Pretzel Jacket

June 3, 2012  :: 0 comments

I went for a walk the other day. I stepped out with no place in mind. I was tired of seeing the same old things, and needed some fresh ideas. Sadly, each corner had old branches hanging over stop signs, bent from vandals. That 76’ Sedan Deville, still hanging on to chromed spoke wheels, was as stuck to asphalt, as …

fuck it list

featured in the poetry forum October 23, 2011  :: 0 comments

bucket lists are bullshit
what a waste of time
living for dreams
you didn’t believe in
chasing crippled notions and
following losers to the gray zone
of equality

in the waning moments
awareness sets in and now
you’re ready?
for what,

a certain sunset
to share with yourself

a thirty minute meal
overpriced and consumed, reduced
to a golden crap

puking in some unpronounceable ocean
because you saw a movie and…..

how about a kick in your ass
for not
doing more when you were…alive

when the grind was eating your soul
so the kids could be
happy or
the endless evenings spent smiling
at the table set just so, like a Williams-Sonoma ad
the one your ex-wife swore the Wilson’s did not have,
yet

just because Mr. Handcock drove a Jag
you bought the Bentley
showing neighbors how important
you think…you are

the dust on your heels confirms,
dreamers die slower deaths
I say, let’s speed up the process
.
.
.
I’m working on my list
my, fuck it list

going nowhere and melting
into myself, at peace with me
even as the red ants of fate dine on my bones,
constant comfort is near

fuck it allows me to breathe
to rejoice in loss
as heroic waves wash my tears away

fuck it to the controlled chaos
the purposeful ignorance that shelters so many

their dark caverns, where books rust
and imagery comes in bills and reruns

fuck it serves me freedom
to soar above the hatred of evening newscasts
the murderous rage so far from my door

one click turns me off, the next
takes me mountaintop high

I vote Fuck It for President
Fuck It for the New World Leader

my new favorite team,
The Fighting Fuck It’s
never a concern for victory
as all are winners

so kick your bucket list
to the curb
and step up to say

“FUCK IT”

you’ll be glad you did

editors note:

Hell, Yeah! Sign me up! – mh

My tube

April 9, 2011  :: 0 comments

I never cared for Dr. Huxtable
it was the sweaters, I think
and the forced nature of acceptance
not that Archie was a role model
but when Sammy kissed him,
I didn’t feel the hammer drop
there was no wall being shattered there
more of a whimpering proposal
suggesting bad was bad
and this was good, and why
was Eddie Haskel so cool
not like Fonzie cool, but
that’s so wrong, it’s right cool,
so I turned and found
two gals and a guy mocking us
deflowering the gay, insulting the hip
and assuming they were us, successfully
exposing sexism, when drugs and rock n’ roll
had no use for that because Mr. Kotter
was coming and we needed a youthful injection
of more nobodies to adhere to, yet there I was
thinking James Dean was cool
until he took a wrong turn and maybe I should
die young, but my corpse was already a mess
from Larry slapping me and all I ever wanted
was for Ward to come back and announce one more time
Lucy, I’m home

Those Eyes

April 9, 2011  :: 0 comments

those eyes
thunderstorm grey diamonds pacing
in search of a lost cause
never telling what happened or how
they became so empty

unspoken nightmares stewing inside
from a childhood stolen or
the bloodied remants on a kitchen floor
placing a soul in rejected custody
as merciless suits contort and study
the results of their experiments

so the pale sinister halls fill
with predictable customers
protecting their secrets, scared
of the next injection of missing knowledge

if anyone ever knew
the knowing of those eyes
hiding a seething hatred
behind caged mannerisms
and that internal awareness
that only exists in flourescent corridors

I have stared one second too long
and seen the obscene looks, masked
in tight lipped convivialities, one second
short of outburst, where we can agree
to ignore each other

Home Honey, I’m High

featured in the poetry forum April 9, 2011  :: 0 comments

Days end. Eight hours of insults, half a life of escaping, I head to the casino where I reside. Grime sliding from hallway walls, muffles the reverberations of maggot memories. My welcome mat.

Who will be there this time? Soft and smooth, with my heart held in velvet hands, or am I stepping in to a den of madness, where vise like teeth trap wicked words, that wait to gnash at the last remnants of my soul?

Turning the knob to nothing means nothing. Vile can sit as silent as an autumn moon. I enter because I live here. I Love here. I die here, yet I can avoid it no more than I can a sneeze.

Emboldened from hours behind a glass, braced, I turn my key and am struck. Odors of unknown origin, confront what’s left of my senses after years of intake. Fixating blurry sockets to what, I can’t tell. Sights not seen play out before me. A shadow of a leg, oily and slanted, draped at odd angle. Arms crossed in repose. Lips, plum and pursed, suggesting. Inviting. Caught
between Pall Mall marred fingers, a note.

Kids are at your Mom’s, phones off the hook and dinner is on the sofa.

Defenseless

featured in the poetry forum February 19, 2011  :: 0 comments

he injected her
one time too many, the heroin
was the least of her worries now

an addiction pales in comparison
to infant hunger

post coital chatter,
was devoid of future concepts
yet the wailing needs called out
from the other room
a discarded aversion

I trusted myself to behave
according to guidelines
provided they did as well
ironically, they didn’t
opening the door to chaos

his jaw was weaker than expected
her stamina required only words
and the heap of flesh he now held at length
was never going to be replaced
nor was her loss

and now
I stare at the puffing cheeks of tomorrow
his breath, effortless
as should be
a mild bulge in his stomach
told me I was right

I read about Fatherless children
in words written and rung
from a man who swore allegiance
to a child who needed nothing
other than the Love
of a Fatherless man, who cared enough
to kill
when death was calling his name

in her head

featured in the poetry forum December 17, 2010  :: 0 comments

her aura is opaque
Spring green eyes, a trademark
the passive frown she holds
claims all takers

after three weeks in therapy
her answers are getting vague
apparently
or perhaps it’s the questions
lulling her into lies

I saw her in the hall today
this corridor of shame
where a head held high threatens all
and somehow a smile, confesses truth

I asked if she felt like smoking with me
you know, outside
where light has a color
and sounds refute sterility
but she couldn’t answer right then
as the first pill of the day had her

in my ignorance, I smiled and said
nothing, yet she had heard enough
from me

and I watched her pass
washing the walls with her palms
each tile an important tone
a texture only she could feel

I wanted her to turn back
but my role call was next
and I had a story to design
for the smiles that love to listen
between coffee breaks and paperwork

Neo

featured in the poetry forum October 25, 2010  :: 0 comments

So who is going to step up?
No self adorning crap is needed. Just humility
and a lack of concern for results, should do.

Someone to speak and turn…..without asking. Without needing
to eat from gold leafed plates as an 86′ neuf de pap gets poured
down the sink.

Don’t tell me it can’t be. I have seen faces. On milk cartons and
billboards, in alleys and parking lots. Hell, there were 103,000
at the Volunteers season opener. Could not one of them be the one?

Given the chance, the dumpster behind
the abortion clinic may hold the one. And yet, all I see
are mouths…agape and vacuum-esque in form, asking
where’s the meter…pointing to the work of a literary ghost, with fingers covered
in gall, coyly proclaiming…. that his rhythm is off.

Where is a good beer shit now?
We have needs.

A Rose

featured in the poetry forum August 18, 2010  :: 0 comments

I pull a fetid rose
from the Garden

of life,
I know little

it’s this death I’m living
that is too familiar

torn lotto tickets taste of it
same as a cold styrofoam shell from
Dot’s Diner where my story fell flat and
the blue hairs waxed on about the way it was
despite their commitments

so I poured another crack whore a drink and told Bill
his cab smelled like roses
as he pushed another filter in his burnt lips
and pointed to the rose hanging from
his one way mirror

rinse and repeat

featured in the poetry forum June 21, 2010  :: 0 comments

hope is not for the weak of heart
the flight delays can kill you

so we write and disperse the little things,
as thank you notes disappear behind pay stubs and beauty secrets
never used, laugh at the lines of your life now
etched in stone residues
that only one more time, can ever erase
even though
you apply and reapply,
rinse and repeat and always
discard properly,
but somehow recycling day passes, leaving blue
bins full of meaningful information
Generation hexed will fail to absorb
into their ectoplasmic shrines, built
to the God of I told You So and
See Now what happens
when timid steps carry you up to a point
where steel-toed boots could have brought you
yet your arrival would not be greeted with
half the fanfare
you would expect
for someone who has no one
but themselves
to blame