The Old-New Masters

I will read the Old-New Masters
at night, in the scraps of hours,
until my thoughts coalesce, thus:

a withering widow bows before black coffins-
black as the wood sheathing Japanese swords-
and distant, twinkling, somewhere,
carnival bells, ringing                    and
jack and james come out to play with
a bottle of liquor that tastes like mint and
find a monster in a car, moldskinned and grinning
thin and wicked teeth, pinpricks dotting his arms like
the tracks of Satan or worse and he-
and he-
break it all,
break the old masters and the new and
burn their bones
until the smoke steals the stars away.

In the morning,  their ashes are as good a paint as any.

Cigars + Whiskey

Smoke lingers like a lullaby.

Many a manly, mumbled murmur:
“What if my shoulders break beneath my burdens?”
“I don’t understand happiness, how to really be content,
how to stop grasping for storms.”
“Some tragedies alter what dwells
in the mirror.”
“I can’t seek help, it would
make me less than-”

The door creaks open,
she walks in,
and all is
cigars and whiskey

Airplane Curry

We see it pushing through the tube,
plastic boxes, nearly medical, labelled with numbers or barcodes or
Something in-between, something few understand.
Chicken thrown to starving wolves
eagerly pawing white lids –
now, bleached rice, clammy and squirming.
Pale meat stained with the milk of highlighters,
this sickly paste,
Gone too soon.

What’s the deal with airplane food?


There is a castle with walls of sand, ever-shifting,
Always baking beneath the hot sun;
Heaped high by the wind’s dry lashings.

The walls are stout and sturdy,
But only when the wind shapes them,
And the sun stares harshly upon them,
Only then do the walls keep the wind out,
Only then do they provide a shady retreat.

The day comes when the sun grows dim and distant,
And the winds meekly murmur in protest.
The walls crash down,
And all scatters back to sand.

Fragments – Brief Poems


“Where are we going?” She asked
“Hell, eventually.”
And we laughed.


Life is driving down a long highway,
Where every twenty minutes
He passes a cross.


An eye for an eye leaves you intact,
As long as you don’t take any eyes.


The town was saved!
The damsel married the hero!
Then they slowly grew apart,
(Their love was tied to the quest, after all)
And they divorced on his thirtieth birthday.

He fell back in love with a whiskey bottle.
They’re very happy together.


He was not a perfect man,
But he had a perfect car
And that’s close enough, sometimes.


This is to see how well you can lie,
How frequently you can lie,
And how convincing your lies are.
Truthful answers will result in dismissal.



The person whose writing is the most like ours

Will be awarded fabulous prizes

And allowed to pick someone similar

For next year’s contest.


Don’t ask how the sausage, regulatory policy,
Sister, Brand-name clothing, universe,
Veal, scripture, lipstick, carbonated drink,
Brother, favorite song, Santa Claus,
Rocky Mountain Oyster, or diamond ring
Is made.


Now, I’m okay with gay guys,
But I wouldn’t want one dating my daughter.


I saw a red fox in far-flung fields,
I tried to get close to it
But it called my Aunt Esther ugly.


First, five syllables
Second, seven syllables
Wait, something has gone horribly wrong here.


Happy National Poetry Month, everyone.

She Was Like a Simile

She was very much like the moon
In the way that she was locked in a synchronous rotation with the Earth
And how her face was speckled with meteorite impact craters
And I saw a picture of two men on her.

She was very much like a storm,
She electrocuted me.

She was very much like the sun:
Extremely hot,
With a continuous fission reaction exploding in her core
nd a body composed largely of superheated plasma –
Plus something about how she can light up a room
Before incinerating it with the fury of a G-type main sequence star.

She was very much like a simile,
Every writer mused on her
Without ever really knowing who she was.


Politicians said it would never happen, as did the newsmen; talking heads,
Men and women whose only worth was opinion, yet based their judgements
On naught but a fleeting frailty held in some unknown chamber of the heart.
Scientists knew, or at least theorized, postulated infinitely while the public sat,
Both unaware of the urgency of their work – No conclusion was reached,
Yet on the sixth day of the sixth month, the world was bathed in fire.
A slumbering giant awoke in the heart of America, roaring its ashen fury,
Casting boulders and cinder into the sky, souring the azure expanse to ash,
Swiftly ending all hope for peace and prosperity, awakening the American Dream
To the harsh reality of endless suffering.

For thirty years darkness fell from the clouds, sizzling streaks of soot that burned
And buried all of humanity’s work beneath the thickness of Hell, and Heaven
Itself seemed to have abandoned the lowly maggots that scraped and clawed
Their paths through interminable embers and darkness undreamed of.

Yet, with time, the light returned to Man, and with it the watchful eye of God
Returned to gaze deeply upon His reflection – Withered and ragged men,
Slaughtering and raping, pillaging and thieving, the last survivors of an ashen age,
Travelling in bands, hunting those less than themselves, feasting on the rare bounties
Of that barren desert – Less man than beast, devouring those too frail, too moral,
Too kind, too brave to survive Hell. The rock and soot forbade all growth,
Yet where life flourished, Man swarmed – bringing fire and death until all
Was as barren and cold as Man’s own heart.

Blue Moon

There’s a blue moon tonight-
Which has nothing to do with the color of the moon,
‘Blue’ just refers to the fact that it’s a rare occurrence.

I wish when I was feeling blue,
It was just a rare thing, too.