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.

Mortal Jesus

Mortal Jesus

I declared “I will fight forever for you.”

She smiled, hanged her head, deep socket eyes

moistened until fall breezes stilled them.

Life is  bounteous and bursting

ripe with words from her god.

“I cannot cheat on my Husband.”

“He is not here, I said, “never will be.”

“Your faith is weak,” she declared.

“But I walked the Sea of Galilee and chose you.”

“I have not chosen thee, you are not the Son of God.

You are but Jesus, a man of no means and few words.

You will die in an auto wreck.  I see it in your hands.

Pigs of War

Holes in his shoes

the boy gathered his clothes.

No one saw him

no one ever did

he was invisible to a cruel city.

You see he wasn’t white

this decade’s favorite color,

more of  a pig pink

seemed to be the in-crowd’s

darling tint.

Recruiter smiled at him

“this is the place for you

Robert Mason the Third.

After all there’s a war to fight

God knows them pig noses don’t care.”

Robert came home in a metal case,

a hero for all the pigs to see.

“Them boys gave it their all,

ultimate sacrifice we’ll never forget.”

They forgot.


Those horses I rode
I was young
younger than today
were made of clay
ran in circles
to the music of my world.

Stallions of my mind
with nostrils flaring
invisible manes
clutched in my memory
riding high plains
of consciousness.

Thoroughbreds of thought
reaching for a gold ring
a child centrifuge
a smile for no mother
a wave for no father
the carousel goes round and round.



A man with a gun is a strong man

standing his ground.

Gonna whip the black man

gonna burn that cross

cause Jesus is happy to see

cracker clean heads.

God’s warriors gonna protect

the constitution

come hell or high water.

Gonna kill them children jumpin rope

playin in streets where bullets

follow unexpected paths,

one dead maybe four more.

It’s all in the Bible you see

one black baby worth seven wolf skins.

The kings with thirty in a clip

go to the movie and kill what must be killed

that’s how the game is played.

Smokin’ guns are fun

stop and frisk the Muslim man

the black, the poor, the trash

we don’t need no more.

Expendable like milk cartons

on a planet spinning into doom

Arctic washing machines will cleanse

them dirty clothes once again.

LA will float to Siberia

and dirty cops will drown

cause Jesus loves us all.

The Cat’s Gone

The Cat’s Gone

Our cat left town on Tuesday.

She packed her furry bags

with one meow and a hooray

she left on a journey apparently one way.

I guess the cat food wasn’t up to snuff

her disappearance told us she’d had enough.

I hope she finds the home of her choosing,

tells her new employees of her need for using

humans for just a spell until the food gets dry

and her fur balls become an obstacle to her affection.

I Kissed A Man

I Kissed A Man

I kissed my son as he laid suffering

tubes hissing like so many snakes

poised to take his life and breath away.

I stood helpless to help, impotent chief.

A grown man, my son, but a child to me

blonde blue eyed and sad.  I cried.

What else could I do?  Hero deadbeat dad,

the unclean carnival barker is guilty.

Yes, I kissed a man, a man built by me.

You can do that you know,

kiss your son, your daughter,

your Aunt Jessie and Uncle Conrad.

Will the cops put a bullet in your head

for such racy behavior?  Will they?

Cuff and drag you into newspaper headlines?

I kissed a man.