Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Craigslist Gist, or Squirt Guns – Some New Some Used”




“Craigslist Gist, or Squirt Guns – Some New Some Used”

Antique bureau

Sofa bed

Free kids step stool

Free Hooked on Phonics Master Reader

FREE moving boxes (approx. 15+) & some packing materials

Beach umbrella for free!

Canon PowerShot Digital Elph for Free!

Free 26” bike

Free Skeleton Bride Girls Halloween Costume – Size Large 12-14

FREE Countess of Darkness Child Halloween Costume size 8-10M

Twin heavy duty trundle bed frame


Free Mattress

FREE couch

**curb alert***

Aero chamber plus

Box of computer stuff for free!!

Sierra Designs Clip Flashlight for Free!!

Maca Powder

Two Air Mattresses and Pump for Free

Badminton set for free! (no shuttlecocks)

Super cool mid-century side chair

Free wood!

Upright Piano plus $50 cash

FREE Wood for chicken coop/shed

Free ladder and fire pit

“On The Water” magazines

Gym type duffle bag

Gold Fish

Squirt guns – Some new some used




Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Charging Wanton”




“Charging Wanton”


Awoke at the back door.

Forearm all numb.

Dried drool-crust pillow,

opposable thumb.



Attacking the shower.

Urinate in the drain.

Fogged mirror opacity,

bookmarking past pain.


Remote rusty razor,

catching my chin.

Bleeding profusely.

Original sin.


Pop-Tart in the toaster.

Rogue gallon of milk.

Watering plants,

on the back window sill.


Equivocal ninny.

Starch in my shirt.

Rainy day Thursday,

escaping to work.


Bus rolled up slowly,

seemingly packed.

Went to rear door,

and squirreled in the back.


Through ornery osmosis,

no proof of receipt,

I squeezed through the mass,

and staked out a seat.


The station was buzzing,

a new shuttle fleet,

trains going nowhere,

due to hurricaine-felled trees.


Grumbling masses,

anxious and nervous.

Commuters are used to,

substandard service.


Bookend commutes,

holding up day’s hurt.

Eight hours of torture,

that some label work.


Away to the depot.

Awaiting a ride.

A trolley romantic?

Few people inside.


Stalking dark tunnels.

Shifting on tracks.

Premier destinations.

Taken aback.


Key in the keyhole.

Disrobed clothes on chair.

Curling up, into fetal.

Giving up to despair.


Moonlight makes madness.

Sleep is a task.

Another day over.

How long will it last?


How long will it last?

Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Lap Belly”


Chris Christie-https://mps110.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/chris-christie.jpg



“Lap Belly”


Port, sherry, lap belly.

Rigor mortis, snort.

Spider plants, slow dance, corporate Voldemort.

Dill pickle, Cole Trickle, Scientology.

Breastplate, sulfate, all apologies.

Checkout line, unrefined, disability.

Congress, unimpressed, lacks integrity.

Blowup doll, on-call, skinny jeans wedge.

Neo-nazi punks turning tricks beneath the hedge.

Lance Kiffin, Dunder Mifflin, full-court press.

Kaitlyn Jenner, Marilu Henner, wore the same dress.

Dull lecture, pure conjecture, impotent rant.

Pup tent, back rent, five yard slant.

Disco dancing, rogue romancing, Walmart line.

Restroom doom, vape plume, running out of time.

Environmental, supplemental, chaotic weather.

Oligarchs, low marks, keeping masses fettered.

Revolution, extant pollution, building to a burst.

Time marching, apathetic, humans are the worst.

Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Train Stations & Reparations”


“Train Stations and Reparations”

Young man! Young man!
Entering the train.
Play me a song of a piano man.

Is it possible to turn up the volume?
The folks in the first car can’t hear your portable speaker.
Even though, we all can on this car.

I’ve never witnessed such impotent rage.
Collected and strained.
The old gent across, can barely escape.

Do you think it strange, Mr. No Name?
Assigning full blame, to patrons of trains.
Systemic lines, were built long ago, before we stepped on.

That old gent across, he wants to slap that music from your hand.
He wants to engage, filter rage.
And assuage, his gaining discomfort.

But, he is afraid.
Voice stayed.
He will go home and scream at his wife, instead.

You, are a threatening phantom to his mind.
A dementor ‘neath a hoodie.
You are nothing but a representation of something else, to him.

Your pain exists, but is veiled in your contempt.
Speaker speaking volumes.
Falls on deaf ears, angers and stokes fears.

Deafening apathy, perturbed by your attempt to be, heard.
Exceeding socially acceptable limits?
Its rather rude, guy.

Some eat hardboiled eggs.
Some clip their toenails.
But you choose to share misogyny and N-bombs.

Riding the rails.
Humanity fails.
No one, says nothing.

That, says everything

Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Open-Air Gondola”




“Open-Air Gondola”

Open-Air gondola,

we’re really quite fond of ‘ya.

You get us from base camp to peak.


Your views are transcendent.

The sunshine, resplendent.

My fifth trip up the mountain, this week.


With climbers courageous,

tour parties engage us;

explaining all that comes into view.


The conveyance has crested,

with passengers, restive.

Looking for something to do.


The crowd soon spills out,

and wanders about.

Vertigo, soon gains a foothold.


Once we are able,

the views become stable,

and beholden horizons unfold.