absolutely forever

after
i had began
really
sinking my
brain's
teeth into the
notion
that my recently
deceased father
is gone
forever,
i remember
an old
wise man
from india
at the liquor
store up
the way
that
said one
night
that
you
will
start
feeling old
when you begin
losing your parents
and
nothing truer
was spoken
to me
lately
cause
right now
i
feel
older
than i ever
thought
i
would
at
the
tender
young
age
of
36.

Celebrity Handbook

Should you run into a celebrity by chance .. here's a little book that may come in handy .. click here to view and enjoy ..

papa joe hawkin’

every time
i see
a big
hawk
soaring
with large wings,
lopping like
a lost piece of
paper let into the wind,
i think my dad is
in that bird somewhere
looking down on
a planet he
had a short time
to figure out.

only gone for about
a month now,
he loved the
birds.

and now
i’m sure he has
used his well honed
sales skills
to barter a deal
to soar with the eagles
and peck with
the pelicans.

if this is only
a fragmented piece
of fiction in my
head,
i still find
more meaning
in his
enduring bird image
than anything else
these days.

so,
as the wings of
the latest bird leaves my periphery,
i soar into
my longing
to
talk
once more
to my dad
with his head full of
dreams
and pockets full
of wisdom dust
left behind
to forever change
the course of
everything
this planet will
ever do
from
here
on
out.

steop

i'm sure
once
a lot
of poets
get into
a
room
together
and
start
spouting
that it's
too much
and that's
backwards,
which is
why the word
poets backwards
is steop!

hello poetry,

it's me again.

here to wade over
your
dream catcher
and set to
get stuck like
a bug in your
sappy web.

i delve into your
moneyless waters
once again knowing
that i will never
make money off
such a craft as this.

and again i realize
it's a relationship
fueled by zinging red hearts
cause there is nothing
more than
this spate
where i pull my
archer's arrow high
and try to
hit the center
of the center dot
once again.

you will sit there
with a penniless
mouth
reminding me of
a world void of money
and humans without
genitals.

you give me notions
of how to capture ideas
like how we may
all be chewing into
more meat with bits
of bone and bread
with hard crunchies
cause there are honing devices
being put into our
food by the friendly
government pals
we put into power.

then you come back to
remind me how
i can understand the origins
of this malady down here
if i just listen
to the breath of my
son in silence
as he roars through dreams
his wordless tongue
will not be able to
speak to me.

and you always
offer me a used
and empty wallet
that makes me smile.

you are the one thing
that requires no money,
and spends none,
and makes me none.

and if the day comes
that you begin changing
your selfless ways,
many more will find this
missive and i may be
sorry that you
innocent cloak has been
exposed.

oh my
dear friend poetry.

run and hide ..

.. for i would never want them
to catch you this way
with wandering dollar signs
and
selfish sweat socks.

billions of prior people

when we all
have odd
fears,
intriguing
fetishes,
slappy pleasures,
unknown terrors,
magical ecstasies,
we have
to realize
that our
vessels
of mind and soul
are the
wavering entirety
of every human
that came before
us.
as we carry
the torch of
humanity forward
just a blink
more
into the future
beyond,
it's easy to get
lost in the
small bubble
of our immediate family
we know.
but we also had generations
of family that led to ours
and
was
hugely before ours.
then mince
in all the friend’s
acquaintances,
work fellows,
memorable stingers
and we are
armed
with enough
human ancestry of
memory to make us
become a mixed
bag
of quixotic eccentricies.
and when we realize
that the human remains of
centuries of folks
are the basis of the oil
we wage wars over
you can
begin to come full circle
in understanding how
intricately entwined
in this reality
with all our fellow
humans
we
truly
are.

i woke up in the suburbs again

and the
sun
was soft
on my skin
as my boy
sat at
the kitchen
island counter
in a rare
moment of
silence
as i reached down
through
the
screams of
light to
grab the
world’s headlines
as i looked
around
at the
quiet
neighboring
homes and
felt
as though
i was
nowhere
at
all
and it
was a delight
to
know
that
i
could
have
been in
a
smog
infested city
center
or
in
the
middle
of oblivion
of rural
america
as
i pressed
the
garage door
closed
and
saw my son
angle
towards
my
gaze
as
though
we
had seen
each other
for
the
first time
in
weeks.

I feel like i live in area 51

shoved back
in the lurching quadrants
of rural missouri,
no one goes outside,
i never see kids in pools,
never see children playing on
elaborately built swing sets,
never see adults cooking on
huge propane grillers,
never see people just sitting
out front,
never hear the cocophony
of human noises i used
to hear in the throb of
midtown.

now,
i imagine the invisible,
secret toilings of
living beings that constantly
stay indoors,
even during california weather.

are they building top secret
alien structures?

are they the spawn of
something that should be hidden
from the rest of us all?

are these people real?

do they like to be alive?

the loneliness of
the burbs is the
full admission that
this is where people come
to escape everything
and this seems
to be
the best thing
these people are good at.

vanishing,
quiet,
solitude,
cease,
like
nearly being dead
with a heart full of
blood ready
to squirt into
all the
awaiting
extremities
ready to
burst into a big
bang
of
action.

each simple moment that passes

there are millions
of
tiny warm
arms
reaching up
into the
enormous
sky of sun
for
a bit
of
recognition
from
god
and
as
we
tumble
into our next mysterious
moment wondering
if
god
understands our
secrets hidden
within our
charlatan
requests,
i see
the sky smile
in
a
long cloud
parting
as
we
wait
to
find out
if
there
really
is
some
kind of
truth
to all
theses plants
growing
and
astronauts
going
insane.

slippery trail

one morning
i was tailing a
big trash truck
tossing
bits of slips
from it's large,
open mouth
as the blaring sun
turned a hotter yellow
and
the
unknown of what
was or wasn't written
on this
non-stop trail
of paper slips
flopping up,
and out into
the
pang of
sky
that
is
going
to
never
leave
my
mind
as
the
story
has
written,
and the song
sung,
while
the
trash truck
makes a left,
and i
continue
straight,
foot on pedal harder,
as the world
begins going quicker
in
a flurry
of
almost forgettable
notes.

Earth Vs. Fantasy

Can You Stop Thinking?

Gravy All Over Everything - Video Poem

empty

32 oz. cans
of malt liquor
squib,
and squabble
back and fro
as the storm brews.
cries from
a single apartment
building ratchet down
towards the dirtied
sidewalks
as the storm eye
intensifies.
a bullet crests the
upper ridge
and blows through
the invisible
stop signs
as the approaching
storm comes
closer to the ground.
another birth,
more beer,
the drug dealer sneezes,
as a new election
tries to capture that
one audience.
and if nothing happens,
the storm will
ruin all of our futures.
the malt liquor has
run out as
the umbrella unfurls
and we all
hope that
there's an ear
that my receive
our blueprint
prayer waiting to race
skyward.

I Keep Losing My Place in the Story

‘boss for a day’

an indinan
man at
the
conoco
next to my
work
always
calls
me
'boss'
when i but
a
juice
or
corn nut
bag at
his shop.

each time,
i smile
stronger,
wider
and
say
'yes'
as
he
goes
on to take
my money.

as i leave
the
boss,
i know he's
the real
boss
and
his
verbal play
time will
always keep
me coming
back so
that
i
can
pretend in
brief moments
of blowing
money
that i am
the boss
in my
juicy world
full
of
fucking
corn nuts.

New Book Title

'Editing

my

Dreams'

- How

do

you

do that?

i wonder all the time

not simply
wondering,
but i wonder
about wonder.

and the wonderful
wonder that is
around us.

just the notion of
wonder,
and the slight
glimmers of
occasional topics
that flit into my
radar view.

but mainly,
i love the act of
tending to 'wonder'
as the world of
wonder suffers to
really be embraced.

for what could be
duller than not wondering
about anything or ever
wondering about wonder.

lest i waste anymore
of your wondering time,
i'm off to become a
hero of wonder
and to save
the plot of wonder
for my kids,
my wife
and anyone else
wondering what this
poem is really
supposed to mean.

good yawners

make you feel
the warmth of
a bed.

their lazy,
comical roar forward
is usually a clumsy
act that is about
as natural as a human could get.

but it's those that
elongate their faces just so,
the longevity of the
sign of tired,
and the intensity of
their watered eyes.

and it's at this moment
of veering in,
and not feeling too tired
that i get into their
brains and feel how good a
bed can feel at any moment
of a day when
sleep is just another
unattainable thing
your biology
lets out in a triumphant
guttural blast.

all the cold cigarette smokers

loiter
out in front of
brick buildings
like outcasts
waiting for a
hollywood call up,
or inmates
cowering away from
the warden for a moment,
or child support evaders
hoping everyone will look
at their smoke versus their faces,
or they are the lost gods
that will become the future
idols of utter witchcraft,
or they are the children of
the lost that will keep showing you
their courage against mortality,
they are the people running your life
and your life is only a cold cigarette
in the blistering cold
as the last of
their wafting nicotine habit
goes hurtling upwards
towards a finality of invisibility.

‘ink message’

a little squat bottle
of speedball india ink
sits next to my
wandering fingertips
with a tightly shut
black lid
and a tiny inanimate glare.

even when i move it to the other
side of this old desk,
i look over and see that
its lines,
and words are forming in a
meaner glare
at my modern machine of
writing.

luckily there is not
a sharp quill feather in
the room,
otherwise i may fear for my
life as the bottle
is now out of sight.

i haven't touched it and
as i turn slowly to
see if it may have fallen,
i notice a dark, wet stain
on the tan carpet in the
shape of a large winged bird
full of
antique writing instruments
ready to
kill
my
words.

‘survivalist restaurant’

after all the
bombs
fall,
disease rips
over the
entirety of earth,
every heart gone,
no human left,
all insects gone,
trees a memory,
only ground and
sky,
there will
be but one
human invention
that will
withstand everything
and that
thing will
be the
glorious
god damned
waffle house.

all waiting
there with
a stubborn
fuck you
kind
of
brimming
love.

an orange aisan beetle,

which looks a lot
like a lady bug
crawls over our
white window frame towards
another fallen
beetle
long dead from
the early winter
cold.

miraculously,
this one beetle
is crawling with vigor
from the rarely
opened
winter window
on an unusually warm
day towards
some unknown destination.

i heard these
are stubborn bugs
that don't die
easily and can overtake
a home and this little
beetle has proved that
darwin is alive and pumping
above all of
this midwestern political
rhetoric
of creationism
and fiction.