ink soiled 
splattered and matted
like decades on white porcelain
barely making out
blackredandblue tattoos
the mind muscled
grown from sinews
and a lifetime worth of attempts 
to achieve a rainbow effect
onto clean white paper

drainage clogged
stained stainless steel
and bloodied thoughts 
frustrated by creativity
it all floats
down here
the abysmal sinkhole
moist with sweat
desire creatively minded
stacked in piles
like newspaper and books

wicked and lost
these pens
out splash and lash 
layering fine sayings
onto paper
ribbon and taffeta like ink
mixed in old glory
inside the tower
of the mercifully depraved


She was my first poet. May she soar with eagles and teach angels to sing. Farewell, Ms. Maya Angelou.


Happiness is hot-dogs and lemonade
In delirious mess strewn on face
And dress in the sexy heat of a Cape august
Next to a woman you cant stop thinking about.


my teeth sink
into dark chocolate truffles
and nostalgia 
on a saturday night
with tea
and the horrors of history
magnified in the drum beats
of a manual typewriter


The Red Balloon

So this dream.

Last night I had a balloon as a sphincter. Yeah. A balloon sphincter. Was nice and tight, blown up real big. Then it twisted and puckered when the gas was let out. It was red. The balloon. A red, shiny, balloon sphincter. If it pops, boom. Put on another butt. New sphincter. Simple sam.

I think that’s why I had it. The dream. Easy on, easy off body parts. Replacement at a moment’s notice. Wouldn’t that be something? We’d all be walking around like Mr. and Mrs. fucking Potato-Heads. Different parts, different bodies. All mismatched. I bet they’d all work though. The parts. Working but all kinds of fucked up looking. I wouldn’t mind. I’d take being a potato-head over this.

Look at all this, all this shit. Tubes and baggies and God-knows-what. I bet that one alone cost some $85. I don’t have a clue, really, about the cost. Judging by the look in that prick-nurse eyes every time he hooks me up to a new plastic something I figure they must be doing alright for themselves, you know what I mean?

Used to play with them as a kid, balloons. Thought maybe I was gonna be a clown. Cuz, you know, clowns love balloons and I loved clowns. Became a lawyer instead. Truth is: there isn’t much difference between the two. 

Is this how these things usually go?

I haven’t been to confession in, Jesus, thirty damn years.

Must have been in my teens the last time I talked to a priest. But, you know, one day you collapse in your office, wake up and they tell you you’ve lost your ass, literally, to cancer and you’re at St. Francis downtown — you don’t ask questions.

You think, sure, grow old. Have a few kids, raise them up. Encourage ‘em to have a few of their own. You get fat and a little sloppy on wine and Bingo every Saturday night. Eventually you’ll croak while sleeping in your easy chair or on the ferry back from the city.

Shit, father. Sorry, but I mean this is some shit. Never thought I’d be talking to a 68 year old virgin in a black suit about red sphincter balloons and cancer.

I think I lost myself along the way, you know? Like I had a thing I was supposed to do and I didn’t do it. You ever feel that way?

No, no, of course you haven’t. You’re a priest. You’ve got faith. You’ve got the direct line to the Almighty. No question about your direction. It’s all mapped out for you. 

I’m being glib. Forgive me. Right? Forgive me, Father? For I have sinned?

Sorry father. Can I have a glass of water?

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