passing on the past pt 1

well not really a poem here just a bit of rambling. I was chatting with someone today that I feel is fast becoming a friend, and for those that know me, know that friends are lifelong commitments to me. well chatting to (hmmm let's call her Kat) Kat always seems to remind me of all that use to be the goods things in my Ex. Just a fun, interesting person to chat to, often about nothing, but seemingly important things to us. I often think if (hmm let's call my Ex Christie, ah that will make her mad) Christie had not lost her mind, we would be where. Hmmm well considering that I left her I guess I am not sure, I just know that I didn't like the person that i was becoming around her. She seemed to bring out the worst in me. I know it was all my fault (she often told me so), I know I was a horrible person to live with, I was obsessed with work and was fond of money and things. I was obsessed with what I would leave behind and not with what I had in front of me. Oh well there are other fish in the pond and some without worms. Of course I spoiled her to my own demise. I gave her everything I could afford to and eventually none of it was good enough for her. I felt like I was riding a coal burning black train running way past it's prime into the age of diesels, and I was just to small to hold everything. I kept piling things on hoping that one of those cars full of goods would bring back that wide eyed innocence that she use to look at me with so many years ago.

parking under the bridge

this empty affliction i met a girl in at a texmex grill and she left with me in a rush of passion that poured out from her as we parked under the bridge over by the founders park she seemed wonderful but not to clean when i asked about her perfume she said it was called "earthy girl" and i said yeah it does smell like dirt so come on over here and watch us as we rumble around she said she was married but getting a divorce i said that is okay i am divorced but getting married i left her there by the tracks and drove away wondering what use to be in those empty boxcars

A book of blue collar American poetry. This isn't no soup for the American soul, this is whiskey for the American Spirit.






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Published by Broken Piston Publishers

Out for the count

This life this life
This life feels like I bought it from a used jesus salesman
This love this love
This love it plays like a windup romance
This heart this heart
This heart sounds just like a slow dance
This memory this memory
This memory is as cold as a winter rain
The smell the smell
The smell of her skin still lingers whenever I take a breath
This heartache this heartache
This heartache is still the best of my life
This day this day
This day is as bright as a hundred watt bulb
But here but here
But here I am

Plastic Patricia

Plastic Patricia




Dirty little lover
Looking to star on a magazine cover
She’s had it all done
Can’t tell the right from the left
Ohh absolutely perfect
How depressing
Smears her face in grease
Trying to get the photographers eye
But all his attention is on the odd little brunette
Sitting in the corner
No makeup and no fashion sense
No plastic in sight
Dirty little lover
Still trying to recover
From the latest lower lip perfection procedure
And not the ones on her face
She looks in the mirror
And can only see that thousand dollar hair
Against the odd little brunette’s five dollar chop
Dirty little lover
Spent to much time
Thinking about all the women in her daddy’s
Magazines

Third Finger, Left hand

Third Finger, Left hand




Wicked little girl
Cuttin’ out my heart
A little stone there, but nothing to brag about
She left me for dead
With my wretched little heart
That indention still around her finger
Where that metal band had wore
Wicked little girl
With a story for everything
A baby in her womb
Or maybe she is just bloated
With my wretched little soul
With a beast in her body
She screams
And slams her breath into my mind
Wicked little girl
And a freak in the night
A freak as the sunlight comes into her eyes
Wicked little girl

something for halloween

Straightjacket Scarlet




I am a carpenter on the cruel ship remorse
Pounding those nails into your dreams
Little bitch raised her hand
Asking me for a favor
I invited her out to the woods
Past the little café
Just this side of the border
Where I had scratched a shallow grave
and I could see the fright in her eyes
as I pulled that pistol from my pocket
and she started to whimper
as I took another slug from that whiskey bottle
and rambled on about life
and infidelity
and pulled that pine box I had made from
the shadows of the night
and I heard her draw a breath
as I drew the shovel from the interior
I slid that pine into the grave
And I whispered to her
That covering it would be but a few shovels

And I shot myself in the head