Ashes to Dust.

Somewhere is a hallway lined,
by door upon closed-door,
each one leading to,
its own room full of lies,
boxes stacked up four high,
and color coded to the eye,
the naked eye sees right,
and someday, somebody,
will discover this place,
set off an explosive device,
to open up each doorway,
to be told every herein lie,
to be snowed,
to have the wool,
pull back over those eyes,
to be plowed,
mown over,
set on fire,
and then left alone to die,
in this hallway that’s burning,
in this place full of lies,
there’s no escape,
from what we choose,
to believe to be right,
only choice left is to embrace,
the flames,
the blazing light,
as the discoverer renders,
the discovery statement,
ashes are tendered,
before a gathered crowd,
only to be poured,
onto the dirt floor,
to the ground.


Beautiful, gorgeous, happy glow…
Your Sweetest Nothing’s
put into syllables, for show.
Fiery, wanting…
glued to your face
your mouth’s curves
a daunting place…
I’ve been before
But tell me how – I bow down
into the splinters and cinders
that litter the floors
like your long line of whores
I see them all,
I choose to ignore…
You never answer questions
your many Life Lessons
have taught you little of
the snap inside my rubber glove
We are meant to Own our possessions.
Are we not?
You have seen quite a lot
Of my flesh,
Camera flash;
digitalized dash
in red LED text;
what now?
Onto the next…
Or am I wrong?
Am I dumb
To play along?
See here’s the thing:
I see the strings
Attached to each one
Of your crispy clean
I see the line of
Space and time,
wrapped inside
Of that tattoo –
You were too pure
to follow through…
this hurts miserably;
Yes you , yes me.
Look away if you must
Your face is too much
to see, anyway.
Just go on about your
fashionable way.
You were fine before
I came along
In my string bikini thong
to knock upon your door;
You’ll be fine now,
and I guess…
so will I, somehow –
Just forget it all,
my cries and calls,
forget me
don’t see me…
don’t see me fall.
You won’t believe me,
Your ears don’t hear
a word I say.
Go fucking play
As you have,
each and every day
as it’s passed.
What was that?
What did you say?
“Score?…Because of…?”
And you’re talking about
How I showed
my bare ass to you –
For that,
I counter you:
Mr. Fashionably True,
I hope this finds you well;
I hope it reaches you;
And hits you
makes you hurt
as you’re looking up my skirt…
What’s the score again?
Mr. Hockey Man –
dead red battery
flashing in your corner screen,
you don’t know the bones
that construct Lil’ Ol’ Me,
nothing taken seriously…
so fuck yourself,
good and hard –
multiplied by twelve.
I am a star,
And I will shine in Hell –
Quit kidding yourself.

In Lieu.

The seconds don’t matter

same as meaningless chatter

the minutes form a comedy

that is my existence, actually

the hours are anchors

attaching to the fog

that I see the whole world through

not funny at all, but sure to amuse

not heavy, but sure to fall through

down into the thick and inky hues

now, a tragedy forms in lieu

and the audience applauds

clapped hands and head nods

as if they like to see

me poised here, ready to bleed

my hands can’t seem

to grip the props tightly

clatter and clang to the floor

in a room I can’t leave anymore

throughout the course, I become

unable to trust anyone,

unable to see what I’ve done,

unable to reach out,

far too gone.




My friends…
The evening ends…

Take off
The masks
That help us pretend…

It’s true…
We are…
No closer to them…

Let go…
Of hopes…
Of our salvation. ..

The truth…
In all that I am…

My friends…
Do not let them win…

Stand tall…
Don’t fall…
Keep faith unbroken…

Shrink not…
In strength…
The knot will strengthen. ..

Be wise…
See far…
Past the horizon…

My friends…
The skirmish begins

High-lighted Pages.

Okay, then –
in the spirit,
of saving time:
allow me,
to admit,
whatever deeds,
that you need,
to claim,
as being mine,
well, Hell,
oh damn…
it’s all my fault,
once again;
see my arm up,
see it waving,
see how much,
bigger I am?
Gods’ damn,
“Little Man” –
who designed
your B Plan…
as it was,
just because,
so stupidly,
you now stand;
all alone,
left to hold,
a Mystery Bag;
no trigger piece,
left on your hip,
and suddenly,
that tongue of yours,
doesn’t seem to slip…
maybe you,
don’t really know,
how serious,
how deep this goes,
the importance of,
your admitted love:
for being in control,
Red Flag,
highlighted pages,
deciphered by:
all the ages,
with the exceptions,
in each generation,
of the ugliest spirits,
with the prettiest faces.


pressed ‘n pleated,
pre-disposed and superseded,
but poorly heeded,
over-psychiatrically treated,
pin-up prose,
cake-layer completed,
centrally distributed,
locally re-heated,
nearly spewed,
swallowed up,
oh fuck – regurgitated,
won’t sit well,
if stacked up to,
the tried and true,
another epic fail,
shoddily fabricated,
horizontally situated,
systematically nauseated,
linguistically and verbally inebriated,
an atrocity,
a featherless Crane,
singed into the brain,
of the Herring,
a forsaken queen,
been busy,
out bone-collecting,
well beyond her means,
never satiated,
by her plundering,
blindly placated,
by the obsolete,
of the broken-spirited,
broken down,
rotted through,
to an army paraded,
beneath the sole of my shoe.

On Time’s Passing.



Time passes,


and painlessly,

beating drums,

a Capella,

in a Native tongue

charge the masses

all against one;

time passes,


and painfully,

broken home,


a tap to the bone

reality in flashes

I’m all alone;

time passes,


and painlessly,

sapping hearts,

déjà vu,

of the same parts

hurt that smashes

all else apart;

time passes,


and painfully,

silent tears,


to mask the fear

lightning crashes

between my ears;

time passes.


and painlessly,

and I wait,


destiny and fate

enamel smashes

porcelain tea plate.

Time still passes

it both hurts

and strengthens

me, Sir;

Be it never

really for


or I

to understand

or to

its dance, concur.



The music doesn’t calm my blood’s boiling;

The moon doesn’t rise when it should.

The sunlight’s warmth only cools my bones;

while I count these nickels made of wood.

My mind lacks comprehension;

My body is tired and alone;

My soul must’ve left me long, long ago –

My spirit’s gone looking for home.

There’s a place underneath buried bones of the deep;

Away from all the things that terrify me.



Spiders and Snipers


(Original Photo by Americana Injustica, 2005)


I do not know which way to go,
the signs all look the same;
There is no predefined – start or finish line,
no daybreak to the night.
I cannot figure my own grip on the trigger,
wrapped tightly into a metallic weave.
It’s hard to define which pieces are mine,
and when I can, I choose not to perceive.
Sniper’s spiders scatter like exploding dark matter,
upon the highest points, looking down at me;
My heart beats like a drum into dead woman’s hum,
and then darkness falls all around me.

Tick. Tick. Tick

The moments between pulling the pin and clearing the distance necessary for safety –

These moments filled with dread and doubt and abandon –

Swirling with the desperate thoughts of a million and two suicidal in the final minutes of a million and two miserable lives, the air around these moments grows thick and greasy with the oils dug up from the deeps, worldwide; expectant of some kind of natural law to level itself out once more, but only thickening by the nano-second.

These moments after I press the ‘send’ button and before I receive a reply that is to my liking – one that typically never comes – those moments that seem to choke and throttle out small reminders to me of why I am so alone in the world, of why I always will be and have been.

These moments after I slice open my dried out heart to show you that it’s empty and withered away – to prove to you that there’s no blood pumping through it the way there’s supposed to be, like there used to be…

These moments provide this being’s only means of feeling alive; if only to feel the hurt and sorrow and pain and guilt – they remind me that I am, indeed, ALIVE with more blood left to spill, if necessary.

The moments hanging in air so heavily between one violent act and the next – spent in genuine hope that this might finally be the last time he bashes my head in – that this time his brute force and strength may actually do me in at last; between then and the moment he DOES try to kill me, and I am somehow overcome with shocked disbelief that he just cut my throat with his knife… scar tissue, stab wounds and slash marks are my life’s humbled reminders of the Hell I once drowned in, and the depths that I have also resurfaced from.

A testament in the moments of better days, to the unimaginable and quite regrettable past I’ve left behind like chewy dust in the sticky wind: my mind is wide open for the chance to be free and free others like me; my heart is behind my mind 110% during these moments that fleet across the void of mind and the dark of night.

I curse and long for these moments, these morsels of truth and what’s REAL…for, without them – I’m a simple, parasitic animal leeching my way through existence. Not a care in the world.


Around and around the wheel of luck goes,

Where it will stop, I’m sure that I know:

A miserable place that I’ve been to before;

where humanity is scarce and morale stands low.

The girl hates her mother for the life the girl lives,

her mother hates life and its perverse incentives;

Infiltrated then desecrated, see the foundation give,

for the entertainment of the “professional” collective.

It must be lost on all but me – the depths to this stupidity;

Each eye besides mine turns blind to space and time;

traveling, passing right through the heart of me.