Friday, November 03, 2017


trying to enter the space
through an entry way
a door or portal
a passage, a way between
two connected places

there she dwells
waiting to block me
stop me in my tracks
a wall of heavy thoughts
pounding against reality

she's a liar
but what she tells me
sounds like the truth
I have been telling myself
to ease the discomfort

of being alive
and being human
in the cacophony
of guilty pleasures
and pursuits of power

to be comfortable
to make up stories
and tell myself
I am just as good
as my imaginary heroes

I am their god
after all, I created them
she turns and scowls
they mustn't be very good then
if they came from me

the dweller breaks down
walls around the entry way
the door, the portal
the passage between spaces
and she forces me

to chose a different path
another way through
around or over her
and then I have to repair
the damage she caused

breaking the walls
down and damaging
the art hung there
I sweep up the dust
from the construction

if I want to get in
I have to go past her
so I go through the rubble
and clean up the mess after
rather than push her out

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Bang Bang Bar Poetry Slam

There's no use 
Trying to write 
With a green gardening glove 
Fixed to my right hand 
Like skin 

So let's rock 


The crowd disperses  
Leaves the floor 
In front of the stage 

For a dancer 
And the lights that surround her 
Our hearts surrounding her 
Our love for her  
A quarter of a century deep 
Had been locked up in a moment 
An explosion 
In the bank vault of our hearts 
Swallowed whole in our sleep 

But we're no longer holding our breath 
For that love to find a way out 
To snap out of this coma and 
Find us, find me 

I've only been a muffin for 25 years 
but I've always been Laura 

Find her. Find Laura. 

Take her from the trees 
Out of the gold casing of death 
We suffer everytime we say goodnight 

So instead of dying we heal 
We save this place and we save our hearts 

From the cold guild of gold 
From shovels and jumping men 

Save us from the trees  
And the prophecies of logs  
Held dearly by a lonely woman who listens well. 

Please, find her and save us, Hawk. 

So we can spin out and ask you 
To tell the truth under oath 
The judgment of the destroyer 
The experiment, your mother of abominations 
American made and fed equal parts 
Crude oil and hope. 
Drenched in lattes and blood  
Against the backdrop of a glass box 
That holds secrets like a diary holds memories 
Detailed and out of time. 

We ask over and over 
If you had so much sand 
Would you blow it up 
Light it up, drink it full 
To follow the path to 
Your childhood haunts 
To a tree in the woods 
Where owls are true to their word 
And good men gather  
Where their fathers used to take them 
To tell stories about kings 
In tiny palaces and dogs loose 
In municipal buildings 

Or would you keep it in your pocket 
Keep it to yourself 
Hidden in the echo of a drunk 
In the cell across the isle 
In a booth on the other side 
Of a bar you like to frequent 
Just so you can see the MC dance 
To invisible bands 
And watch young babes 
Turn into tough dames 
After an asshole in the booth beside them 
Lights up under the no smoking sign 
And sooty specters 
Leave a wide trail of blood and charcoal 
For the dying to follow 

We watch the path 
Wherever it takes us 
East, south, inside out 
Up two flights of stairs 
To a place that matters 
To a man that matters 
In the hearts of those 
Even though we cannot see him 
From those who pilgrimage in the footsteps 
Of men with blackened hearts 
And women with broken souls 

We watch the steps 
Of a stumbling fool 
Given rides and answers  
To his calls for help 
Given chocolate cake 
And the family he needed 
Son and brothers all 

Together, a family forms 
Around a table at a diner 
Music playing off the rooftops 
Of the nearby peaks 
The distant ramblings 
Of unrest on the wind 
To the pitch of a fork against  
An empty plate 
And a gunshot, a bullet  
Through the window  

The shattering of glass 
Full of vodka and tomato juice 
Unceremoniously poured 
And swallowed to keep inner demons 
At bay against the rising tide 
Of unnatural forces 

Sit where you were before. 

By the end will we know 
Who the tulpas are  
Or who created them?  
Will we trust our family 
And all the early endings 
Or turn back to accountants 
With questions of ownership? 

Do we trust the dancer 
As she sways through the lights 
Do we trust our ears yet? 
Is that music playing backwards 
Or are we finally falling? 


The golden glow is the mark of death 
And light created by a desire for more 
Against floral wallpaper in a little town 
In the Pacific Northwest 
with a population of about as many of us 
As are willing to stay 
In a little town called Twin Peaks.