Friday, June 30, 2017

The Work of Liberty Never Stops

The Fireworks that
explode o’er head
are the eulogies of
those brave forbearers
who struggled and fought
for liberty and control
over their own destinies.

Liberty’s flames, fed by
martyrs and patriots,
bursting in the sky
to the crescendo of
“Ooh’s” and “Ahh’s”,
and the twinkle in the
eyes of a child, born free.

This celebration of our
nation, is our moment,
to reflect on the men and
women who gave their all
for an idea. An untested idea
for the time. An unheard of
theory of self government.

The booming thunder, shaking
the pillars of heaven are the voices
of the people, determined to carve
out a life for themselves in freedom,
with liberty and justice, for themselves and
more importantly, their

It is our duty…, nay, our debt to
them that we must pay, with our
vigilance, courage and sheer nerve.
We must keep the sacrifices they made
in our hearts and our heads, and use this
time of remembrance to continue to make
America worthy of the blood spilled.  We The People. 

Thursday, June 29, 2017

A Glittering Blob

Amorphous ambiguity,
coalescing coherently,
in a bubbling brew,
to cool on a sill,
eventually hardening,

A glittering blob, a glob,
a speck of a speck
of dust’s dust,
fluttering on a
summer wind,
over crashing seas named
Prologue and Epilogue.

Swirled about in whirls
with other parts of me,
undefined, immeasurable
and uncounted with delights
and disappointments,
all made for the me
I’m yet to be.

Raw and un-carved,
twitching sinew exposed,
to the heat, the coolness,
the joys of the winds and
the wrath of gray skies.
Yet to be mounted, drawn and
made whole by time.

A mass of matter, made to
matter, as a matter of course,
to be filled and unfilled, broken
and remade, in shards, in piles,
in landfills of experience,
born every day in the me-ness
of self.   

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Summer Solstice

“Hey Summer, where ya been?”
“South America mostly, Australia too,” said Summer.
“Oh, I thought you were, you know, like on vacation or something.”
“I don’t get a vacation. I am the vacation,” said Summer.
“Right, I mean, of course you are. How dumb of me.”
“Damn right it’s dumb of you,” said Summer as she gently nudged me in the ribs.

“So… any big plans now that you’re here?”
“Not really. I’ll just do the same things I normally do, maybe with some humidity, maybe not, maybe I’ll be dry. I don’t know. The possibilities are sort of endless really,” said Summer.
“Yeah, that’s cool. Really Cool.”
“How about you? Any plans,” asked Summer.
“I don’t know. I mean, I really don’t take any vacation so…,” I shrugged.

“So, it’s sort of my day so I better get going. Lots to do,” said Summer.
“Of course, right. I didn’t mean to hold you up. I just wanted to say hi and tell you that you looked nice is all.”
“You think I look nice? I don’t know. My hair is crazy frizzy and I haven’t really got a good tan and… well, it’s nice of you to say so,” said Summer.
“My pleasure. Really, and your hair looks great, honest.”
“Okay, well, I really should get going,” said Summer.

“Um, Summer? Do you maybe want to have dinner sometime with me?”
“Aw, you’re sweet. But I just don’t think I’ll have the time. But I really appreciate the offer,” said Summer.
“Okay. I get it. Thanks for at least considering it.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that. You know we’re just friends and that’s all,” said Summer.
“I know. I mean, I just thought, well… it might just be you know, the start of something.”
“It’s not that I don’t, you know, care about you, it’s just not in that way, plus, I mean, you’re just so pale. I mean, how would that even look,” asked Summer.

“No. I get it. I do really. It’s cool. So I’ll see you later then?”
“Of course you will,” said Summer.
“Okay. Cool. Or Hot! That’s Hot, I mean.”
“You’re so silly,” said Summer.

She tussled the hair on my head and stood up from our small table. She started West. 

Monday, June 19, 2017


There are times when I’m happy
to remember that we are very
small in a cosmic sort of way.
There’s really not much to
us at all.

A blue dot, in a vast
ocean of space, spinning
around a star, on a cycle
started eons ago, doing
our silly things.

It’s hard to remember at
times, that we’re small.
It’s hard to recognize how
tiny this world is.
How far we are from anything.

How far we seem to be from
each other. Our humanity seems
larger than the Sun, as if we’re
bigger than the cosmos that we
can see. Yet, I don’t know you.

I cry, you cry, we hurt,
we bleed, we laugh and smile,
on a rock hurtling through the cosmos,
at 67,000 miles per hour around the Sun,
and it seems huge.

We’re giants on our world,
beings of infinite wonder,
but smaller than the smallest
out there, in the void, between
starlight and nothing.

Our smallness should not
diminish us, define us or hold us
back; but it’s nice to remember it,
from time to time.

Monday, June 12, 2017

Monday Wants to Rock Your Face Off

“What are you working on,” asked Monday.
“Hm, oh, nothing really,” I replied.
“Looks important,” said Monday.
“It isn’t really, just some musings,” I said.
“Oh, well then, muse on,” said Monday.
“Thanks. I will,” I said.

“Do you mind if I set up some speakers,” asked Monday.
“Speakers,” I asked.
“Yeah, just a little background music,” said Monday.
“I guess. Sure. Okay,” I said.
“Thanks. As long as you’re okay with it,” said Monday.
“Sure,” I said.

Monday shuffled about, running cords all
around my feet, desk, chair, up the walls,
over the door, out a window, back in through
another window, up across the ceiling and
back down to the floor.
“Sure this isn’t a bother,” asked Monday.

“No, it’s fine. Do what you have to do,” I said.
“Okay. Thanks,” said Monday.
Monday wheeled in two giant speakers built
for Led Zeppelin 1974.
“Whoa,” I said.
“What,” asked Monday.

“I mean, those are pretty big,” I said.
“You said it was okay,” said Monday.
“I mean, I know I did, but…,” I said, motioning
to the size of the speakers Monday was
pushing toward the windows.
“What? You said I could and it wouldn’t bother you,” said Monday.

“I thought they’d be, you know, like, normal,” I said.
“These are normal,” said Monday.
I shook my head slowly and looked in Monday’s face.
“I don’t think these are, appropriate,” I said.
“Well, I mean, you said I could so…,” said Monday.
“Fine Monday, fine,” I said.  

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Tips for Writing Poetry

The important thing when starting
a poem is to have a strong
premise and then build upon it.
If you don’t have a strong premise then
your poem is all about nothing… like this one.

This poem is about nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
It’s not even a poem really,
It’s just stream of consciousness
dribbling out on this blank page.

Still, though, it’d be nice if it
were about something.
Something important, like, religion
or politics, sex and love, or drugs and
kittens, or  what shoes make me look thinner.

A poem about nothing.
nothing at all,
why are you still reading?
Don’t you have something better to do?
Shouldn’t you make better use of your time?

This is seriously about nothing.
I mean, zero substance here.
There’s no heart wrenching finale, some
catharsis or hallelujah chorus of angels.
It’s just words on a page lining up.

I could write about toe nail clippers,
or teeth whitening, maybe about
paperclips or what I had for lunch,
and it’d still be about nothing.
Nothing at all.  

I didn’t have a strong premise,
so it’s all about nothing.
maybe it’ll come to me later,
to write. 

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Mind the Prom King's Crown

A Prom King’s tilted crown,
he’ll dance with anyone in town,
except her, in the wheel chair,
because, “should she even be there?”

A tilted crown on a big old head,
football star, filling nerds with dread,
he’ll pretend he’s cool in the front,
but behind their backs he calls ‘em all, “cunt.”

The spotlight on the Prom King,
he’ll wave his hands, flaunt a pinkie ring,
he got from his dad, who bought a wing,
for the school after a scandalous fling.

There was a Prom Queen,
we haven’t seen,
she might be held up by security at
the door.  She’s not from here it seems.

The Prom King’s first dance to his song,
a country tune to which he gets the words wrong,
in a circle by himself, surrounded by lackeys, slack-jaws
and  yokels, in rhythm with no one, harrumph and pshaws.

The DJ was wrong, the Prom King got the words right,
that DJ should be fired immediately and on sight.
How dare he disagree, he’s the Prom King with a decree,
“Everything I say is right, if you disagree, kiss my ass tonight!”

The Prom King’s tilted crown, lower on the brow,
confused by the unwillingness of people to kowtow,
to each crazy demand, statement or thought,
“Don’t they know how good they’ve got?”

The Prom King spits and froths near the end,
he wants a new limo, a new driver, a new friend,
he wants a new Queen (But we still haven’t seen her,
so there’s little drama to the scene.)

The Prom King’s crown tilted and cocked,
might not be the issue we thought to concoct,
It must be his head that’s so off center,
next Prom, I’m sure we’ll vote better.

The night is over, the dancing’s all done,
there’s no more spiked punch or fights to be won,
The Prom King, alone on the bleachers, he’ll fail this
year, because of the teachers.

“Don’t blame me, I was cool. They just hated me,
that stupid school,” he’ll be heard years later to say,
working at Dad’s office in real estate
and considering a role as a delegate.

Be careful who you elect as your Prom King,
he might be a bully, a brat or a ding-a-ling,
and he’ll grow up with that victory in mind,
classless, tasteless and unkind.

A Prom King’s tilted crown,
could become the bane of every town,
so smarten up, and listen,
we wouldn’t want this to come to fruition.   

Friday, June 2, 2017


If everybody is “everybody”,
and we are “we”,
and you are “you”,
and I am “me”,
but I’m in your shoes,
watching you as you
join my group of we
so we can get along with

who the hell is everyone?

A global family,
isolated in their