Tuesday, December 22, 2009


Welts develop quickly
overlapping the battered skin-
glistening antibiotic sheen.
Wearing the last battle like an accepted shame
clipping on the tie.

Cold New England winter,
if you ain’t comfort in isolation
Wearing the last battle like a pardon
the autistic scrawl of the Ice Queen.

Her soft Christian hands
fall upon my shoelaces and begin to
aid my escape.
Wearing the last battle like a return to breathlessness,
the old pulmonary shackles.

Falling breathless night,
we are the only ones out not engaged
in seedy business.
No longer contained by legitimate force
the dried corn scaffold to the on-ramp.



ou old fucking dog,

caught yerself up onto something laughable,

perhaps there’s a fortune in jubilation

if there’s none in the forseeable future.

Anarchy is all melodrama

just a staged performance of a teenager’s diary,

woe to the individual’s attention.

You’ll be lost, wading in testimonials

of the lightweight and delusional.

Now that everyone’s a comedian

it means that tragedy has gotta be that much more


You old fucking vet,
crawling through a damp jungle
into an open vial
of regret.



Shattered bottles cast
on stone and trail overgrown.
Where did your ghost go?
The Sun light that falls
upon my wife's shoulder blades
kills all arguments.
This stretch of river,
you can't go there beside me.
Too many memories.
We leave the rule of law
to those on the paved roads
and ravage the county.
What can you say to
those you never speak to?
The years fall upon us.
Waiting for the dog to shit
here under God's 3am sky,
a lonely master still calling.
Old friends of mine
it is when I am close to our history
that the known heart aches..
Sun lights the rising pines,
needles stretch over an inset's path,
good coffee.
Light this morning
though I face a mount of demons,
writing poems again.
Junkies busted in
to the neighbors car last night.
Credit cards like scattered petals
on the morning road.
Eating Krishna's food.
Settled into municipality.
The country's gone broke.