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Tag Archives: Prose Poetry


A gross jump-step to the immediate right…
A lantern’s crossing pathway skewed…
Rigid daydream phantasy, alike in all its random quaking…
Boorishly bred insidiousness carves a niche upon your bedpost…
Salacious token collectors infatuate invisibly about your still-framed form…sensually stirring devious deceptions, with each rise of chest your form there makes…

Saginaw Valley, MI…a portrait is missing from a private collection.
Laboratory, PA…a doctor is dismissed for a presupposition undeclared
Chihuahua, MX…a high ranking cartel assassin secretly imports thousands of malnourished cats…and instinctively nurses them back to health…

Incorrigible dart
Sentient louse
Brandishing speed with elixir
Corroborating Orations with vexing whispers…if only to alleviate the ambivalence of the recent dead.

Harpies crèche their attachés slinging coat-check tabs into the arms of the impertinently betrayed
Firebug…antithesis of a wet noodle…coalescing under tin cans tarred in manure…only surviving because of a mispronounced truth…a finite detail ignored by his captors…incontinence toward smell…
Is sometimes
Harsher than

Emulsifying all ideals held to standards much too lofty to grasp free and clear…liquidation of the merchandise buried beneath the hearth…internal discourse hypothesizes how long it will be…yet, the answers are not as clearly cut as the cuttings provided along the back side of certain types of cereal box breakfast treats.

She sits at a table, in a café, along an always-renewable pattern of sole-embraced traction.
Her eyes shift, from straw to bottle, to fizzy drink, orange, purplish hue…eventually settling for occasional, yet repetitive glances in your direction…never quite figuring out the ramifications her gaze constructs…for this man is starving…he suffers dearly, from belly-aches beneath the denim…


Sleeping Cellular

Sleeper Cell—
Unknown pollination of germ divine—
Spreads, swallowing up the hearsay with
Radically ambulating correspondences

Vacate the grounds
Eliminate that which stands between you and the freedom urged
Coalesce the demons
Before the hardboiled rationalizations rise
All that’s been
Learned—and spoken—
Which is not always the worst of outcomes—
In fact, you may unwittingly become, the proud benefactor of silver spoon fed karmic divination.

Hold. Pause. Stare into the fathomless sea…Open expansive lines…Reflect…and then repeat…regurgitate internally, all the secret solvencies garnished on your behalf—slowly…percolating…slowly…transitioning…between this world and the next…always growing in maturity…yet never forgetting how your time has lapsed…
In shackles…bound to be…in chains…tied to me…
In bloodshed…we unite…why, well that’s the question we are told never to ponder…it’s also the very reason we never choose to wonder why…for contemplating innocence…may catapult the advantage, unto the insurgent’s plight…. crushing all those who oppose such tyranny…for they, never even stop to consider the reasons for, the reasons why, they just blindly follow their commander…. harboring each his master’s plans…for in their eyes…they truly are delivering upon the will beckoned down…the solutions to all the ills that pain existence…to resolve the buttresses that fly free….to resurrect utopias never known before…it is all this, these and more…when belief is all that is understood…faith, the ultimate bearer instrument…which works well, while either providing defense toward or inflicting persuasion to those in the need to know….All because….someone used God…and his dreams…to their end…manipulating all the peons…his rulings will one day so easily be considered just and once again, provide the providence we’ve searched for since the start of the day before the day before the day we gave ourselves entirely over to he who also is but a man, with only a promise and a prayer, that to which he insinuates, to be true and blessed…destined and heavenly sent….(sigh)

Dream Doors

The past few days I’ve been playing around with the audio recorder. I concocted this dream scenario bit, where I’m sent into all these different dreams and such. I did all the recording first and then wrote them down, occasionally changing a word here or there in the transcript so to speak. Anyhow, some of these are quite silly, but I had a bunch of fun doing them, so I thought I’d share the entirety with you all here.

So, you see…
Everything was dark, pitch black in fact…
Then, without warning, a spotlight erupted,
Completely consuming me…

Every step I took, no matter if done fast or slow, it followed wherever I would go…

The light then swayed, alternating from where I stood, across the tiling to a distance away, illuminating a series of doors, three to the right and three to the left, with a larger central door alone between….

The beacon changed, from door to door, and then to me again, a regular rotation of changing sights, until of course I picked a door to choose there that night…

DOOR NUMBER TWO, was chosen first…The live studio audience seemed dismayed, I hadn’t chosen the large middle door for my first approach, but quickly silenced as the path connected me to the door as it slowly opened, emitting a light it’s own, a light I would need to walk into…

I was in a house I did not know, but yet, it truly felt like it was my own…the carpet white, it’s thickness swallowed my toes, sinking deep as the eyes caught everything around…from a spiral staircase leading up to the massive windows peering out unto a balcony behind, where it’s breathtaking view of the water below, could be seen, oh how it could be seen…

There were pictures on the wall, framed records with my name, many of me and famous artists I apparently had somehow grown quite close to, there was me and Lars, chilling at some pier, Lemmy grilling up some steaks, apparently at this very house…Out on the deck I saw that grill atop it’s perfectly stained wooden floor…one too alluring to not go and enjoy…

The salt nipped subtly at me there, invigorating the sensations of touch to skin and scent to nose, watching out unto the mesmerizing sights of the surf at dawn…

I barely noticed a twisting staircase that led to a deck below, and it was as if I was impelled to follow it, to see what was there to find…a beautiful pool, with sparkling water that tempted one to swim…
Undressing slightly into a suit that just then appeared….then walking over to the edge of the end most deep, getting ready, getting ready to first dip my feet, the way I’d always been accustomed to know, to first test the temperature on my toes, before headfirst in the swim my body would soon follow….

But something caught my eyes, a shadow from deep down within, a startling vision I was not prepared to dream….and the oddest thing was not that it was there, but that it appeared to be rising up to me, at a steadying pace it’s dimensions were expanding, rising until I could see in full view, a great white, there, here in what I could only explain away as my own pool….

I stepped back and then gasped, as it’s fin came first, and then followed by it’s open mouth, piercing the air, causing a tide to escape, covering my feet from toes to ankle then ebbing back until it subsided back into…where that shark was still swimming, still swimming in my view…

That was when a voice came called, from the house next to mine, a house I hadn’t previously spied…it was a man’s voice that addressed me, but to where he stood or as to what he looked, these descriptions I could not see, I could not tell, and so I just listened as he spoke so well, “ Don’t be alarmed my man, I see you haven’t been hear for too long, it’s okay, nothing weird about it…”

To which, all I could utter was, “nothing strange about a shark swimming around my pool, seems kind of odd, seems stranger knowing I smell chlorination pretty strong”

To this, he explained,” Yeah, well I got em too, no not sharks, but a thousand piranha or so, kinda neat to see, as long as you don’t get drunk and try to go for a dip, if you want to do that, head to the shore, jump on in, you won’t find any fish under those waves”

“Doesn’t make any sense to me, none of this does actually,” I replied to his attempt at an explanation, and then, before he could reply, I was back to the stage with the doors and the spotlight showing six doors left to explore, apparently not swimming with the shark, was enough to continue this game I had unwittingly thus embarked…

DOOR FIVE came next…

And here I would find myself, at a club, sipping down some fruity fare, an umbrella in some hurricane glass whose contents were a mixture of orange and pink, with some red splashes mixed into…

The music was pumping hard and fast, I was just leaning back against the bar, when I heard my name called out loud and clear, a precursor to the surreal vision I would then witness here…

In bikinis both, Rachel McAdams and Olivia Wilde, were fighting fierce, attacking each other for my love, an impossibility so deranged, yet I couldn’t avert my eyes from this seemingly brilliant choreography…

Each would take the upper hand at points, clawing and scratching, kicking and pulling at the other’s hair…a crowd then surrounded and bloodthirsty they grew, chanting and cheering, placing bets upon who would be victorious, who would get little old me in the end, which, unfortunately for them, the crowd quickly caught a glimpse, a glimpse of Anne Hathaway stealing me away…to which I tried to look back to the bout, yet soon, all that could be heard was the crowd, and the violence in their cheers and shouts….

Anne looked me deep into my eyes, closed on in, as one could probably easily surmised to follow course, but only to find me awake once more, to the jeers of a crowd watching me flailing atop the tiling of that spot-lit floor, now, offering but 5 more doors.

Frustrated, with emotions tossed and curled, I figured, might as well go for the centered door, perhaps then this dream will end and I would awake feeling ever refreshed and more…

However, when I went to open it by the knob, it would not budge, it would not move, that is where I noticed the newly placed padlock locking it secure…with a note gentling dangling, hanging off the chains it keeps…a key is hidden in one of the remaining rooms, find it and all my treasures will be yours to use…

So, with two and five already explored, they somehow disappeared from here, leaving the first and third to the right and the fourth and sixth to the left… Guess I’ll go with number one, and see what’s inside there…

I opened the door and took a step…
Only to find myself in a library, where of course
Books were packing all its shelves. A tiny table with a
Plushy chair, by a fireplace, created quite the mood, and a book
Was right there upon that table, some hot cocoa appeared as well…

So I thought, why not, and took a sip, but then the book grew three times my size, opened up and quickly swallowed me, where I felt each turn of the page, and heard the ink speaking to me loud and slow, to find the spine and let myself go, before the chapters owned my soul…

I thought this would be quite swell, being a part of a novel there’d certainly be a part that I could play, but my mood sullied swiftly once I caught the name of the book I was herein, the Complete tales of Poe, and I most definitely then, did fear for what was left of me there…

Wandering upon a cobbled path, I noticed the townsfolk and each there ogling glance, I could hear whispers about some killer climbing up and into rooms, slicing the necks of those in view…luckily I’m well read, so I knew where this was going and left so quick, to whatever tale it would lead…

The next had Spaniards speaking might harsh and cared not for an inquisition in any dose, in any amount…down some stairs so I went, only to appear into something that was not a simple letter to an editor or some niceties as found in poetry…

Stealthily I sneaked about the fringes as quick as I could but I saw the masque and it saw me quick…and all that I could dare suggest, was, oh well, cruel world, I lived this life, I did it to my best…and then it happened thankfully this time, where I found a door and opened it, only to rewind to the door filled room, now, there were but four left to use…

To rap up the right I went with Three and found myself a mountain filled with snow. I was a bit cold but I somehow felt alright, until I saw that plane and those people sitting there all shivering, looking at me like I was not a man at all, instead a feast for five, that could last them several days….So run I did but the shoes I had were not made for icy slopes, and down I went, slipping and sliding all the way until I landed on some darned tree, completely knocking me out, knocking me down, and when I came to, I was tied to a spit, and they never even kept their salivation down to a subtle clue…

Around and round did I twist, feeling the mix of cold and hot, depending on where the skewer would then stop…yet, of course, as I should have felt would be soon, yet feared this time I would be doomed, yes, I was not dinner, not even lunch, but back in the room with two more doors to climb…

Door four came next, so In I went…
Finding myself upon some park bench…
Must have been the deep south, because the
Words in that way just flew about…harmless place
I prayed for it, felt I was due…

So I got up and walked about, not paying attention to what people wore or the types of stores, instead, into a diner I walked, for I have to admit, I was quite famished…And there the jukebox was playing loud, songs that had not been popular for years…and there he stood, with a flock of girls, no, not Henry Winkler, but the Fonz…Ralph Malph and potsie were sitting there with joanie, long before she hitched her train to that guy that would one day be in charge…

They all saw me, but no one seemed to care…so I said what the heck, I’ve seen worse, this was fun, could be, perhaps go talk to the Fonz and get a tip or two…Nobody bothered me, no one at all…I ordered a chocolate malt and took in it all….Then in came Richie, and clapping then appeared…He stepped up beside me and whispered something in the ear of some girl…She left and said she’d be right back…he said hi to me, which was probably where I made my mistake…I congratulated on all the things he did, all those films, and how hot his daughter was, playing the evil vampire in Edward and Bellas tale…To which, of course, he called the Fonz over to me, I said “eh” and he didn’t care for it at all…next thing I new I was dragged out into the street, only to get kicked out of the diner and back into that room with the doors.

Slowly I entered and found myself in a game show, thanking the Lord it wasn’t one of those Japanese ones, for they could get hurt you know…but this one trip was awfully weird, as I’d get up to the wheel and I spun it hard, landing on the double zeros only to find myself staring across at Clark Griswald and his family…Pig in a Poke, Pig in A Poke…then just as fast I was on The Feud, not with Drew, or the guy that could’ve played Barney Rubble if he didn’t pass, but with Richard Dawson, and I watched him as he kissed some granny upon the cheek, causing quite the blush to rise in she…and when he came to me, he asked me for my choice, to which I said, Hee Haw..Don’t know why, yet there it was, number one, my so called family was cheering me on, but then…I found it not to last, why would it last, and there I was, staring face to face with a whammy coming up on my ass…This time, I was in the game, not a contestant but misplaced and in shame…and soon, that driller whammy found me, and did his best to oust me gone…only to warp away again…this time I was alone on stage, with a couple of kids in a middle school gym…they were all staring at me, and I didn’t know why…the emcee asked me to continue, and I could only say please repeat…which, like magic he said, key, spell key…and why I asked him to use it in a sentence I don’t know, perhaps gamesmanship, or what not, he said “ The door was open with the Key,” where gleefully I shouted, Key K-E-Y Key and there it was I had one, streamers would flutter and balloons would soar, I was the champion of the third grade spelling bee, with a celebration however that certainly was short lived for me…

So there I stood, back in that room, the spot light was glaring intense and hot, but I had the key, and I could finally open that door…which I of course, promptly did….

One toe after the other, into the door I did go…and my jaw dropped…as there were so many doors I could not count, but luckily, I found the one that said home…and the next thing I knew, I awoke, in my bed, in my house…glad that dream was done, yet, sort of fearing if I’d have to return, when I next would close my eyes, that night or tomorrow…

The Perils Of Quest for the Unchosen Man

Sometimes it’s as simple as it appears
occasionally volume and density
together share a similar vein—
digesting a polluting fog—
that only ever emphasizes fear and the
dissociative amnesia that colors the frames—
and cells, you may oust those sentry’s guarding thee, yet
forget the route and reenact those snares that first took grasp of thee—
dragging fugue from future’s poetic resolve—stifling prisms bent from guiding stars—halting progression’s permeating design, forcing the plotting points of potential to retreat deep back in to the deepest and dankest catacombs of an over-active mind— and there, in such uncomely accommodations, you leave, unattended, all the corruption and greedy subdivisions of time—
tied and bound to hips
of a faithless and ever addicted berated shell of a once proud metropolis
And here in that cot that swelters at first suns gaze, the sights internal permeate your consciousness and image forth the never-ending symphony of betrayal’s chaotic cage—Ever careful though, to stay in some semblance of familiarity, you hone all embers of focus present to mold, into a blinding unreality whose only purpose is to disregard the insincerity burgeoning beneath the tiered layers Of a deceitful motif—
As lament is coated over by palettes of un-palpable imaging, ever so subtle in it’s tones and hues, you could, if the self was willing, to fall asleep in this painted garden of serenity—yet evil often ferments quite cold, seeping slowly until the frostbite can not revert without the severance of a limb, claiming, always claiming something for it’s plighting cost—

And all that remains, under robes of repression, are the veritable scales of predilection—traveling forth on pikes of arresting cadence—
you’ll arrive, keeping close the angst and rage that stirs the ruse that conceals the fear and haze—where obelisks constructed to the sky, it’s walls gander freely to it’s peak so high, un-scalable in the present state of demarcation’s pugnacious retribution, constricting all that still reflects unsullied within, compelling the pen to stencil forth the proximity of this untested solution’s plan—diagnosing perceived weaknesses in the indestructible armor blinding from each crinkling of metallic sheath—you embark heretofore on what you deem the quest your shell was destined for—sacrificing what you feel is right for the only option left this lilting vessel of light—so unto to the violet fragrances our hallucinations surge, planting forth the dreams that blossom odiferous scents imagined to be aligned with that of other sense—which allows the stylus to react in such dirigible grooves, permitting the somber elegy to skip it’s melodic tune—that forever plays in repetition, the deep countenance of blindsiding fruition, from where, here in such homesteads lore, it will forever be remembered as the time a less than proper mortal man, had devised a means to outsmart the prince of darkness himself, in his very own sadistic game of jousting wits— and here, the men and women of this earthly land, whenever that sound of echoic distinction ranges free on cloudless days, smile, knowing your freedom, at least for the moment has been saved, and is entirely held within your hands.

Balancing Act

Get up on the beam
tiptoe across its narrow valance
embrace the spotlight—cautiously
incorporate ever-increasing increments of
risky behavior, into each lapsing moment of the production you’ve
artistically created.

The body is the instrument we’ve each
been given—where even those greatly out
of tune, possess a harmony of their own—practice,
perhaps is really the only opportunity we each can fully grasp,
where the embodiment of naivety may be transformed
into a platform for creative incipiency

symmetrical reactions
to the metronomes inside

What is given birth to, will always be your child, ever be
your perfect moment of acceptance, even when shame
accompanies your blankets of desire—illuminating the process,
whether developed from sheer luminance or crafted entirely by deceptive means—after a passage of time collapses around the misjudged instrument, that gut-laden wrench of ensnared mesh, will
eventually be serrated from it’s sinewy hold, releasing that which is the antithesis of creative decree, yet, even in its newfound infancy, also beckons forth the impetus to stir the again, the clay

symmetrically advanced
methods for stasis and cathartic appeal
It burgeons the emotions
that only through the incorporation of time and
limitless expanding frames of undulating patter, can one ever
truly capture the entirety of perfect zeal, leveling out the instability that erodes the ruts created—those crumbling lines and scars, where
embracing ideations have also reared unexpected potency unto containers concealed within the realm of skewering complacencies—
and although it’s taken several decades to decode,
balance, finally will implode, unto it’s own design—inheriting
all the scraps and parcels often discarded in omission—where throughout the formative process, a variance of points relive each slightly seen yet often discouraged alignments of contortion’s determinacy—aptly and proportionally—until eventually you smile— unto that image forming upon the reflective screen—where balance finds its course—ever seeming to have mastered the craft of intrinsically bound schemes of illusory evasion—bringing about the balance that’s ever lingered outside your nets and snares, just never acknowledged as being part of the package and only slightly having been pondered before, as its consistency does now—replicates a piece of ensnarled string—packaging that dangles in it’s own uniquely flavored lines of alternating indices of sight

Finding the joy in opposites, the passion in chance
Giving balance
A struggling chance,
But chance still…
And symmetry has
A knack of finding
It’s other side

Random Exercise In Recall

There used to be this older man that lived in the house diagonally across from my own. He’d sit on his porch seemingly every inch of the day. He’d be rocking away on his old-school rocking chair well before I left the house for work at 7:00 in the morning, was there when I returned anywhere between 3:00 and 4:00 in the afternoon, and then, just because I’m the curious kind of neighbor, I’d peer out my shades just before I’d ready the bed, and sure enough there he’d be, nearly 11:00 at night, and although I couldn’t tell if he was awake or not, he was there, rocking gently, back in forth in the summertime air.

A group of grade-school children, presumably from the neighborhood, would go around and try to sell these raffle tickets for useless prizes, like gift cards to X-Box live or a brand new BMX bicycle. That type of stuff, not the ideal prizes for the predominant demographic that comprised this village, but, nevertheless, these old folks all seemed to chip in nicely, filling the young tikes baskets with all sorts of donations. This generosity always made me feel guilty, for not being able to afford tossing the kids a few bucks, but instead, times have dictated my personality for me, therefore I sit and outlast my dog’s barking at full volume, perhaps peaking out the shades here and there to see if they’d left yet. And I must admit, these kids sure did have persistence, as they’d wait and wait and wait, until I guess the idea struck them finally that even if the owner of this car in the driveway is at home, he’s most likely not going to answer the door.

Sixteen years ago a group of emissaries from some third world nation were protesting some trivial word-choice posted in some ad campaign for some local brewery. They went up on about 13 or so billboards throughout the area and although I can’t readily recall the exact terminology of the campaign, I realized at the time that these protests were pretty ridiculous, as I couldn’t find a single thing offensive in the ad. I remember it was supposed to be humorous though, which, if I were going to get upset, I guess it would’ve had to been due to the fact the billboard’s weren’t all too funny.

Sometimes I travel slowly through impoverished sections of towns, not just to make myself feel bad, but simply to make myself feel better at the same time.

Occasionally I stop and pass sandwiches out to the homeless, those in-need, which it always struck me oddly, that it never would take long for these people to throw the sandwich back at me, stating they don’t need my cooking, they don’t need my food, they need the money to go buy their own food, which of course, has quite the subtextual implications in my mind.

Anyhow, I guess you can’t satisfy anyone some of the times, and at other times, perhaps one is all that’s needed to make a mission satisfactory.

I wake up some days, wondering what it would be like to have unlimited funding, to do whatever the heck I chose to do. I don’t necessarily think of mansions and having 16 cars all with Italian last names, but I do daydream, about underwater estates or houses chiseled into mountainsides, or perhaps the world’s first home with a built in cloaking device, or how about my favorite one, where the driveway raises at the hit of a button and you just pull on in, driving into your personal underground parking garage.

Downtrodden and Disheartened

Sometimes faith is like a bitch
and her two sisters—
always gnawing at the pretty parts—
consuming all that’s precious and pure—
creating unending vacuums
of distress, dismay and discomfort—ever appearing, in waves, flooding forth and never ceding—
where vision quests of venomous agony rage, through
disheartened veins until sedation builds her nest deep inside

Matriculating thoroughly,
unyielding—it’s like a transformation
of lambs into frenzied beasts; doves
into vultures—
feeding on the disappointment
causally inherent when a reason to be, becomes the reason to doubt and question

However dark the marrow paints, the chamber walls, retain fluidity, we must, never allow our entireties to rot into transparent corpuscles devouring from within—we must make our numb demeanors pliable once more—and then without realizing how or when, gluttonous sadists we shall return to being again—after all, it’s all we know; it’s all we’ve ever been
The choices that are made, the unanswered prayers of pleaders and begging serfs, combine, and shape, a discontent, a contemptible paranoia—
Where how-could’s and why’s, grow paramount in the minds of the jilted and betrayed—
As they watch the brutal, perfidious and demonic climb the scaffoldings of life with such reality, they have ample time and opportunity to overlook your despair, feeding from your every tinge—and in such moments, you can do nothing but question, to the point you convince yourself, this ascending creature of perdition, has indeed exchanged winks with he who has many names…How could an innocent be sacrificed to allow sinners the freedom of beloved life?

Why are the believers most easily condemned? How is at that you’ve allowed the best of us, to simply become stairwells to the impure?

When will prayers be answered respectfully, instead they are honored, seemingly ever in inverse fashion alone? It is at such points your mettle is tested, and for the greater part of a lifetime logic and rationale would understand faith cannot be proved, it is, because you know it is—But I beg you not to ask me such opinions on days such as this one—at such a time— for I fear those answers I might share…