List of things I like in no particular order

To spend time outside exerting myself on my skateboard riding around the park from one hill to another and trying not to die.

To take my son to McDonald’s or the park to watch him interacting with the other kids. To see him learn to get along in groups and learn to solve simple problems on his own.

To take time to read something of important literary worth. To take time to read for fun. To read something frivolous like anything from Stephen King.

To browse WordPress searching for good poetry to read.

To read good poetry on online literary magazines. To read the submission page and wish that I could send something that they would actually agree to publish.

To write poetry even when it is frustrating like when the words aren’t coming or when only the wrong words are coming.

To finish a poem that I am proud of and share it online. To watch the views of any newly published poem grow or not.

To dream as I receive more subscribers to my blog. To dream that I will actually be “discovered” or that I will develop a following that I could somehow translate into book sales or whatever would justify to others all the time that I spend writing.

To have self-directed study.

To have a directed course of study.

A lithograph of Lies

I write a lithograph of lies.

Stone tablets.

The language of broken rules.

To chisel faces of stone emotion.

Chip at the grain with hardened steel

Until sparks fly.

To anger the mind.

To light flame to mountainside brush.

To scorch the lips of the faithful.

Until flame sparks tender

On the lips

To burn down the page.


October Poem 47: The Lessons We Teach

Structured to hold up the metal bars and

Rusting chains that could have been medieval

Torture equipment if it weren’t for

Examining the parts out of context.

As we tore down the old playground to make

Room for the new, I thought back to childhood

Playing on this equipment. This cage, the

Old jail. One of my older sisters had

Told me that it was a replica of

The place they kept the Union prisoners

Of war. And we joyfully played yankee

And rebel taking turns locking one then

The other in jail ignorant of the

History lessons that we were teaching.

October Poem 46: Of Murders and Memorabilia

I remember when I first heard about

The carved wooden legs like a tiger’s paw

Holding an apple. They glinted in low

Gloss and hunched near to the ground. You could have

Sworn that you had seen them move or tense or

Twitch ready to pounce. The handmade table

With swirls carved like eyes and a point in the

Middle like one long retractable fang.

A deadly venomous sting dripping in

Anticipation of the moment you

Dropped your guard. But there on the auction house

Floor. It was just another old piece of

Furniture. It’s probably not even

Valuable except the story of it.


The story of how they say it got the

Brown stain that could look like dried blood. If you

Thought about it really hard, you would be

Able to see menace in its designs,

But not really. They say, this was the one

That they recovered from the site of that

Grisly murder from two years ago. The

One that had been held in evidence. The

One that had been found with the bloodied head

Sitting on top. It was too clean. Not a

Drop of dried blood. And the finish had not

Been dulled by any harsh cleaners. But it

Would do for my collection. And hell, I

May even get it for a damn good price on it.

October Poem 45: The Dark Imagery

And they walked through the rising vapor of

The creek below the bridge where mosquitoes

Work the keyboards to generate the text

Of my future masterpiece of modern

Poetry. They will find the ether, for

The thick air of meaning brings its own hook

And line to catch the words and breathe the lines

Of verse into being like the blood from the

Bare arms with bulging veins that draw out the

Mosquitoes like little vampires sworn

To the devil. Sworn to bring grief and pain

In long swaths of meandering voice. Sworn

To confuse those willing to subjugate

Their minds to the dark imagery of verse.

Poetic Line Generator

I created this poem entirely from lines generated in a poetic line generator. In no way do I claim this as my own poetry, but it does have a similar feel to a lot of the abstract poetry that I have written.

You can check out the poetic line generator that I used right here: Poetic Line Generator

Go ahead and let me know what you think. Are the robots going to be taking the poets’ jobs any time soon?

The Memories of Pain Embrace in the Water


Two figures of love turn after the storm.

Your oldest friends of words sleep amongst the

Shadows. Shapes of summer echo like a

Dancer alone on the stage. The leaves of

The soul sleep inside the meaning. Men dressed

In the color of the dance reach stillness.

The trees of harmony vanish like a

Child. The oceans of desire join in

The insect air. Your oldest friends of tears

Cry in your forgotten dreams. The seasons

From your past whisper inside the meaning.

Two figures of wanting echo beneath

The surface. Some of the waves of wanting

Breathe sensuously. Poets of time touch

The meaning. The children of winter speak.



October Poem 44: Two Revisions of a Poem From Last Month

In these two revisions I tried to work with rhyme. In version #1, I added rhymes to the end of the lines, and in version #2, I added rhymes inside of the lines. Both versions follow the ABABCDCDEFEFGG rhyme scheme.

Version #2 has much more subtle rhymes because they are not where you expect them, but version #1 makes use of some slant rhymes (words that almost rhyme), so its rhymes are not all that blatant either.  I am not sure which of the two versions I like better.

Which one do you like better?

If you want to compare these two versions to the original, you can follow this link:


#1: Words Spoken Rocking on the Water


Two fishermen anchored deep and boating

Surrounded by silty beaches, scrub land,

Thick brick walls in dollar bills, and smoking

New dams. And eddies. And dead rivers. And

Great many anglers. Allies puffing through

Just lit one idea and lit another.

The light edges to end one subject. To

Start another. To find no one other

Extreme at study from search and use of

The poles and hooks and tackle and what all.

Of drifting fish, dreaming in among the

Floating ice that keeps them. Bumping the walls

And breathing in the liquid air they rend

Pulling through their gills numbing to their end.


#2: Words Spoken Rocking on the Water


Two fishermen anchored in a tin boat

Surrounded by silty beaches, scrub brush,

Thick brick walls in dollar bills, and smoking

New dams. And eddies. And dead rivers. And

Great many anglers. Allies puffing herbs

Just lit one idea and lit another.

The light replies to end one subject. To

Start another. To find no in-between.

Extreme at study from search of catfish.

The poles and hooks and tackle and bucket

Of drifting fish. And dream in among the

Tickle of ice floating. Bumping the walls

And breathing in the liquid air like smoke

Pulling through their gills numbing to their end.

October Poem 43: The Trick of Nothingness

The retaining wall. To save your parents

The erosion that served to strip you of

Your most valuable resource. Your land. The

Hill. Your livelihood. You should have something

To behold. Trailer tailgate the top of

The Earth. Offloading boards at the awkward

Angle from front of the grave. The little

Vine from the world’s fair. It grew so fast. Land

Scraped smooth as much as smothered. Furniture

Of your house. Your salvation. Vanishing

Nothingness. How it burned bright across your

Throat. But you know squalor. And the trick of

Nothingness. Soft toilet paper. And a

Good toothpaste. It will be missed when it’s gone.

October Poem 42: Building Community

Like the siren of the neighbor’s tail lights

As he scraped ice from the windshield, the trees

Waver through the silver of a full moon

And decry the hawk and blade that spread the

Hardpan of dampened earth to the daub and

Waddle communities of people who

Say hello when stepping out to check the

Mail. The communities who may know your

First name but not the color of your eyes.

The communities who can only look

On your face until the small talk gets stale.

The communities who lift the blinds just

Enough to be out of sight until the

Neighbor’s car is warmed up and driving on.




October Poem 41: Set in Ink

Tomorrow I will begin set in ink

By grass. To sleep as if I had been drawn

There in the field of clover. A homeless

Man hung over with his belongings tied

Into a red handkerchief hung at the

End of a stick traveling alongside

My curly haired mutt. Have they seen her legs?

Hair dirty and knotted, choked with burrs. Her

Underside dripping with fatted ticks

Suckling on her teats like so many of

The unconscious biases that the left

Have about the nature of the evil

Capitalist system. On genius and

Who they think I am by the way I look.