How egotistical we are To take that master piece of music And claim it as our own. . How pompous we are To assert ourselves As so inextricably linked To its grandiosity and perfection As to render a false connection thereto For all of time. . And how noxious we are Not to slow down […]

The artist has “love” in his daily membranes And that is an offset — It is something powerful and Not transmissible within conventional realms, Not the product of logic or mandatory deed, But rather permanent

We now are so many that The furies and the spirits are gone And that dive into the cask Which you wanted to be truth Was just a thorax of hate and Bilious killers, But somehow life will kiss you up your sides With new sets of smiling eyes Because that is what it is […]

Walking back in to do dishes (I think I’ve washed about 50,000 dishes this year) I encounter a guy who looks a little like a Mexican Bukowski (I’ve been getting a lot of these lately… one was riding a bike with one hand with a 44 oz. soda and unbuttoned short sleeve flannel) On the […]

I wrote a book and This is what it’s called. . Unfortunately, There are no pages in it. . I didn’t write any words. It’s just two covers, bound, With bright, red, unmistakeable Rubber skins, hugging the floor and Protruding out to arc down and poke The opposite cover, somewhat like an Armadillo’s snout, respectively.