i’m not sure

if this is a poem,

but i’m gathering

up the splinters

of a smashed guitar

to see where it takes me.

but i want to leave it alone,

cuz it’s a different side.

the claim of not being heard,

echoes in the valley,

where the thrust of the sun

hunkers in this milky town.

there are things to obey,

but i want another margarita,

and stop writing everything down,

because it’s an uncommon problem.

i guess it makes a prayer damn worthy –

i’ll write when it’s over.


i had to get crazy

to think like a million dollar business

to fill hip pockets.

engineers drink brews

as well as pipe fitters.

here i am

sipping on a brew,

and bringing on a starlit crew,

leaving a splash

on blue lines

leaving the smoke,

where white is a lantern

in the summer winds,

where money is stacked

in bank vaults.

it’s just a dream

where rainbows consider rainbows,

and crazy gets crazy.



the word is contagious

and the angels tell me again

i ain’t had much loving,

where the gates of commitment

gather up the brokenness.

it’s not because i’m old,

but i’m slowing down the tune,

where there may be wine and roses,

at least for a little while.

the games of luck,

some call fate,

where words of words

written on my heart

become sensual illusions.

my flesh undone

looking for traces and hints

in the money run

with my fingerprints.




i didn’t know ya,

and ya didn’t know me.

for what i felt

on a beautiful day,

i put my hand across my mouth.

but something hit my brain,

and didn’t shut me down.

a flush of sugar

in the belief of a believer.

in a heaven forbid

not to go any deeper.

but i wonder if ya

will let me shine through

with an arousal taste

of a sweet distraction

in the temple of pleasure,

as if luck was all we had.


i’ve lived life

like it never mattered.

i kept ya at a distance.

where i haven’t mastered anything,

except for the punishment of sex.

it’s just the way it goes,

but yet the bridge

in the book of love

brings a breakdown

through these fingers,

in a hit and run,

where every atom of my heart,

sometimes parts through these lips.

but yet i cannot hide

in the moods

that i’m trying to finish

with a little truth.



i sit staring deep

into the void,


what it would be like

to overthrow the dollar.

poems written

in how free it becomes

to tidy up my life.

the daisy, the iris, the rose,

in a wake up america.

this monk alone

living in a state of poverty,

is twisted by an appetite,

that makes me grateful

in the anti-depressants line by line.

but here i am

sitting in the chill of the air

somehow finds beauty

when your checking out my identification.

money goes where money is –

and that it really does matter.