The white-sun gaze is fixed upon the town of Missingself
A village-city named by and for a corpse of winsome wealth
Who in the days before his death was known for hate and spite
But now endowed is all the town with his money and foresight
Distraught and unromantic, the people fought with iron fists
And left their children all alone to speak the alphabet
This generation sadly was raised by the television screen
And cast away from their parents' love, were seen as quite obscene
Inward and introverted, they were soon hurled to the world
Supposedly grown-up and whole but really boys and girls

The Trombone Sailor tramp of trails was first to leave his post
He owed to much for too long and meant to see the coast
Off the cliff of dead-end dreams he had hoped for a silver coat
To impress all of the city girls and return with one to gloat
But as he crossed the country with the answers in his hands
He constantly ignored himself and made severe demands
Upon the people of the shores and the mermaids swimming by
Who helped him to mistake his arms for clouds of smog and lye
And so with fervor and with faith he bought a big red truck
Hoping to rebrand himself as a rambling, roaming buck

Spiders crawl beneath the tears of Mistress Morose herself
Whose pain is only half sincere and whose mind is without health
Hope is her secret poison and her weapon gas of choice
She drains the life from all she loves and then she steals their voice
Her blood burns through the daydrops of the open pool of fate
And she captures with her words of love any fool who will wait
Long enough to seem sincere but is short enough to see
Only what she wants them to as she brings them to her knee
Who knows what she seeks? Not I, and certainly neither her
As she wraps her endless empty nights within her ballroom fur

Johnny Jailbreak screams his tantrums into the breath-break machine
Proving to the highway cop that he isn't unfit to drink
But on the brink of danger and feeding his doorknob death
He writes silly songs about love and life and knows that nothing's left
For him to free and him to like or for him to even touch
But his basket tongue and basset lungs are pounding far too much
And so his hands are shaking and his silence pulse is true
As he fills his socks with all he knows and puts on his silverside shoes
And as his satin bedroom eyes are battered by the barroom beer
He eats his problem glass shard life and smiles through the cheers

Ah, look at the queen in the corner named Ladybird Marie
She keeps her twittered twists of hair inside her tawny sleeves
Rubies drip from her lips as she sways her gypsy dream hips
Her voice is like a crowing car as her fingernails she clips
She has to keep her wits about her when she walks at night
For though she is quite well-to-do, she always has to fight
Against the demons of her soul that burst across her face
Whenever someone makes her out and mistakes her sad disgrace
For a window to her soul when it is a painted porcelain mask
A mating song she learned to sing so she never had to ask

The Liar holds an ocean inside of his domino cup
He hates the world he lives in so he decides to make one up
A baby born in winter, a wife that has left him, sure
The means and ends are all confused and broken on the curb
His wooden nose and highland doom is a curse of his happy parade
As he digs his grave on Pleasure Island and kills his red charade
His crusade, as he would tell it, was to unite all the people abroad
And cancel all his parents' credit cards to save them from distraught
But as his fiction and his faith are washed onto the beach
He secretly destroys his myths and tears his bedroom sheets

There's a man named Wilson Warmen who holds all the records and more
For picking up the broken lives of the women on the dance floor
His secret, or his sanctum, is a pair of lucky wooden dice
They scatter chance and portray his luck to men as well as mice
Upon the marble-makeshift mansions of the masters and the priests
He holds his ears and seeks his peace through honest-eyed deceit
Although he knows his fortune is a briar patch of iron teeth
He brags about his fashion sense and relies upon mystique
For although he holds no skill to which he can call his own
Nobody in the village square can claim his rightful throne

In the alleys is the Poet Who Dreams of a fire-lit cruise
His swirling patterns of despair are a blessing and a ruse
Though he peddles books of brilliance from his battered cart
He has a banker for his brain and a locksmith for his heart
Beneath his smirk and open chest is a coldness none can know
Born alone in ancient times and buried deep in the snow
He bought a gold harmonica and an electric jam guitar
But he only knows how to play the tape-deck in his car
And as his heartbreak bricks of dawn are spilled onto the street
Everyone that he has ever known begins to laugh at his defeat

Imagine Todd Lambert, the banker-briefer of the tolling booth
He prays to painted pictures and a melted golden tooth
Though he wishes to write tickets to his friends for mistrust
He settles for a wedding ring to embrace his inner lust
Though he knows not who to wed, he begins his solemn-eyed quest
Of ruining the fun of all and by brushing against her breast
Perhaps he could have waited, perhaps he should have withdrawn
But nobody else in all the town would even listen to his song
So with pen and paper, he begins to write his will anew
Leaving all his possessions to a woman that he never knew

What causes all these conflicts? What keeps these souls so discontent?
What encourages their friendships and leaves their lives so sadly spent?
Who can say for certain? It requires too much disdain
You would have to spend your time with them and soon would go insane
The truth, it seems, as sad and lonely as it spills onto the page
Is that none of these adult children are worth their daily wage
In time they may spring to life and heal their wounded hearts
And seek the love of themselves and replace their broken parts
But as sure as fire breathes their names and sparks in a hissing hell
They will never find their happiness in the streets of Missingself

A Barbell for You

I need you to listen
Everyone you know and talk to
They judge you and mislead you
Everyone you've lent your heart to
Has always let you down
But don't despair and
You've got the brains
So don't let them tell you
Who you are or what to do
Don't let them swallow your pride
With their amphetamine lies
You're stronger than
you know

The Sad-Song Caveat of the Last Living Teardrop

You must remember
friend of mine
to never lend your heart

To the ones who
steal your laugh
and tear your mind apart

You must remember
friend of mine
to always hold your breath

Around the ones
who hold the guns
and seek your timely death

Trilogy Tragedies Trading Travesties

Your tattooed-tan and temper titan tambourine is shrill
Your sandy summer sample savior is silent, without thrill
Your catacombs of reverie and calendars of crates
Are canceling the causes and the castaway berates
Your drunken-daydream dismal death and dicey coat of arms
And your cookie fortune life that puts your sight at harm
And who could know that deep inside you're hollow as a tin
And that you embroider all your love with symphonies of sin

The sycophants and psychopaths are grasping at the sleuth
Begging him to barter with the farmers for the truth
Regarding waves of asphalt haze and hissy silver rakes
Quashing cravings of the craven killer-thief who slakes
His thirst for art upon the parts of faith that cannot hide
From the whips of danger-drawers that cardinals deride
As being so unmanly and as being wreathed in red
Encompassing the days of men and breaking all the bread

Such began the night that ran and bled into the years
The months that morphed into the sighs of children and of peers
Who cannot know by biting blows what banished banners breed
And refuse to save the clues that reveal the kingdom's greed
For who among the funny ones can hold their light afloat
To the shipwreck days of yore that guard the harried boat
And as all sights of senseless nights begin to melt away
The parsimony panzer parson prays for pavement pay

Silence speaks in simple speeds to single sweeping sores
And tears the tear-drop temple tastes from the tailored Thors
Those sowed by sanctioned anxious ants that answer to the name
Of the anguished father whose son has died in blood and vain
The wars that take and mutilate the helpless friar will
Of anyone who cannot take their tongue-drop tyrants off a pill
Are prepared in name and verse to preserve a way of life
That promotes the endless fields of hatred and of strife.

Cancel the Court Date

Iron-on fury and a sense of blurry
Avant-garde relations of man
Provide all the context for a merciful pontiff
Don't you know we're still in Afghanistan?

You keep telling me darling that you know how it started
But I have to keep telling the tale
About the rebels of commerce who expect all of Congress
To provide the money bail-out in bales

You got me puzzled and angry
You got me huddled and praying

I'm standing in the kitchen and I'm on a big mission
And I see you keep on towing the line
With your straw-hat and pistol and you're overall fickle
Don't you know this is 2009?

There's applause in the chamber but my coat's on the hanger
I wore it to another job interview
And my taxes are low but I got nothing to show
And man I have even less now to do

You got me hustled and hazy
You got me troubled and lazy

Ramblin' Jo Marie

This town is a bore and it's drivin' you mad
You got dirt on your shoes and you're shoveling sand
You dream of big money and a motorbike journey
Instead you're deliverin' mail to attorneys
Your pants are too tight, your shirt is unbuttoned
Something is wrong and you feel like a glutton
Oh, you gotta get out but you don't know who to trust
Except your six packs of cigarettes and your wanderlust
So instead of a plan, you make an escape
Dragging your heels on the interstate

Now you're in another city, got a chip on your shoulder
The world keeps on spinning as the days get colder
The lines on your face are increasing from worry
You can't pay your credit card and you gotta hurry
To the grocery store where you make some money
Bagging all the canned foods for the sixty-some honeys
Oh, you gotta get out but you don't know where to go
So you pick up your shoestrings and give them a throw
And instead of a plan, you make an escape
Dragging your Geo all across the state

"Fancy meetin' you here," you say with a grin
To the piston-headed drunkard who can give you a spin
He ain't much of a looker and he smells like bait
But you gotta make ends meet whichever way
So when he smiles through his kangaroo teeth
You think of how you promised yourself it would be
Oh, you gotta get out but you don't know how
You're tired of living in this one-horse town
And instead of a plan, you make an escape
Dragging your heels back to your mama's place

Through the Gates of Tartarus: Curtained Dawn of Paradox

The angel-corpse of Lucifer upon which hate is built
has been buried by the sergeant underneath the silt
of warlord shores and cryptic throes, those sympathetic strands
of the shifting shadow flames of a hundred open hands

Surging such, though thunderstruck, the menthol mermaid dreams
as oyster-opened hopelessness splashes on the seams
of the angry ocean god of oil, trash and grime
who upon the hound-dog deaths can never find the time

Those broken clock-face Eden screams of Adam sold to scores
are murder-faced typography that pull the curtain cores
from the apple Knowledge-breath the snake has thus consumed
the hardnose happy golden coins that demons must subsume

Bear-trap amber wooden fakes and falsehood freedom nights
penned by Cain in Abel's blood upon the Bill of Rights
those Plato forms of flaming horns and sparking vinyl sighs
that curdle all the love and praise of twilight manic eyes

Hark the silver gunfight thoughts that burn in angels' ears
of farmer crops of knowledge-vents and iron-coated shears
the import of imported goods in the Kingdom of All Souls
cannot be stressed enough by miser-guidance coals

The aching, quaking trade regime of marching diamond men
dapples stadiums of hype to erase the armaments
of collective action wars in heaven-hell mistakes
known to all the choral gangs as seas of burning lakes

Melting, melded resolutions of the praetor prize
are lauded by the Lord Below as sacred, true, and wise
the steel-mill Satan summer screens that seem so kind and clean
burn inside the convict bars that burst the crowning queen

A deck of cards inside the sanctum shuffles gypsy tents
as tarot fools and pointless rules demand the mail be sent
a compromise of spiky shells negotiate the fate
of the mobile mundane malls that seize the soap to sate

Their endless thirsts and Fender throats that scream the devil's light
to all the harmony and hope of fallen fang delight-
the trade and mindset of the published patriot and priest
protects the patient proctor clones of clement booted cleats

The ruby-roaming ranger king begins his roaring prayer
to dispute the beast within that claws with golden hair
havoc highland soundboard signs of scathing psychic scythes
reap rewards from rounded reichs and diplomatic ties

To textile tins and tens of tongues, the tempter tempers, feigns
those cowboy rebel angel tears that drive the kings insane
so that the pepper-salted face of David could become
a combat crown of lustful lies to blame upon the sun

And as the royal regal-thighs of states begin their stride
the devil's dues are paid in full and Charon claims his ride.

Hemlock Crimes

With her silver-studded centerpiece and systems of malaise
And her hypnotist laundry bills and salsa smoke and haze
Her memories of loneliness and curfew ticket rides
Coupled with her dancing oboe-Samson soldier tithes
The squawking jukebox dancing queen is sliding in her ear
Telling all the apricots of the changes she has cleared
With window-screen Christians and their patriotic kin
And her cardboard cutout idol of Abraham Lincoln
And soon the question calling card is crumpled in her mind:
What in all these pointless paths do you hope to find?

The tundra dancer homeless queen is buried in the snow
Hoping in her car to find what Goliath cannot know
In prodding prose and pesticide, she swallows frozen tears
And her fasting penance-pride shall hollow all the years
Those times that chill her bony mind and broken-ballroom heart
So pledged unto the captain of the parachuting tarts
Whose sister twin is ransomed by the paralyzing waste
The passive poignant punks who have stolen quiver faiths
And echoing throughout the caskets of the arctic queens
Is: what in all these broken paths do you hope to glean?

The mercenary pistol-poison Florence florist sighs
And casts the bones of the damned upon the servant's eyes
The servant sweeps the ash and soot onto the broken plain
And mimics all the danger calls of trumpets pouring pain
To quit the burning fortune favor she seeks a lucky charm
But knows to hope for Caesar's ghost will only set alarms
And so in somber shadow-squeals of caustic crimson code
She crawls along the corridor and steals the thought to bode
Upon the desk-job officer who kindly had just asked:
What in all these empty paths have you been so tasked?

The poem protector diplomat who carries all the rugs
Is burning bridges on the farm so none can steal his mugs
And knowing that the cancer-cream of corn and potion shops
Is building cabins made of loss and burning all the crops
Thus he takes the empty mind of unfilled jugs of death
And with his smoke and steamboat rage beseeches angry Seth
To crush the spirit of the times in zeitgeist atom bombs
As stormy weather winter eyes have stolen summer calms
And as he ponders limitations he asks in even pain:
What in all these worthless paths should I seek to gain?

Fire-fashioned Vulcan hammers break the treaty calls
As agony and apathy search in earnest for the stalls
Of fate and fighting fastened freaks who sing their dullard hymns
And in their empty endlessness ask for frantic friends
Whose sombrero spastic dreams can summarize the world
And bottle distant aspirations upon which Christ is hurled
Curled into the seismic days, they wait with flaming swords
And prepare to burst the daylight dreams of sunny sailor shores
But soon a slithered question springs upon their pirate plate:
What in all these senseless paths should we know to hate?

Answered in the doorbell words of ordered dismal homes
Is the question-refrain-dream of actors made of chrome
With leaves of night and blades of day in search of fame and shame
And scalding all the cascade brooks that bubble buoyant claims
Cider-spirit tree-toed nymphs and emblematic books
Are splintered sister hipster hits corroding all the hooks
Scorned and sentenced by the midnight judge for guilty pleas
They hope in swirling turtle fate to enter when they please
Corrupted, they are asked in jest by the stars above:
Is it in these hollow paths that you search for love?

The Brimstone Bride

The weeping witch begins to caw:
And bromide, burning, breaking law,
Speaks in Tongues nailed to the wall
And soon upon the floor would scrawl

Such were the witch's brew to need
Ingredients the witch would cede
Murdered joys were squealing, fried
As soon arose the Brimstone Bride

Such were the words she spoke aloud
The witch had spoke in blackened clouds
And as would rise the Brimstone Bride
The prince came to the witch's side

Crawling words heaped on the night
The witch beheld the horrid sight
As the prince was torn apart
She could see the bride's black heart


Perched upon the midnight crown
The chancellor is shuttled down
He answers all opponents' claims
But secretly records their names
His police parade at dawn
And the king is now a pawn
As sonnets soon are penned in jest
And pinned upon the hangman's breast
The skies are red, the moon is black
The devil's hand is on my back
But when I stare into your eyes,
I can see through their lies

Suited for the Senate seat
The poor man bleeds from his feet
And secretly believes his call
Is sacred and is meant for all
Holding baskets full of bread
The Lion of the floor is led
Into pacts and pointless trades
Exchanges born of hopeless knaves
Solemn servants scrub his brain
Until only his hate remains
But when he stares into your eyes,
He remembers why he cries

Power, money, sex, and wealth,
Seeks the sailor for himself
But unknown to the captain's crew
Their souls were to the devil due
As yellow seas of brimstone, smoke,
Ash, disease, and death were stoked
Sulfur tides begin to crash
Against the shores to seethe and thrash
Shipwreck memories of life
Are stolen by the knives of strife
But as the sailor sees your eyes,
The clouds are parting in the skies

The clock and all its gears shall crumble
The bunkers of the priests shall rumble
Humble, hopeless peasants shriek
As missiles kill the swift and sleek
The noose is tied around my head
The rope is made of flame and dread
The words and daggers of the clown
Become the floods that nobles drown
The drummer rattles at my cage
Persistent in his sightless rage
And as I look into your eyes,
I wait for all the sweet goodbyes

Song & Dance

Sweat-drenched keys flash piano verdicts
Rhythmic be-bop transcends time
Wiggly trumpets scream into circuits
The bassist feels his temper climb

Chaos (panic) on the ball room floor
Nightclub matchsticks burn with glee
The shaking thunder of the frat house door
The old man and his wife's bad knee

Music, dance, future, chance,
Euphoria in its grandest splendor
Romance at its utmost tender

Chaos, order, movement, stance,
Calypso corridors of pulsing trust
Improvised signals of lust

Vibrant Throes of Sympathy

Wispy strands of yesterday
Your solemn ocean-eyes
The warmth of your words
Sweet melodies build into
Symphonies of ideas
With paint-brush precision
I prime, then color
my adoration.

Yearning Visions of the Midnight Queen

Starlight burns within your eyes
as you don your
olive-tree jacket

Your oracle smile,
as though Inspired
by a goddess

Your laughter is like
a dove perched
upon a church bell

Your smile is
a flash of light
eviscerating darkness.

Beams of fortune
Tides of honesty
Your gleaming mind

I need you in my life.


acceleration / hyperactive / life and death / changing hands and / changing heads, hydra / wisdom w/o there ideas / ideals / pouring / torrential / ending / all / linear thought

Epitaph of a Beautiful Tyrant

Who will mourn
the butterfly
smashed against the
window pane?

Who shall grieve
the monarch dead
ended early
in her reign?

The graveyard moths
imps of commerce
do they fret
or feign?