Monthly Archives: November 2011

Poems Written With Fridge Magnets

(I found 80 fridge magnets from a collection of fridge magnets with a food theme. I thought I’d beat my writer’s block by sticking them to the freezer door. The following poems are the works of a very limited poet using only the 80 words in his right hand and a rule that the first word touched would be used and I had to use all 80 words, though I could end a poem at any time. This is the closest I can come to abstract poetry, so, if any of these poems seem dirty or explicit in any way, know it’s not me, it’s you.)


drizzle woman

my fruit coffee salmon satisfy

oyster honey

man know succulent mushroom

happiness above delicious zucchini

romantic aroma

robust swallow

indulge moist smell

thirst and flavor pie.


which pickle can lick at meal

down menu

meat there

make soup fast

good mouth.


nibble comfort fondue

taste said sauce

if full have my onion

enjoy more steak.


almost egg

breast like bland pasta

some melt.


would your bread roast too.






And the Universe Shifts with It

What came first

Oedipus, complex, or Freud?

Chicken, egg omelette, or thirst?

Desire or the desired?

1 + 1 doesn’t always  = 2

and sometimes water runs up hill

and satellites are swallowed forever

drunk deep in the oesophagus of chaos

and a black hole burns blue under a black light

even caught in this mess certain equations slip through

the truth

like a white ball

breaks through the molecules

and you’re through on the break

eight ball corner pocket

then the kaleidoscope turns and the universe shifts with it

and all the planets and all the stars

tumble like sock balls in the dryer

and someone forgot not to mix colors with whites

and the balls of socks are tie dyed

the fabrics of sunrise.

Hunting Angels 4

(This is the fourth chapter of the developing series, Hunting Angels. I invite you to scroll down the right side of this page and find the Hunting Angels category and begin with Chapter 1 if this is your first tine with us.)

Dean had entered the police force because he believed in justice. Heaven, hell, karma, these were all abstracts to Dean. What he could see is that with good police work, the bad guys got punished. This idea thrilled Dean. Punishment for the bad and the wicked. Dean had grown up watching his brother Dwayne get away with blue murder, but, being his twin, could never rat him out. Now he would get justice for his murder.

It would start by setting up another meeting with Kelvin. One bullet to the head and the meeting would be over. Dean figured Kelvin would be waiting for him. It would have been simpler if he had killed him when he had the chance yesterday.

Dean called the closest number he had to Kelvin, Jimmy, and arranged a meeting for this afternoon at four. Dean met Jimmy inside the subway station on the east bound platform. They got on the back car together without acknowledging each other, rode three stations, got off and got into an awaiting Volvo station wagon.

Kelvin sat in the back seat, gun pointed at Dean. The car started and rolled into traffic.

“Sorry about the gun, but, you can imagine I’m a bit suspicious why you want to meet day after I saw you and blew away your brother. What’s up?” Kelvin smiled, bright gold teeth, Kelvin brushed with religious vanity.

Dean had been foolish to let Kelvin get the drop on him. “I just wanted to see eye to eye to let you know that I respect what you did and why you did it. I woulda done the same thing. I’m sorry I never told about my brother, but, part of the reason is I never think of him. We’re twins, but nothing alike.”

“Yeah, he’s dead, you’re alive, big fuck difference.”

“And I’m glad he’s dead. I wanted you to know. Thank you.”

“Really? That’s all you came to see me about?” Kelvin kept the gun on Dean, soft and steady.

Dean resisted swallowing. “Yeah, we’re cool?”

Kelvin flashed more gold teeth, “Yeah, we’re cool, baby! That’s why I didn’t job you too. You I respect. Don’t let this gun I’m pointing at you be taken as any sign of disrespect, if anything, it means I respect you.”

“I take it as a compliment you’re holding a gun to me.”

“You should, man! It’s not everyone I think could take me out.”

“I’m flattered.”

“I’m flattered I can flatter you!” Kelvin’s golden grin was almost blinding, the glare of the sun scratching Dean’s eyes. Dean blinked. He knew he’d been beat this round. “Anything else I might do for you, Dwayne my man?”

Dean still had to fight the urge to flinch from being called his dead brother’s name. “No, Kelvin. I just wanted to see you, thank you, make sure we’re good.”

“We’re good like wood. Anywhere you wanna be let out?”

“Here is fine, I’ll take the subway from here.”

The Volvo pulled over and Dean got out. He had two seconds from setting foot on the sidewalk and the car pulling away, where he had a clear shot of Kelvin but Dean did not reach for the gun he had in his coat pocket.

The car drove off leaving Dean looking at his image in a store window. He looked transparent. He wondered why he had not taken the shot.

The Book of Revelations and Other Party Favors


written by an artist too shy to pen his name to a story too big for one man

words bigger than one world.

We walk halfway through the final chapter, (the good book has a hell of an ending) though,

so few have the courage to read

the signs.

Fire, destruction, consumption,

only the drooling street preachers have the wit to say it

throats scratched from screaming themselves silent

yet, there it is, staring us down in verse.

And how amazing would that have been to have written Revelations

and then what do you write, cook books?

But, to know the ending, to know what’s coming so intimately, must be a form of madness

that only the mad can endure. Like life is something that only the dead can overcome.


are a consumption of opposites

man and woman breeding life, night and day breeding one


of the sun.

If You Were an Artist, You’d Be a Con

If you were history, you’d be too soon.

If we were chemistry, we’d be toxic fume.

If you were a sunset, you’d be nuclear.

If you were a Bohemian, you’d be tubercular.

If you were a ballpark, you’d be God’s best guess.

If you were a Disney ride, you’d be ridden by less.

If you were an answer, you’d be a no.

If you were farm equipment, you’d be a dirty hoe.

If you were a promise, you’d be an I.O.U.

If our relationship was a horse, it’d be glue.

If you were geography you’d be Death Valley.

If you were a sin you’d be better for me.

If you let me get to first base it’s because you hit me with the pitch.

If you were an ice cream flavor, you’d be a much less cold bitch.

Yesterday’s Miracles


a believer’s word

for astronomical luck

or nearsighted perspective


miraculous on any tongue

tongues of fire flickering flicking electric light at midnight

would have been seen as miraculous

200 years ago

so who are you to judge miracles,


Wisdom of Tapeworms

He was smart for an idiot. He knew it, both how smart and how dumb he was. He was thankful that he was higher on the evolutionary ladder than a tapeworm, though, since his trip to India, he wasn’t sure who was higher on the food chain; wasn’t the tapeworm feeding off him?

He had dreams, big dreams, dreams higher than his canopy bed laced with mosquito nets. He wanted to leave his mark, a positive mark, but being an idiot, he had no discernible talent to make his indelible stamp, so he got a tattoo.

The tattoo read: Inspiration Wanted: Apply Within.

He had the words inked across his forehead. It hurt like hell, but he knew the effect would be unforgettable. He had gone to India for spirituality and come home with only a tapeworm. Now inspiration would come to him and this time he’d save on the plane ticket.

Weeks past, people passed and nobody said anything to him, though he did get a lot of sideways looks from people on subways, or waiters at vegetarian restaurants where he ordered steak tar tar. He liked the attention, he just wished the people would put words to their thoughts. He just wished he had something to say.

So, he sat smoking on the patio of his favorite vegetarian restaurant that constantly refused his order of beef wellington, which made him love them more, for they had conviction.

“Excuse me, sir, the patio is non-smoking.”

“That’s ok, I don’t mind,” he said, tapping his ashes in the basket of bread.

“Sir, you’re going to have to put that out.”

“What? The bread?”

“Please, sir, the cigarette.”

“What are you afraid of cancer?”

“For starters.”

“We’re all going to die one day, no matter how many tofu burgers we eat.”

“Sir, take the cigarette outside.”

“I am outside. We’re on a patio. You don’t like the smoke, don’t stand so close.”

“I’m trying to take your order.”

“Well, I order you not to stand so close.”

The waiter took a deep breath before saying, “Ok, your forehead says you’re looking for inspiration while I’m just looking not to put anything bad within my body, so, could you stop blowing smoke in my face, please?”

The man could tell the waiter was wise. The man asked him, “Have you ever been to India?”

The waiter, ever polite, turned his head from the maddening customer to collect himself and to not breathe in any more smoke. Chad, the waiter, took another deep sigh then turned back, answering rapid fire: “I’ve been to Indiana I have family in Terre Haute sir please go.”

“Before I go, feed me your last words of wisdom.”

“Leaving now is a good idea and don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

“Thank you.” The man stood and left a 12% tip on the water he’d got for free and left the restaurant careful not to let the door hit him on the ass.

The next day he bought a bus ticket to Terre Haute.

Let’s Call It A Day

We’re so impatient

impatient for time

we’re time’s patients

we’re clocks that unwind.

Clocks go round and round

call it clockwise

tethered to 360 degrees

tethered to time.

And how stupid is it to measure a fastball in miles per hour

when it only travels a few seconds at a time?

We’re infinite circles

we call molecules

we’re as many suns glowing

as are lost in the sky.

And how stupid is it to measure each step in feet when we only step one foot at a time?

Like calling it Winter when it feels like Summer or Summer when it’s cold as hell

dogs to a papery clock pinned to the wall telling us when to ring the bell

but still we skip a page to jump to next year

we’ve got two hands on the clock and two more on our backs

pushing us forward

doesn’t it all seem so stupid so arbitrary pretending we’re chasing the sun

try and go round and round

Columbus got lost renamed what he found

everything must have a name

we’re so drunk on time

let’s call it a day.

Porno! Cause You’d Rather Watch Than Do

You are so beautiful

forgive me for gawking

I’ve tried looking away

I’m not stalking

but what can I say?

I don’t even know if you even speak English

cause I sure as hell don’t speak your Vietnamese.

They don’t sell dirty magazines

in a communist country

no Playboys no where to be seen

in Vietnam.

The whores are pretty

pretty cheap

it comes pretty cheap in this country

but I feel less dirty

doing it with a magazine.

So save me from both sins

won’t you be my girlfriend?

Even if for the night

then I’ll feel less dirty

doing it with the real thing.

Your Face and Beachfront Property

Don’t get too used to her face

her body

her tangibles.

Desire grows older faster than skin

we must crave the spirit

the thread that sews the flesh to the smile

the eternal stitching

never to unravel

never to die

yet, always in disguise

never to be seen

except for those who see through the green in your eyes.