Featured Work Archive
sex in France is great
i don't have to worry about the sheets
reset my gaydar
make the coffee
think about my skin under UV
light my cigarettes after cocaine
no matter how bad i get
the cheese is worse
though, really i do shower
every half-day in a granite pink
wetroom cut from some Italian village
honestly, there's more wine than god here
i don't have to go all the way to the 17th century
and bring up another château margaux
to the stereo glass fronted room
overlooking la petite ville
verres à vin
in her platinum fingers
on Debbie Harry's lips
in the red sun
tick down to dusk
my dark mouth
Nothin' But the Blues
You looked at me this morning
like I was about to pay some dues
you didn’t give me no fair warning
you gave me nothin’ but the blues
I slipped on my traveling shoes
It really wasn’t no great surprise
Not the first time I knew I’d lose
like when a very old man dies
you gave me nothin but the blues
for 12 long years I carried a torch
when I asked you could you feel my flame
you turned back around on the porch,
and said it’s nothin’ new, it's all the same
You gave me nothin… nothin’ but the blues
I rode trains all the way clear out of sight
No destination, jus’ all the way gone
Clear on rollin’ straight through the night
Your face came back to me like a song
You gave me nothin’,
You gave me nothin’…
but the blues
This is a conceptual piece of audio-visual Art of my own making.
Be aware this piece of Art is 6 minutes long and is in 3 Movements.
The 3 Movements are
- Notes from 17
The beautiful cello music was composed and played by Yukiko Louvière at VM Studios, La Rochelle, France between 2016 and 2017.
The sound engineering and production was created and designed by Vanessa Montague.
I hope you enjoy!
Please watch in full screen, high-definition where possible.
Mostly inside your body, and sometime after the first ejaculation,
there will be many small disasters and a small amount of air
and a world you must share
You will eat crab legs and drink pinot grigio with a female
and it will disappear down your throat and you will like it
and precious minutes will be spent making what you think
is love but will only be the grunting and pushing of the animal
inside you, and, really
most minutes will be spent inside things: a building, bed
room, emotions, drunken stupors, that same female,
the two of you like swans in a fountain
or sometimes like two raccoons, full of night time
shenanigans, feeding on the curbside garbage
because there is no food in an encroaching world.
Nebraska in the Dark
The piano builds to a climax. Then stops.
Johnny stands in front of the mirror. Fool around.
Get an idea.
Work on it.
Johnny's dad fakes a job. Mom dreams
of escape. Sis plays trumpet in black
Johnny loves the smell of fresh cut
clarinet. Tina hiked from Tulsa. Too many cows in the yard.
on the hotel bed. Johnny dreams
and escargot. It's a process.
Never tango and tell.
Tina stands in front of the mirror. Get an idea.
Work on it.
Johnny spins the blade
like Fred Astaire.
9 octave slashes....
Date Night At Sands Casino
A lady at the table across from us asked if she could buy a cigarette. I said you can just have one. When I handed it to her she didn't notice that she had given me the rest of her night. When I showed it to my wife, she wanted to make sure we got out to the car quickly. We locked all of the self-assuredness in the trunk under my jacket. We pocketed her high regard and stuffed her overall sense of self in the glove compartment. I put her moxy on my wife's finger. We snorted the joy, smoked up the girls night out giggles, inhaled the false sense of security and freebased privilege. We licked the attractive white female contentment off of each other and chased it with her beer buzz .Then we dumped everything sacred on a ladies room floor and went running back in to the penny slot machines with her luck.
That might be true. Still, every month,
this big ark carries seven billion of us
with all of our parasites and baggage
across 51 million miles of outer space.
Somebody said that on a show I saw.
So I’m not worrying about our planet.
What does worry me is Mexico. A lot!
Too many very bad deals and hombres—
murdering Americans, bringing drugs,
stealing jobs. All of our jobs disappear.
That’s why I’m going to build the wall.
Exactly like that famous wall in China.
Tomorrow, all the fake news will claim,
“Donald Trump really hates Mexicans!”
But I don’t. I’m a huge fan of Hispanics.
What I hate is everybody who is illegal,
everybody who is a gang member,
and everybody who is raping our people.
When China built their own great wall,
the Emperor never said all Mongolians
were terrible barbarians. Some were
actually very good law-abiding people.
So he still built the wall, but put doors
in the middle of it for the nice ones.
Today, if you go up to outer space,
you can still see...
A Little Bit Like PT Barnum’s Blues
There’s some women live down by the first arroyo,
they ain’t happy with their chances, they’re real mad.
So if you get down there keep it simple, don’t say no,
you’ll be all out of synch out of spin, dressed in plaid.
The doctor living down the block lost all his fingers
to a sausage grinder named Pedro, he wrote me a script
but the farmacia’s closed and the town is closed to singers;
everyplace but Annabelle's salon felt just like a crypt.
There’s a gypsy in the belfry shouting for deliverance,
stay away from there, you can’t do nothin', she'll endure,
she’s taken all you own from you except your pants,
she’s a real princess but your face to her is just a blur.
The cops here got a shady business to themselves,
If you want a bright tomorrow, get your ass in gear.
The sheriff he’s got everybody’s teeth on shelves,
you wanna find easy street, let me tell you it ain’t here.
Angel still can't find the coast, it's nowhere in clear sight,
Termites wash their faces in porcelain sinks,
tap water splashes
over limp antennae, over dangling forelegs.
Termites are bored.
Termites are bored by their queen,
bored by her emphatic hand gestures,
her to-do-lists, her lectures, her orgasms.
Termites are bored with pulping wood;
termites are bored by termite damage,
seeing it, knowing the facts, feeling powerless.
Termites tramp down creaking stairs.
They are a world-weary swarm.
Their teaspoons clink against their teacups
as they gobble up a pinewood breakfast table.
Termites are bored by the shrill termite voice on the radio.
Other insects go to dinner parties;
other insects win talent contests;
other insects fly to Paris and make videos.
Termites pull on heavy chitin overcoats
and skitter away down garden paths
to eat dead things and wrestle with
centipedes, lizards and aardvarks.
The nurse and the news
say I'm deficient in vitamin D-
a by-product of
English circadian rhythm,
Low on this elixir
and you are
shackled to the seasons,
taking long naps and
I forage for advice online:
Take a capsule,
some oily fish.
go to the park.
Unleash the vivacity
in your brain.
You know that
all in your head.
Douse myself in sun
until my skin smells
of sweat and ash,
turns pink like
little girls' dresses.
The heart is a roomy place.
It has space for ever mores,
do overs, well wishes, stays.
The heart wrote the story of
again. It was a tear jerker full
of plot twists that wanted to
end better for many a kisser.
The heart can do more than
we ever ask. Which is why it
gives full tick of manic flesh.
Ask of it to hold across miles
for however long, done. See?
What is time to the heart, but
a flimsy excuse to leave early?
Castle of bone on
bone, mortared by
flesh, sinewed like
stone in ivy's grip.
Too soon our walls
fail, crumble in stiff
betrayal. Steps to
over here or there,
a marathon. Abler
are intentions than
deeds. Whatever it
was that didn't get
done has no future.
Turn from who you
were. She long ago
left with her lipstick
case. This trembler
took her chair. She
frets about the door
being locked, if her
mailman is on time.
All structure comes
to ruin, even turrets
gargoyled in youth.
Four houses, six cars, three wives, and two kids later,
he despaired: pension, stocks, and bonds, all well balanced,
except for him. So he went to France to despair in style.
Over dinner, his escort asked him how much he was worth.
A lot, he said, maybe more, then went to his room alone,
where he flicked the light, locked the door, thought, not much,
maybe less, and poured himself too many drinks.
Hours passed, the dark grew vast, sweeping Paris in its drift
as he sank to sleep listening to the late-night rain
that rattled on the mansard roofs and slicked the cobbled
Place Vendôme, the runoff sluicing though the gutters,
down the storied sewers, into the streetlight-silvered Seine,
through his lot of nights to follow, into the North Atlantic
beneath the Borealis and a wealth of worthless stars.
In a vacated spider web,
a mosquito husk
beaten by a light breeze.
“Stuff you find floating in the bayou is like the family Bible.
After these years, no Jesus walking on the water, though.
A baby, once. A dead Moses, maybe.
Plastic locket with a snip of kinky dyed-red hair in it.
The lids from coffee cans.
Boots, hula hoops, brooms, Coca-Cola cups.
Church-going hats, beer kegs, Bic lighters.
Empty booze pints with the caps screwed back on.
A singing trout, a Nicaraguan passport.
Curlers and hypodermics.
Still in torn shrink wrap—
bobble-head of Louis Armstrong or Al HIrt,
hard to tell with all the paint soaked off.
Raincoats, beaded roses, ironing-board.
A stiff budgie in a hair-pomade jar.
Truck tires, pom-poms, whiffle bats.
And a box from Amazon
with all those clear air-filled pontoons in it
and a little girl's pink princess telephone.
I wouldn’t like no president who’s related to me,” he says.
"And I definitely don’t want no president who feels like me.”...
I'm not writing this poem
no sorry, that's your job
I'll feed you no slices
of semantics in gelatine
no bright picture albums
or didactic homilies
how do you feel now?
perhaps slightly cheated?
like you've paid for an iPhone
but got only packaging?
you can't sue me
this narrator's a
and meaning's a
in a dinosaur's mouth
Page 5 of 73