the sun has called in sick again the windows wear the same blinds & I'm still the girl you knew from the cage with smokeproof eyes fixated on the world's cold, cold shoulders. depression knows where to touch me & when to be possessive a swig of Smirnoff & I can feel her laughter another & another & the paper will turn yellow from the disease of my letters.

'Twas Tightpurse Bill, from Castlemaine,
that won the lotto prize;
he threw away his worn-out clothes,
gold bullion in his eyes.

He laughed so hard at fate's cruel twist,
divorce ink not yet dry;
his flighty wife, love of his life,
left seeking bluer sky.

'Twas Dollar Bill, the self-proclaimed,
that strutted down Main Street;
new suit did buy, and pinstripe tie,
Armani for his feet.

He chose a house, Ferrari too,
and planned a holiday;
to climates fair, with ladies bare,
and lots of games to play.

Tomorrow. .... Something which is not certain, yet always present in mind. It is like a black curtain, between the two fold time. An escape for today, is what we say. For what is not done today or now, can always be done tomorrow somehow. It paints a landscape of variety, in every corner of mind. Sometimes peace, sometimes party, are all dreams we see of different kinds. Never promised, yet pleasant. Always an inspiration for present. Its sometimes happines, sometimes sorrow, is what happens tomorrow.

Blood is black and flesh
is white and the depths
of the world are depicted
in gradations of gray.

Shadows conspire with
a tremulous intensity
on the walls of stairwells
and barren brick facades.

Color is a fairy tale
told to ingenues before
they are savaged on
the cutting room floor.

Morality is clear as
the killer's manic stare
or the changing reels
of your own redemption.

Sit back in the dark of
your ego or id and watch
the chiaroscuro images
traipse furtively by.

The flash of the knife

Emerging from outer blackness, the arrow narrows as it curves, pointing toward a fraying arm of the Milky Way, to end at a bus stop on Broadway, your Broadway, where you wait for the next moment to arrive in gusty darkness and snow like gritty starlight.

Emerging from outer blackness, the arrow narrows as it curves, pointing toward a fraying arm of the Milky Way, to end at a bus stop on Broadway, your Broadway, where you wait for the next moment to arrive in gusty darkness and snow like gritty starlight.

Hustle thee that lazy
fear nothing but God on high
Barf the earth you ate
Battle not with no one
Claim the faith inborn
Hold on to thy style
Cover thy sin with blanket
Hate not thy self

Night Wolfs, holy dogs
As they eat clam chowder
While we feed on dust

Hustle thee that lazy
Create hope for the nation
Agitate by proving your hustle
complain not and journey the faith
Let thy ship sail

First published on Facebook....

The white man buys
With gold-plate lies.
His honor dies
On rocks that stand.

With greed, with guile,
Pale fists defile
The streams with bile
That poisons land:

“Hail, bottom line!
For leaks, a fine;
Let squaws drink wine!”
We understand

Their appetite
For oil will blight
Our sacred site,
Yet they demand

We yield this ground.*
Despoilers pound
The earth, and mound
Its bones and sand

With metal paws.
The hungry jaws
Of drill that gnaws
Devour our land.

Their serpent’s bite
Pours black of night

Every day I masquerade as somebody else. I mask my sorrow by a brittle smile I wander like a river Among the rocks of silence There is a reason behind my pregnant silence There is pain in my vermilion heart Hopelessness flowing in my blue blood Still I say happiness is my crown! I may not be like a clown Whose mask is visible But even a mask is masked by a mask! I wear invisible masks every day My past is the son of incubus In my lonely laughter Tears have turned to ashes I remember my name But lost its rainbow home Some people can be found Only in my memories Some things survive Only in my d