience to care,


Always here,

As always, here’s

To those

Who are here forever,

Those who are here

Holding it all on their shoulders.

Late Night Double-Feature Creature

She was getting real sick,

            Gotta give em what they want boys,

Of being asked to the late night double–feature,

            Gotta make lots of noise,

The on with the monster flick first,

            Cars spilled like popcorn convoys,

She was looking for a real reason to apply lipstick,

            Gotta wear that sweater she enjoys,

The kind of kiss to confess to her preacher,

            Gotta fight the urge to be coy,

A fella with Coca-Cola eyes to quench her thirst,

            Yawn and stretch with perfect poise,

A hand on her thigh totally unrehearsed,

            Gotta drop the cliché ploys,

Pushed up against the dashboard heater,

            Gotta tune out the Mummy noise,

She was tired of feeling like a lunatic,

            No matter what her heart destroys,

Of repressing her inner creature,

            Gotta make lots of noise,

Of silver screen laws enforced,

            Gotta give em what they want boys,



She was getting real sick of being asked to the late night double-feature flicks,

She was getting real sick of being asked by those protagonist boys,

She, the only real late night double-feature creature.

Climate’s Change

(via Daily Post, Finite)


The flames are always finite,

For they rely on the generous giving of

Others bodies for their warmth.

Eventually they get climatized

To the predatory pity and decide to fade,

Ash to dirty ash, spinning and

Cackling like newborns

As they spin free, dust returned

To dust, so fine it lingers

In your life line and love line

Through each wash, growing darker

And more a part of your skin.

Continue reading

We Used to Talk

Ponder with me, if you will, 

Those distant cousins who crafted language. 

To emerge, erect and erect from

The shadows, the lack, the before, 

Into the mistakes of Eve. Imagine

The poetry rolling through 

Hills of tongues, fjords of teeth, 

Just to taste it and birth bird song. 

Imagine how the moon conspired

To create romance and lust,

The Sun spawning wonder and the guteral sound of art, 

Doubt oozing out of the swollen snakebite

And the venomous glee in being

The smith of words just to hurt. 

Ponder the creation of song and wails, 

The utterance of a messiah and the horns of Jericho, 

The white horse and death rattle. 

Now, Speak. 

Help Me Name This Poem!

Howdy folks. Quick look into my writing process offered up here. I always write my pieces without titles (or vice versa and create titles without poems) and then try to find a title that sums up the work at the end. This one eludes me. Like, I have no fucking clue what to call it. So, I offer this untitled work to you, and give anyone who reads this the opportunity to give it a name. Until I get your help it will remain nameless and unloved, and it’s my baby. Help me name my wee little baby, wouldn’t you? kthanxbai…



Garbed in militant wools

and all this black,

rakish smile hidden away

in a back pocket next to a wallet

that’s mostly just symbolic,

we head for that millennial dive bar

hoping the nosebleed seats

lack their usual sweat stains

and sorrowful middle age women

that are so fond of Springsteen,

but hey, they give me free shots

of well whiskey, which serves as a whetstone

for my blade of wit, which

exists to vanquish every friend who approaches

and wants to comment on my physical appearances

like I did it for them, folks

honest enough to admit that the rest of us

are just background, still, their heads shall not roll

because of childhood agreements,

those peace treaties of the past.

As for you, I suppose you could have

stayed home, or crept across the rooftops

and just watched this show of force,

My dirty feet slapping the spilled drink floor

all off tempo and my paws pulling

at the off kilter top on a little countess,

but you make a good alibi,

conversation, and walking stick,

a compass to my heart

and the mask I’ll wear

In the two AM revolution.

Shadow Boxing

A great fear of mine

Resides in the uneven

Angles of light waves

And the subsequent shadow

I cast not being able

To stand up to the ghost

Burns of Hiroshima. What

They have is so forever, etched

Into stone and dancing immortal

In the fire of God’s eyes.


My partner flickers.

He grows and shrinks

And hides, never

Showing me as is

Or as possible, but

Simply as an after thought.


I took my shadow out to an old

Abandoned limekiln surrounded

By choppy ocean and broad-leaf

Trees and waited until

Sunset. Using the powder

Discarded at the base, I attempted

To trace my shadow into the

Cliffs so he’d finally

Know what he could look

Like at his best.


Eager to not be another

Subtitle under sorrowful

Photographs in dusty,

Dull textbooks, my shadow

Left me to the darkness

With chalky hands.

Chalky hands, and the

Incomplete shape of who

I am, or will be, etched

Into stone and dancing immortal

In the breeze of the moon’s hair.

My DNA Test Results Revealed a Lineage of Bad Guys

A snake spirit guards my wooded kingdom,

My naked flesh and apple heart.

Like snow, the leaves have turned the

Ground into a bed, making the same

Screams with each footfall,

The same reminder that no one else has

Crossed my path. My gait is met with

Bowing backs of crooked trees, and

The occasional assassination attempt

By naïve twigs,


Perhaps I am Rasputin, shoved back into a

Body with jitterbug legs and a smoking

Habit, excuse me future smoking habit,

That won’t kill me or my black magic,

That stuff I use to bite the hearts of women

And more men, that stuff that leaves cosmic

Fungi in the corners of your room. Consume

It and ejaculate knowledge.


In the back alleys of my beard I plot

A secret bonfire, the sort fueled by

The Magna Carta and the dead sea scrolls,

All the better to birth a phoenix companion,

The sky is so lonely and the hawks I hunt

Have all adopted the hoods of falconers,

Opting into servitude just to have something

To rebel against.


May Day

Grab your maypole and let’s protest,

Crown a spring queen and drench her

In chains, the masters treasure chest

Is full of gold and spider whispers.


Grab your maypole and lets dig

Butcher a spring fowl and drench it

In butter, the people deserve to jig

While blind men sing holy writ.


Grab your maypole and let’s stay,

Plant a picket fence and drink liqueur

Each morning. We need to decay

As proper mademoiselle and monsieur.


Grab your maypole and let’s protest,

Take the nepotist’s boat to the seaway

And swim in tropical waters, all soaked Sunday’s best

And sunken stolen pay.


Round and round,

We must be faster,

Hands in the ground

Digging graves for the master.



Three Year Anniversary Poetry Dump

This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.

Continue reading

Dog Head Impressions

(put on track as background noise, grab a microbrew, and read slow, please)


Blocked by a stand up bass,

A sickly, blue, purple and red impressionist dog head painting

Received no benefits from the skylights

and my fifth beer that midday.


A sickly, blue, purple and red impressionist dog head painting

Staring out over the conversations in Spanish,

And my fifth beer that midday

had the bubbled, copper scent of the river out back.


Staring out over the conversations in Spanish,

A mousy barmaid whose smile

Had the bubbled, copper scent of the river out back.

I caught a glimpse of the trumpet in her eyes.


A mousy barmaid whose smile

Received no benefits from the skylights,

I caught a glimpse of the trumpet in her eyes

And my fifth beer that midday.