The Distant Gunfire of Shooting Stars

I keep my chin up
The labyrinth of night
The graves in the sky
Hoping I’ll see you
Speeding by.

I keep my mind in a haze
My eyes above the clouds
The ground is too hard
For bone and feather.

You’re distant in space and thought
But when I need someone
Blowing kisses at the sky
The moon will be the only light
To illuminate
My stepping stones.

I can feel the rodents
Inside my skull
Picking and peeling away
The layers
on the inside of my brain

The Confines of Sanity

Madness is the release

The most suicidal
For souls rotting under
Commitment, responsibility
And cubicles
Stained with the brains of the last
Employee of the month

My computer screen is still splattered
A textured red

Some cages are environmental
The dog fenced in
The yard where your nose
Sticks through the grating
On one side
And you bump your ass
On the other

Some cages are subtle
One night
Sleeping in a warm
Bed with the wife
The other
through a burlap sack
At the stained
Tile floor

Some are bear traps
The bone peeking through
Torn cartilage and muscle
You only have now
To chew through that leg
And set yourself free.


alpine peaks and itchy noses
divied up
with rusty razors
“Shit stings brother”
faucet nostril
in hot Lavender Sky
an oasis of empties
and Christ on the Cross faded nausea
the poets are scratching scabs
shitting poetry
in mildew corners.


Someday I’ll be
The laureate of self deprecation
I can’t tell the creativity from the highs
And I think more than not
It’s one and the same

My father used to tell me
That poetry is a joke
That rambles on and on
And you listen
Eagerly awaiting the punch line
But it never comes.

I fear he’s right
But sometimes
I manage
A chuckle.

I think he must have
Laughed so hard
It killed him.


Unfinished with puzzle pieces
Coming out of place
Falling to the floor

Where they’re kicked under the couch