The tired American

I rephrase broken sentences,
sentences gluing time –
from once we came
our sisters’ cry was heard
and then benign that tumor born
was cast aside.

These days incumbent overlord –
returns with smile – beguiles.
The facade that ceased to trick
while infusing bloody venom –
it streams downward mighty thinking –
Germinal revised.

The worm is eating the rested rind –
careworn mother resigns her life
to nothing tempered nothing saved –
it breaks the heart,
it bends the spine,
sublimity denied.

Hand to mouth is how we live
and mouth to hand refrain,
no need for explanation is
how the homeless range.
Poverty excised – that moral war,
we lost it long ago.



Language and games

Language and games


‘War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.’ George Orwell


Over time these words of ours

lose their meaning.

Something bad is good

while an entitlement isn’t earned.


It is avarice that seeps like a leech,

bleeding each letter –

their corpses are dry.

Lifeless and useless they become

as a mockingbird

taunts while flying by.


All below the bird is still.

These meanings play

games and on more than

one occasion –

this language of man

turns lifeless

In the barren land –

money soaked, it is heartless.


Fewer words, more or less –

the founders framed us,

refining to suit

a game of concert.

If we don’t remember

how it is done in meter –

then we can pick up embers

and die from

the wit of it.


Alas these alternative facts

embolden the brainless;

that droopy and dying flower –

emblem of this age of endless lies.



My country lies in the cradle rocking

My country lies in the cradle rocking,
knocking at my door you come-
with a bat that is ready to swing
you bring this inning home.

Integrity lies on the willow waiting,
baiting at my line to bring
a fisher’s hook my eye to catch-
watch it bleed and sing.

The lonely rendered jack a boot,
hooting owl, a nightly ghost-
swoops the sparrow from his nest
and all the rest is quickly toast.

My country lies in the cradle rocking,
knocking at my door you came-
jingoist called me honey-
the sparrow’s impending doom.


i once wrote yellow

i once wrote yellow
a spring of
daffodils and roses
swam towards me
a garden of childhood delights

only blue spills out of this pen
winter is closing in on these
once red lips
i live off charcoal and whale fat
i keep my veins sour,
i don’t want them to burst