“Outside of Norms”

“Outside of Norms”

A radio chatters.

A stage performs.

My space vacated,

outside of norms.


kills confirmed.


outside of norms.


chancre sores.

The truth debated,

outside of norms.

Your fears abated.

Escaped the scourge.

Ego inflated,

outside of norms.

Child berated.

Paid forward.


outside of norms.

“Hung Out to Dry”

“Hung Out to Dry”

Many, many summers ago,

when I lived atop of Bunker Hill Street,

my Mother dried the cleaned clothes,

by hanging them on a drying horse rack.

Time and a breeze,

were the common necessaries to make it work.

The summer windows would be open,

and late at night my parents would argue.

Sometimes muffled,

Other times clear.

A child of small,

hiding beneath Star Wars bedsheets.

Trying to understand the guttural nuance of the word fucking.

Spit forth in anger and anxiety.

I didn’t know what it meant,

but knew it was bad.

It sounded awful.

Violent, and final.

The peace of a post fight is full of tension,

and on occasion my mother would climb into my bed, or my sister’s bed.

Then it was over.

The next day, neighbors would find something else to look at when we walked by.

What I remember most was how dry the clothes were when we touched them in the mornings.

That, and playing hide and seek among the wet clothes just freshly hung out, so my mother could go to sleep on her green couch before my father got home from work.

“She’s a Right Plump Biggin”

“She’s a Right Plump Biggin”

We’re going steady.

She’s a right plump biggin,

taller than most girls in our class.

A Viking goddess,


Taking me down.

When I watch her in sixth period gym,

I lose my breath.

My heart beats loose.

She sweats a waterfall,

and wipes her forehead with the bottom of her tee shirt.

When she does this I can see her stomach.

I get butterflies in mine.

I fantasize about her being able reach items on the higher shelves for me.

To put me up on her shoulders at concert festivals.

And, I think about the times she rests her head in my lap and looks up at me with those Monster Truck eyes.

We take turns applying new lipstick,

and kissing long into the afternoon.

The day’s dying winds blowing rage into the fire of our passion.

Inciting jigsaw elbows and pounding fingertips, until we melt into puddles of ginger trance.

Our thing; an oasis in a cruel world.

“Circling the Drain”

“Circling the Drain”

Paper notes,

and fallen Popes.

Don’t objectify me!

Unless, I want you to objectify me.



Rage turned loose.

You see, I don’t really want equality.

I just want you to suffer as I have.

I’m supposed to be better than you,

but if we’re being completely honest,

I’m not.

I just haven’t had the opportunity to be as vile.

A walking talking contradiction.

Self-serving benediction,

worship my false idol.

Pedestrian pedestal,

stalled, devolution.

Self lies are sexy,

and allow fear to keep me desperate.

I will scream until you relent.

I will scream until you repent.



Idols fall at the fevered pace of fake news announcements.

Ideas brand you as dangerous.

Dialogue dry-well, drywalled in.

Immovable position.

Paralyzed by fear.

Innocence becomes the lie it always was.

Ignorance is heralded,

especially when wrapped in arrogance and denial.

There is no middle ground.

Just extreme extremism extremely extant.

Order is caving and leaving on chartered flights, and squirreled in the hold of shipping containers.

Those that feel comfort within the framework that a society provides, have no conception, that that luxury is only provided by that which they hold in contempt.

Consequence is gaining.

Ignorance is not bliss, but a precursor to suffering.

The middle will not hold, unless good people stop listening to those that sow doubt.

The philosophers are extinct, and their ashes have been eaten gluttonous by apologists that are in love with their zeal.

I sit out in the open road, hoping that when the collapse comes, I can see that sinister look of recognition dress the faces of the smug.

A recognition that liberty is just another illusion in the tent of Abraham.

Institutional ignominy delivered on target by drowning drones.

Driven mad, by madmen, and the most sincerely irrational and well-meaning people.