My Critique of the Beat Generation (Poem)


Transforming fragility

The center of





Bewildered by mistaken


Broken in the backseat

While neon television sets

And an endless assortment of


Take shotgun

Leather straps

Tied to the padded

Coffin cushion

And they call me

Prancing through the woods

In the dead hours of the morning

Naked laughter

Endless euphoria

They call me mad

Brandished by green caress

A child of god

Serving a lone soldier

This battle will surely be my last

Against marching, marching, marching

Drones, prioritizing

Without soul


Stripped clean

A big business shopping center

Passing along the tab

Until quack dilly oso

And it’s all over

Until then

I’m getting arrested

Inside Abercrombie

With sagging asshole

And flailing genitals

These Tired Tracks

My time is like a speeding train

And each person

Each commitment

Is another box car

Each mile

The speed increases

Broken tracks and curves

The chain breaks

I lose a car

My frame tilts and shakes

Praying it won’t pull me from the tracks

When it does,

I pry myself from the red mud

And the shattered glass

Of my fallen friends

Dented and tarnished

If I fall again

I will surely die

And I can see

The boxcar behind


Contained Within Monotony


Working within the confines of

Their schedule trudging

Like cement walkways

All of the windows are


And the residents are

Snickering in sinister



Picking up litter from

The interstate

Or sizzling bovine

Flip the burger

We all have our routine

Every one of these cats

In our cells of ever present


The Blood’s Still Dry


I am the Tambourine man

Wildly dancing in the street

For the change falling on the sidewalk

Through the hole in your pocket

I am the clown

With the flattened, depressed face paint

Preying off of the sympathy

Of the man in

Heaven’s dirty backalley

I am the hateful damned

Makin minute fractions of your minimum wage

And still fighting equal pay

And dem liberal’s ideas of


I am the American Soldier

Alone and lost in the dense forest

Rifle pointed with the barrel in my chest

And the bayonet penetrating my soul

I am the slot machine

Putting in quarters

Winning words, flowing from my bowels

But this poem isn’t it

I didn’t win the jackpot today

Staying Silver Ponyboy

For my father, Ross Silver



A great man is not measured by his accomplishments,

By the money in his wallet.

Greatness is measured in sacrifice

It’s recognizing the work of the sole’s

At every shoe bottom

Sewn to heel

To walk out the door

To something greater.

We pass down carbon

Like treasured heirlooms

And though there are many days

Where I can’t manage the resources to stand

I feel your strength in my legs, sitting.

I’ve been blessed in this life

And for the nanograms

Lost in the wandering transition

From life into the ethereal

I’ll be blessed after.

You poor insomniac

Granting me pleasures of privilege

In the witching hour

As well as mid-day

In the trenches

And on their pedestal.

Who could doubt

The suffering

Of a scimitar back

Pressure treated

From years of brick and mortar?

Who could doubt

The callous hands

Of the forgotten working man?

Share a Shake before the End.

Hanging Smoker

To see the world through a haze of smoke

To see the dirt, the hate and the H

Under hungry, haggard finger nail

he’s choking (in) the street

he’s lying (in)to the street.

They stand around

Insectile, rolling withdrawal

Like the turtle crushed the world

Between his shell and the concrete

like a sigh, head hung low

deeply and profoundly insulted

your proudest, deceased relative

that’s all it was

but they hungered for it

clawing off his skin


tenderloin rack

stripped from the bone

penetrate, barbed cone

slurping marrow marshlands

just to prove

that it was the genes

that’s what made the addict

and that’s what made him weak.

Fingertips cutting off the circulation

one cigarette at a time.

Could I reach the page end?

before gnat beating

unconscious aortic corridor

gives out

To the driver seeing me in my underware

Sending Middle Fingers
like letter bombs

I know the lice crawling
under the wheel
under the fabric

we both know
which parasite
is in control

coy look
like he know’s
it’s getting in

it will
but to never

down my midnight
Detroit alleyway
shit smeared
on walls untended to

all is taken

I still wander
asking the wild
defenders of the ghetto
with jack-knife teeth
Just where I’ve run to

Traverse further
outside the inferno
cigarette buds
and losing lottery tickets
you’ll find hell

It’s only the fate
a curious republican deserves


What segregation
Can they enforce through media made minds?
While sweat shops slaughter
and maintain the nets
the “self empowered”
stopping the migrant commodity
from stirring up revolutions;
committing suicide

What words enrage the privileged
What keeps the coffee from the hot plate?
While women are charred
Prosecuted for the witchcraft
Of independent, third degree, thought.

Pity the child that can’t afford the pocket computers
While children in Africa
March barefoot miles
To survive off of thimbles
Of fetid water

help ourselves before we help others
Take it from the creator
We’ve been on our own for centuries
While he’s working on the down payment
For his corvette in the clouds

Why help those birthed in dysentery
From first world waste
When you can empower
The Gods of men

For the top 1% will never be “rich”
And the bottom 99%
Can never starve enough
When we’re eating our children to survive
We must remember
to save the best cuts of meat
For them

I’ll work myself to death
A corpse mashing the keyboard

And my Kingdom
Of Carbon Dioxide
The walls of
The victims of poverty
Will only

The 99

Snicker at this “free country
Stretching suffering
Across shanties
In dilapidated kingdom

But It’s
Corporate heads
cremating the flesh
Peppering grains
In nine course meals
Of the future

From seeds planted
By hard as hooves
Leather hands

The same hands
that are steady all through
the nation’s adolescent
temper tantrum

boys aren’t fans of toys
they’d rather play with knives
The children must be appeased

They will make vogue gloves
Out of his palm
Earrings out of sagging genitals
Of mutilated martyrs
The messiahs mashed into wine
Like grapes under calloused heel

You’re Going to Die

At the doctor’s
Mid colonoscopy
With a camera
Miles deep
In intestinal tract

On the porch
Drowning in phlegm
With a hand rolled Van Gogh
Snorting lines of adehral
In meticulous kitchens

with inexperience comes
a misunderstanding
Surgical glances from across
The housing project of children

Just swinging in
From mother’s
umbilical cord

They can’t understand
How initial hesitations
Turns to the self loathing
Of addiction

The circulation is faltering
The tips are numb
My motions
My motor skills
Are not my own

Even when I’m pulp
Between sieve bullet holes
It’s not real

death comes to the weak
And the prison inmates
To escape the yard
And drive their Cadillac
Off a cliff.

A corpse
My individual example