The End of the World

The veiled one replied,

And who wouldn’t be proud of me?

An atmosphere of polka dots of

Light bent on gravitational waves

Within a vast ineffable folded space

Some degrees north of an asteroid

Belt held her nebulae in place

Beneath a sulfuric acid sky.

There is no weave, no hue devised

What can hide divine form from the mind.

Even the deepest blackest masses

Yield their truth with backstage passes 

All in their own due time.

It’s just a little ways

I said to make the 6:58.

Stopped once along the way by

Stutter steps and heavy breath 

With diesel passing on the left.

Three chums into the boxy whale 

Before I scarce could catch its tail

And mouth agape it kindly waits

To catch me in the baleen seats

Along its windowed flanks

Only to spit me out about 

Twenty-some odd times a week.

Been awake awhile now

While most are still asleep. 

I could regret about everything

But I haven’t got the time.

I’m not the strongest link

The weakest or the richest soil

To grow a crop of human

If you hold on to your pride,

My name is gratitude,

I will remember you.

Dichotomy of Morality

You oh my beloved are the unredeemable sickest sadistic and twisted worst thing ever.

You are the holocaust and the survivor at one such time or another.

You are the ancient all mother, the eternal concept of the father.

You are the simple sisters, the brotherhood of ever, the comic tricksters.

Not always on the same side as the good guys, but most days while

our history is maddening just managing a smile without the customary grime is amaze.


A lot more than crime exists, for us to say it doesn’t pay or is useless,

it does pay, look at Wall St., New York Style puff piece buzzing in the postmodern way,

politics a noose for inconvenient truth, a trap set for the muddled youth

let loose over rumbling volcanic vents voluntarily vomiting out violence

shaking the momentary myopic myelin sheath of parallel peace

Haves and the Have-Nots have got to stand up with spine and thrust

against the spears of the nail salon clade before they can upgrade

the hypergamous tirades, the privilege and safe space hay rides, for slaves

without soul, without face, without mind or what to say when they come for it.


The nations are mere states of matter we make up of late

individual lives that strive to revive what once was of value

speak up, speak out, speak on what you know — listen though

to everyone you can’t stand: the blogs, the critics, your fellow man

rock beats the bleep out of paper for sure but word covers the earth

the fissures in the fractal foundation of our towering irony

with our books, stacked up thoughts and filmy frames go unseen

the losses and the greater gains made as a species

we carve names in stone and grind bones in a coke stove

stoked and broke and laid open to raise the roiling smoke

and the molten gold in our hearts flows into the holes

kintsugi kin broken again and again made whole.