Jesus Christ, it’s been so long since I’ve posted or written anything. I’ve been really busy with life lately, but will throw some new stuff up here soon. Here are three really old poems in the meantime from a chapbook I wrote called “An Addict’s Prayer Book.”

One more night soaked
in this sweaty, humid
emotional whirlwind
beckons me from my
gargoyle’s roost
to descend on the moonstruck
plateau build for me
by the labors of
devotional love–
one more night to last
my life away
is all I ask.

Clamor Song
Mister Machine churns
his way through darkness
every night of his life.
He has his alibis;
they keep him chaste and clean
and forgotten along with the wayside
trash of libido and religion.Mister Machine works in a world
that can
This does not dishearten
rather hardening his heart to
the cruel excuses uttered by everyone
around him.
He continues
churning like an industrial Beethoven
deaf to his workings
a masterpiece in himself.
Mister Machine wonders to himself
in his factory night
with the quarter-silver moon
and pisshole stars.
Wonders about everything
and nothing at all
focused repetition of his
cause forces him to believe in
no-emergency-exit life
built up of endless doors
leading to dead ends.
Mister Machine plugs
a bullet in his head,
scratches a knife along his wrist
and finally,
learns the truth.


The music of apartment complexes;
ringing phones, slamming doors,
screaming children,
bass from below the stairs,
shouting heard outside the window
and all languages spoken through
vents and grates
mixing to form an unrecognizable
mesh of human experience.
I imagine every heartbeat
sounding in time
like a drum at
60 beats per minute.
Echoing through the air ducts
to the stairwell.
Some stray laughter explodes somewhere
in the building,then dies as abruptly as it began.
Listening to this as I sit
on the stairs at the top floor
I cam connected to every sound
and one with every heart.
Resounding resplendence with
every solemn chord struck
by a television set blaring
the six’o’clock news
and the American desire of
appliances cycling away;
so ambient and innocuous,
it requires me to hold my
breath to hear it.
The music of life enclosed in
claustrophobic serenity,
of a box with hundreds of tiny
boxes inside of it
sets me up for the flow
of energy and transubstantiation
to become
another layer on the mix.




Post-Ictal Blues

I’d sleep but I can’t sleep.
Racing thoughts ache to wrench me
from restful slumber
from dreams of
Probably best that I don’t remember.
If I took my Xanax could I sleep?
If I took my Xanax…
If I, if I, if I,
“Why do you think you had a seizure?”
I don’t know, Doc.
Probably because you loaded me up
with enough tramadol to

Or at least tranquilize one.
After all – that’s what it’s used for. Right? Right.
So, maybe you should feel like
your body is on fire
every fucking day.
Or you can’t think of one thing without
that same thought over and over and over and over and over.
Let’s trade for a day.
Then you might give me something
so I can go back to sleep.

Bukowski said:
“waiting is depression. We spend our lives waiting
to sleep, waiting to wake up
waiting to eat and then eat again.”
Well, Chuck. My body sings that intrinsic.
Because every night
from 1 a.m. to 6 a.m.,
I’m waiting to sleep
and from 6 a.m. to 9 a.m,
I’m waiting to wake back up;
it would be rest if I could
feel it.

At least when I was drinking
I never had this problem.
It was always the morning after
that caused the most trouble.
I’ve decided that this is God’s way
of telling me that I need to get back on the bottle;
it’s a good thing I never
believed in God.



Addiction Dirge

Summer has closed her eyes
and Autumn’s drawn a wicked scar
across her throat and left me
to count five hundred days
with five hundred pictures to show my progress
or lack thereof.

The building collapses, the heat shakes the windows
as Winter dreams herself into a seizure coma
that rattles every glass in every cabinet
built inside of the head of every god
wrapped up in man-made packaging
and sold on the covers of magazines
while I count away five hundred days
times sixty divided by every time
that dark voice comes to sing inside my head.

Where are you going, what are you doing
who are you, what will you say next
and the whisper comes fast and slow and
there’s no day left to count.
Every day turns to night that bypasses
the slow decline of Winter into Spring
with bloodloss and a lack of inspiration
that doesn’t dwindle past the bleak desperate
concocted careful lies that live behind my eyes.

As I count each picture of every day
five hundred times in shadow withdrawal
speechless and breathless and timeless
and I run with my hands bound behind my back
and my legs tethered close together
my skin a Pollock, my face a Rembrandt smile
that never seems to fall off the face of
every angel and every angle I’ve ever cut
to reach the destination that leads to ruin
discarded packs of cigarettes and empty bottles
five hundred days wasted on five hundred
pills broken down to bear me to
five hundred and one.


I drove down to the river one day to watch it
and think those sullen thoughts
that seemed so outdated and made for yesterday.
Each varied attempt to disappear
makes it that much more difficult to return.
I waited for the water to trail past me
and imagined the water,
close enough to reach,
but too far out to see.

I waited there: alone, watching, silent, hiding.
There had been a time when I had attempted
so desperately to save my own soul
by professing a quiet prayer to a noble calling.
And from this, I received such congratulations
that perhaps were not my due;
why congratulate someone for saving themselves?
The world keeps spinning dizzy in the dark.
The only difference was
I wasn’t spinning along with it.

That river kept on, kept on, kept on.
It twisted and arched and turned and sighed
and I felt like a voyeur;
I watched something that I had no right to see.
Each unbidden, unwanted thought surged up
enough to make me wish that the Willamette
was the Lethe.

Stolen Memories Rarely Make Good Anecdotes

I rarely conferred with the devil regarding the times.
Perhaps out of fear of my own mortality,
as I could see the slow twist and turn
that age would make on my own body
I tried to take the crown as best I could
and had failed, miserable and defeated
left in the mid-autumn mud
that had spread out under my feet.
I could have asked; I could have gotten advice
and refused.
No more stale cigarettes in rotting cars
that sat in dilapidated parking garages
while the devil dispensed wisdom
whether it was all a lie or some observation
made from personal or fabricated history.
I had no time for that, or so I told myself;
maybe I had no desire to hear it any longer.
most likely, I had no more reason to prove myself
now that the obligation
that made me prove myself in the first place
had been cast aside
with little more than derision and scorn.
Confiding emotion in the devil
is like throwing cards into a hat–
and about as fucking useful.


There was rain in the desert
when chattering thorns and crooked teeth
parted to talk about the last time
we went to see the ocean.
(Or that we never made it there in the first place.)
Too many cold days make up the stretch
between this world and that shadow;
that echo, that infernal, eternal ivory-stained edifice
going once, going twice,
three times,
(Or whatever we call it these days.)
all of those cold days are inchworms
just wriggling spendthrifts
digging through the guts of the world.

That rain turned to ice as it hit the sand
and the wheels turned and turned
digging deep, deep, deep
down into the aching flesh of soil
as we tried to pull ourselves out.
Maybe we did in our own separate ways,
going our own separate ways,
and spending our hard-won separate days
that neither of us
could imagine that we would have had
when we started driving through the ragged sand
(varying amounts based on state of sobriety, naturally)
a thousand years ago.

The car stalled somewhere south of nowhere.
We left the keys
and walked in opposite directions
looking for gas, a ride, a tow, whatever.
Did either notice how far we’d walked
away from vows and oaths and promises;
we would need passports to see how far
the other had gotten.
And the days had gotten too cold for travel
and the endless empty road had become
a vacant mole hill which was perceived a mountain
that made the slightest insurmountable.

Those wriggling inchworm days came digging down
and buried themselves in our skin,
knitting and stitching and twisting deeper
until we were tethered so tight
that there was little to be done to escape.
The car had stalled;
the days were too cold;
the excuses became too hard to break;
(as they often do)
and finally, there was little left
save our endless numbered days
marching away in unison
under those soft beats of rain
that chilled, shiver-skin, left void,
with no road left to follow back.


in my prison oranges, i’m shoved into an occupied cell.
two men are lying on the bunk.
the guard tells me to put my bed on the floor.
and closes the door.

the white guy in the bottom bunk rolls over.
he extends his hand.
i take it tentatively and shake it.
roller, he says, like holy roller.

i notice a bible on his bunk.
that up there is jose, he says.
the man in the top bunk says nothing.
don’t worry. we’re not going to rape you, says roller.

just stay out of my way and i’ll leave you alone, he says.
somehow this is possible in a room that’s ten feet square?
if you need to shit or piss, hang the sheet up, he says.
and if you have any extra food, it goes to me, he says.

sure. sure. i lie down on my bed. it takes up the remaining walking room.
if anyone needs to use the toilet they’ll walk over me.
the lights are always on the in the cell.
i can’t imagine what time it is.

maybe it’s morning? maybe it’s the middle of the night?
when the lights go off outside the cell
i hear someone distinctly
an unmistakeable sound that echoes down into my cell

screaming. screaming.

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: