Category Archives: Words

Nobody Home

I’ve got a little black book with my poems in 

I’ve got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in 

When I’m a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in 
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on 
Got those swollen hand blues. 
Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from 
I’ve got electric light 
And I’ve got second sight 
I’ve got amazing powers of observation 
And that is how I know 
When I try to get through 
On the telephone to you 
There’ll be nobody home 
I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm 
And I’ve got the inevitable pinhole burns 
All down the front of my favourite satin shirt 
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers 
I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain 
I’ve got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains 
I’ve got wild staring eyes 
I’ve got a strong urge to fly 
But I’ve got nowhere to fly to 
Ooooh Babe when I pick up the phone 
There’s still nobody home 
I’ve got a pair of Gohills boots 
And I’ve got fading roots.


On The Road  I

A journey already in progress. The entirety of my life. One long, complex series of interactions, causes, effects, thoughts, words, deeds, accomplishments, and failures. All leading to this present point in space-time where it fans out ahead of me like a prism splitting light. Possibilities in an endless spectrum.

I read somewhere that thinking too much about the past causes depression, and thinking too much of the future causes anxiety. There really is no other time like now. The present, the source of all futures. And yet, we all too often drift off to the past in sorrow, obsess over possible futures in dread, or, disappear behind the thought processes needed to navigate a path from the former to the latter without focusing on either for too long.

Dejá Vu To A Kill

She works a hustle as old as sex,
Stroke my ego, then stroke me.
The con goes like a cursed hex,
Now mostly words. No action, see?
Promise of love hidden in hate,
Keep the money flowing on in.
Perhaps she’ll dress for a date,
That is, so long as she sins.
Her desires fulfilled, she holds out,
Maybe another has her other need.
She lies, cajoles, and offers a pout
Turning one to another with greed.
Not just con, but survival skill,
She plays them against the other.
No morals, sheerly her own will
Necessity and lust are the mother.