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.



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.


We are birds

freedom measured

by cage size and whims of our masters

don’t speak of god’s will.

He’s smoking a Cuban whistler

drawing hard on a factory made blunt

somewhere in the golden boardrooms of Wall Street emperors,

alpaca stuffed recliners drinking the blood of Christ.

We are birds

flying in circles

chasing dollars and breadcrumbs

chicklets with gawking beaks screaming,

“No room, no room at the inn.”


one will scream of freedom, one suicidal,

one staring through the bars

hoping his sister will soar through the cell’s gate.

Trail of Tears


Everything I once knew to be true

now drowns in that great fog

we call our mind, that great gig

inside our head, the gray dog of thought.

I have found it’s never too late

to stand beneath a tree and give thanks

for dreams left behind by the holy Chippewas,

Dakotas, Chickasaws, and Shoshoni.

They were the founders of joy in setting suns,

rising moons, and dry tears of the lonely wolf.

I knelt before the Great Oak and began to cry.

My brave ancestors bloodied and bruised

began a long trek west urged on by the white man’s whip.

We buy candied apples and cotton candy to celebrate

the very day Running Moon and Gray Cloud took their last gulp of freedom.

Many died on the trail of tears.

We laugh and buy tickets for canoe trips.


Insanity in a Nutshell


Insanity in a Nutshell

Drape a flag and call it a day’s work

say a few words and hop on your foot

for Jesus and his friend the holy ghost,

Uncle Sam rewards us

with a two hundred dollar grave marker

a reward they say for killing and dying.

Post Traumatic Stress they say

will get you through the day

with a gummy bear

and claws of chocolate Easter bunnies

with just a hint of Thorazine.

Innocence is today’s cartoon,

tomorrow’s loss of life.

Somebody’s god must be real

He’s gone fishing I guess,

no time today to cure our nightmares.

My Manger

My Manger

You built me

made me your favorite place

city on the hill you said

North Star for the wise men

their camels packed and spitting,

snorting their sarcasm.

You built me

forgetting to draw an exit sign

on my fighting chest.

So now there’s a jagged, bruised wound

where my heart escaped your condemnation.

You built me

departure  instructions missing.

I guess the nails in my hand tell a story