I am a raging poet,

my inked hatchet

flesh wedging a spray of bloody

word foam onto the triage

of paper,





a torrent of liquid emotion,

wrenched thought spasms

corrugated prisms of mind swell,

and when I have wrought and reaped,

stretched my filigree soul over

a brittle weave of yellowed paper,

soaked the pages with philosophical blood,

crimson views of humanity, caramelizing

the sticky pages together,

a pungent weld of glory and desperation,

my wife looks it over and says,

“Yeah, cool.”


Don’t forget to check out my project on

Sorry, Charlie on Kickstarter


What is mine

She glides toward

and my ego


a dripping slug down my thigh

and pools,

amoebic at my feet


She glides by

salty heels piercing

breaking the surface

sloshing through my puddled soul

and almost slips like Freud

from my pedestal


She sways through


like watching the ocean

a metronome of silken hair

with my ego trailing awkwardly

from her heels


She speaks

the crowds sways


voice like honey

reverberating every cell separately

in perfect harmony

in perfect rhythm


She is done

it is done

people mingling and

I turn

and she is there

in front of me

my mouth opens and is silent


She smiles and turns away

I panic and –

‘Excuse me, could I have my ego back?”


Her perfect smile interrupted

by my insecurity

and after a four hundred year second

her smile returns

and she restores             what was mine          what was me.