The last piece of the cookie

Sleeping next to someone
The last piece of the cookie

Un addressed letters
The well of pornography

Cold morning
Walking alone
Crows in the distance

Making yourself
Restrengthening old muscles

The first time
The open road
Gripping the pedals
There is no mercy



weaker and More magical

The Christmas lights
Finally took down

Posing for photographs
Post office penguins

The wrong sized bags for things
I love how you use them

a serial drama
Looking at my time here

Too long
We linger in coffee shoppes

Across the room
to each other

It’s right
How I know

weaker and
More magical

The color on paper

I don’t have to choose
The freedom comes

We listen to the sound.

We have freed ourselves
Of the soldiers
And the tattoo artists.

A path to flowers

Waking up in a tiger cage
Forgetting everyone’s name

Walks will get you places
An education takes place

A crime scene
A moment remembered
Buildings not there
Buildings there
A painting

In search of Perfect moments
Discovering Bad evidence
Walking alone

A path to flowers
Appear sometimes
on the road to burgers

The words pass through
The brush behind
The buildings
How do the filters hurt you
Telephones, appliances
Pick up the receiver
Look at the beautiful

Human signs


Things grow in the shadows

“Teens charged with murder”
The inevitable pace

Fire creeping around a log
Morning light trough
The basement window

Competitive worshiping
Judging the love

No mission

I am not your
nuts and berries

I cannot make new life

Things grow in the shadows
We can explore them

We can mold the darkness
Like mud in the bog

Strategery of cul de sac living

Neon prison
Pepsi, Doritos, Mountain Dew
Jack hammeringaway
at lids And doors

Strategery of cul de sac living

Ticking with the natives
Gripping the ledge

Small sores
On the backs of my hands

Oh to let go
And land safely
on a memory foam of
Free napkins

Swan dive into
An endless sea of
nippled bottles
And quarter pounder wrappers

Or we could be heroes

Smoke butts
on the loading dock
Shooting at fish
in a glass barrel

I hear gun shots in the distance
I read gun shots in the newspaper
I see gun shots on the TV

But there is tolerance
And love
all around
The free air

A tasters choice… Saturday January 24, 2015  #SchwervonPoetry

Last night’s show poem.


A tasters choice
Earning every meal 

Dead pidgeon on a dumpster 
Beautiful hotel lights 

That guy probably makes 
More than both of us

Nice try asshole
Just park your fucking truck 

I am confidence builder 
You are insecure  one

Picking fights like picking noses
I want you to succeed 
in spite of me

“Ice picks on your tongue”
Long underwear on your lips

Breathe in the cold 

I know I’m not the man
Who always gets things right

I’m not like Neil Young 
I don’t drive cars real fast 
I dabble in the dark arts

Watching ourselves 
In a fishbowl

It’s painful or peaceful 
Ghost of a cat 
In the corner of my eye

A choice 
A tasters choice 

(This poem was recited for the first time on Saturday January 24, 2015 at Coda in Kansas City, MO)

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Lost perfect words Between sleeping and waking

Lost perfect words
Between sleeping and waking

Give me that at least
A present for my sadness

The mystery of action
Upon all apparent vices

To see the bottom
And return

Robbins playing in snow
Squirrels dancing with sorrow

All of us

All of us crowned in blood

You have a choice
to turn the page
Or push the button
a choice
To swim the ocean
Between them

Courage to follow
Your mind where it wanders
To make use
Of the resting places
Along the path

To heighten your quest
For soft arrows and turning logs

Eternal reverb
a voice worth worshiping

Never spilling
Just moving

Dead wood redundant

To say a dead corpse
would be redundant

But Wood can some
how Still be alive

We fire up the human fat
For our catapults
It’s not a Mongol thing
It’s a human thing

An education in
Self soothing

Time to stretch things out
Read the skin and entrails
Consult the eight ball
Plot our next move

A larger cup is not the solution
To our cup a day ration

Bless me father
My hair has thinned

We learn to Speak
softly to a dying wind

Especially in wintertime
an especially Special

Dead wood redundant

Arguments survive
For generations

Empty boxes
Old milk
Long past it’s use

A heart is just a wheel
stuck in dried mud

a simple revolution
Is all that’s needed