Not much to say after so many years

grooming for the sickle and bone.

Three years of throwing lead and shooting pool,

enough beer to tank the English navy,

I sit beneath this tree, tongue tied and breathing

like a fifties iron lung perched

next to a Red Cross sign

swinging like two bulbous breasts in a hot breath breeze.

Youth laugh like life is forever.

You and I know life is only a Monarch

chasing time through a lovely flower garden.

Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home

Sweet Alice Pickler stirring a pot of lamb

waiting for her turban hating baby

to get home from Charlottesville,

baby Bubba asleep in a steel cage

next to the bedroom door,

little did she know that God sent her a bomb.

Bubba exploded and Alice dropped her spoon forever.

Donny’s drone slipped quietly into the southern sky.

For the Wretched

Too much to say not enough time
like never burn your mind
in an empty crack house stairway
don’t step on a crack, 
make your mother proud
even if pride is lost to her to you
gooseflesh and grandma’s grave
never matched never hatched
so much for folklore crack whores
and the time it takes to breathe,
to die without someone by your side
don’t do it, just don’t do it.




first vein of light

reveals the nudity

of our village

I live here

sadly you too.

Six and I’ve decided

claustrophobic love

cannot exist


my oven hangs

its mouth with enticement.

On The Turnpike

On The Turnpike

Somewhere between St. Louis

and Amarillo

I lost a page of poetry

twelve lines of me

I imagine it now


to a trucker’s windshield.

He in turn mocking

words of winded despair

calling them niggling

diluting them to oblivion

with anti-freeze.



Bare baby slapped

twisted and gagged

born in violence

scabbing belly button

here you are

what’s next

momma’s tit

daddy’s gift to you

more violence

welcome to this world

don’t cry,

don’t be hungry,

don’t need,

for god’s sake

don’t need.