Imagination Ejaculation

December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

imagination ejaculation
messing up my mind.
puddles pool, growing skin…
must clean this mess up,
cover this sin…
before i get caught red-handed
with my mind in a spin.

it starts out with a stimulating thought
and once it starts there is no fighting it,
riding the surges of urges.
i am prisoner to my mind’s desires.

i tag along,
tongue wagging
ready for the romp.
ready to begin
this long
of the imagination.

images begin to take form
in the shadowed flashes
behind eyelashes,
a strobe light-like show of sparks
so bright,
so right,
so out of fucking sight
that everything else is obliterated
in a blink of an eye.

i am alive in the voids of my mind.
empty canvases come to life
thru mere whims of wishes and visions.
i am invigorated and rejuvinated
by the streaming dreams i see.

i’m filled up
and the build up
spills over the edges
as my imagination ejaculation
makes a mess again.


December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

The tides a-risin’
and I’m realizing
the timin’s right,
stay up all night
and ride this fuckin’ wave
before it breaks
into the light.

Insane thoughts
are makin’ sense
and nothings past
this present tense.
All that seems to matter
is tonight
and that I stand here
in the light

This generation
with a letter,
an experimentation
of despair,
specimens of some different sort
just waiting for Pops to die
so we can finally get to drive
Impatient for our turn at the wheel.
These boomers never knew.
These trippin hippies had no clue.

They quit on us.
They fucking quit on us.
You know what I say?
I say give it up!
I say you fucked up!
You know what I scream?
I’m not just a slacker Xer,
some wayward drifter,
a born to lose loser.
I just want my turn at the wheel.
I just want my voice to be heard.

The tide’s a’rising
and I’m realizing
the timin’s right,
to steal the night
and ride this breaking wave
into the light.


December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

How many smokes have I burned
since I wrote my first rhyming words
and attempted to call them poetry?

They seem to burn down so quickly
when you get to getting on a roll.

Sitting abandoned…

…on my lips
…between my fingers
…smoldering in forgotten ashtrays
…and burning holes in my clothes

I’d venture to say
hundreds times thousands…
Eleven-thousand-seven-hundred & seventy

I tell ya’
there’s just nothing like it,
sitting back,
flickin’ my generic bic…

scratching my head
and taking a drag while
scratching a word
and taking a drag that’s
scratching the surface
and taking a drag it’s
scratching that itch
and taking a drag

Then I realize
as I squint thru smoky filmed eyes
that I am done writing
right on time with my smoke

and alas
another crappy poem is born
as the crumpled butt dies

in an overflowing
stolen hotel ashtray

Torn and Tattered

December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

Yeah, maybe I am torn and tattered
but that don’t matter
‘cos on the inside I’m rich and luxuriant.

But go on, go ahead
and judge me by my cover.
Pick me outta the clearance bin
read the back of the jacket
no big named reviews
with a praising of words
Just a simple synopsis of who I am
an imperfect, worn
torn and tattered book
that doesn’t warrant a second look

That’s the way its always been
in the rough I’ve been the gem
Looked over and forgotten
by those that never mattered
because my cover’s just a tad too tattered.

It’s the ones who look deeper
who finds I’m a keeper
‘cos deep inside this book of me
resides the being I’ve always been

an artist of every kind
a playful yet sharp state of mind
a quick with a joke me
a sharing a toke me
a deeper philosophy
then you’d guess when you looked at me

a living and loving me
a giving and sharing me
a reaching and teaching me
a sympathetic hearing me

But go ahead
And judge me by my cover
It’s just a disguise you will discover

Yeah, I’m torn and tattered
But I don’t try to flatter
I only open up
To those that matter

Point of Departure

featured in the poetry forum December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

I knew you all
Before these shadows
That we now cast
Could see the light
That gives them
Everything that we have become
A story to lead us home
To each

Knowing embrace
And tortured days

Like the shadows
That spoke to us
When Mr. Radio
Said that Ginsberg is dead
That truth is a beatnik
That these tortured days are
Nothing more
Than training for
Growing up

Someone forgot to tell
the radio that it was wrong.
Allen is not dead.
Rippling thru his voice
is our truth
is our vision
is our destiny

is our responsibility

The torch is passed
and the muses shared
the mediums may have evolved
but message is the same

“Hear ye’ hear ye
all you mad ones
find your fellow mad ones…
…and speak the truth
…and express the heart
…and live the dream
…and teach the experience
…and learn the way
…and destroy the barriers
…and evolve to purity

We’ve been driving for years, man
We’ve been driving through the gaps
That time forgets
We’ve been looking for that Xanthos
That’ll settle the score
We’ve been listening to everything
Cause that nugget‘s
gonna find its way to our ears, man
Its gonna stir it up for good man
Its gonna manifest that mad
Mad swirl
And suck our motives to the

We must always die
Before we are reborn
Just as we must fall asleep tonight
Before we can start to climb back
Up out of this hole

Just as you must dwell in the darkness
before you can appreciate the light
Just as you must see
before you can seek
Just as you must die
before you can live

These just as-es-es birth more just as-es-es
as the swirl of life spins on mad axis-es

these ageless questions sit loosely on our tongues
that have no answers or solution
that have no compromises or facts
that have no law or doctrine
that only perpetuate the ultimate question,
the one and only question…

“Can you hear me?”

I ask you brother
“Do you hear me?”

I ask you sister
“Do you hear me?”

cheyenne gallion (CG) and johnny olson (JO)

You Asked Me Why

December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

A fellow mad one
once asked me,
Why do you do it?
Sometimes it seems
the efforts you need
in planting this seed
leave you tired and dry.

I didn’t answer him.
I knew the answer deep inside
but never put into words
the what’s, when’s, where’s and why’s.

This is what I should’a said:

I do it for the payoff.
I do it for this glorious jackpot
that fills me and spills me.
I do it for this giving and taking.
I do it for this showing and growing and flowing
to bounds unknowing
which keeps me going and going and going.

It came in one phrase
during a very fertile phase
read in the pages
of the Beatnik’s bible…

The whole mad swirl
of everything to come
began then.

…it was that recognition
in Jack’s premonition
that the moment was
electrified and synchronized.
In our one collective push
in the right direction
we knew that
the whole mad swirling world
can be changed forever
if only we opened that door,
if only we gave birth to this swirl.

Our creative love child
has never had a house
but has countless homes.

It is this lifeline
which connects us
back to our primal source
and leads us
back into the knowing arms
of our kindred spirits
and carries us
back to our original aboriginal tribe.

I just happened to be the last one
holding the opened door –
to the stage we’re sharing…
to the mic we’re opening…
to the page we’re writing…
to the web we’re weaving…
– and I must keep holding it
‘cos we’re not even close
to closin’ it yet.

It’s the torch
we must keep burning.
It’s the words
we must keep hearing.
It’s the cross
we must keep bearing.
It’s this crown
we must keep wearing.
It’s this moment
we must keep creating.
It’s this love
we must keep making.

We gotta keep moving
every mad day
and we gotta keep building
in every mad way
and we gotta keep preaching
all these things that we say
‘cos we gotta keep being
a piece of this something
because the whole mad swirl of everything
to come is now!

You asked me why do I do it?
I do what I do
because someone has to.
It’s my duty.
It’s my responsibility.
It’s my way of giving back.

Now let me ask you a question –
Wouldn’t you do it too,
if this was handed to you?

Sidewalk Silence

December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

These cracks on the sidewalk
have a tale to be told
from many years ago
back in it’s primmest day
when it was freshly laid and paved

so fresh and free of daily debris
that now stuffs it’s clefts
so pristine, so untouched, so clean
only the crafters caring touch
laid hands upon skin

but the yellow tape was removed
and the posts were lifted
and so began it’s slow deterioration

cold and heat days, snow and sleet days
not to mention the years of tears
that fell from the sky
puddles came and puddles dried

walked upon, used and abused
until finally a thin crack formed
and it’s face broke off in places
and it became old and worn
more of an eye sore
then a concrete floor

crushed up butts and angry weeds
now fill in its cavernous seams
and it’s wasting away
in unkempt decay

it’s story untold
never the chance to say its say
cracked and silent til it’s final days

Winged Rat Shat

December 18, 2008  :: 0 comments

A pigeon shat on me

I felt a thump
and then…
oozing thru my shirt

A squirt of white
smeared across my finger
as I felt back to confirm
that yes, indeed
that winged rat
shat on me

Ripped off my shirt
with napkin in hand
not caring of my appearence
in the noontime hour of urban park
and cursed the dirty scoundrel
for losing a load of splooge from its filthy ass
and splatting it
smack dab
in the middle of my back

With frenzied swipes
I wiped it up
smeared it and stretched it
I did my best
but there still lies
a faint stain
…to this day…
of white crap
when the damned pigeon
shat on my back

I Think Not

December 13, 2008  :: 0 comments

Strangest thing happened today, I lost me. Not ‘lost’ in the sense of gone but I was a shell for a while today. I was with me for a few hours and decided it was time to fuck with my head, why not try some of that, with a touch of this, a piece of dat and bump bump bumping on along. Oh gosh, what’s a touch of this gonna do for me. Try it, might like it…might not. Well ‘not’ it was, and ‘not’ is me. Me stepped out for awhile, may be back later, may not. Roll the dice baby, come on 7! Luck is not going to find me. Post signs at the local store. Missing, me, call ‘I’ if found. But I sense that me is around, looking into my eyes…oh yes, here me is, no there I go. Quick glimpses like sitting at a light and watching cars turn in front. Quick connections, quick…disconnect. Me does that, me connects, ZAP, gone. Where? Behind this wall of fucked up shit I just put up to fuck with my head. Is it bad to be straight? I think not. Stop? I think not. Compromise? I think not.
I think not.

Porch People

December 13, 2008  :: 0 comments

I sit and look
and write this book
on my stoop.

My book of faces
of hearts and places
which memory traces
on my stoop.

Moving like breezes
they drift thru creases
on my stoop.

At once their mood eases
and their soul it pleases
to be on my stoop.

Nods of the head
soon lies ahead
with lazy days
and big fat j’s
all’s O.K.
on my stoop.

When I step inside
to move the tide
I see them slide
on my stoop.

This place changes,
its colors ranges
to all the different faces
on my stoop.

Some are new ones
others are old,
all the stories to be told
on my stoop.

Its seen them come
and seen them go
who comes next?
you’ll never know,
on my stoop.

The ups and downs,
grins and frowns,
a thorny crown up
on my stoop.

Time stands still,
Time gets killed,
Time gets filled
on my stoop.