The screams at the end

The screams at the end are my favorite part,

A park bench in the wintertime,

Complete with the appropriate music and jingling bells,

A flock of pigeons

waiting to become                                                    friendly,

waiting to become                                                           fed,

welcome to the fold.

The branches of a nearby tree slowly bending to the weight of the snow,

not under the weight of birds,

reaching towards the ground,

instead of towards the  sun,

desperately trying to pick up scraps leftover from thanksgiving,

or fallen apples or baseballs or whatever is within striking distance,

Trying to make a Christmas dinner out of nothing but

sleeping vampires and silver bullets,

with no cider to keep us warm.

with no chairs to keep us upright.

                         with no place for our swinging hands.

Our ghostly hands.

Our heavenly hands.

Eventually all the snow will  fall, on top of more snow,

and that snow will be

colder now that it is further from the hot air from above,

Further from all  the weather balloons

and the exploding artillery shells,

and the  stranded astronauts beyond even them

and everything else beyond that.

Beyond them.

colder now that it is further from the truth,

better now that is with more snow,

snow more like itself.

                                                              smoke in another life.

In a wisp, it is gone.

Passing through cracks in a window,

                                                             and passing through already vacant towns,

Kicking in the doors to saloons where

No pianos are playing.

No pianos are playing.

There is no one dancing.

This can all be seen from the balcony.

                                      Arms crossed, and barely breathing,

but man,

what a smile.

And those screams,  at the end,

Those screams, too.


like some crows do

Striving to fly,

In a straight line,

      like some crows do,

                 like some crows do,

Walking through a desert, and gaining nothing,

                             Especially traction

                            Except traction

While your pockets fill up with sand and birds that are flying away from winter,

They will bounce around for awhile, but then they will go to sleep.

Your mouth still is singing though,

your mouth is always singing,

Singing about how the sun is shining a little too brightly,

                                               Singing about Atlantis and the rest of

Walking through a jungle, and gaining nothing.

knifing through these jungles,

Swinging on vines and drinking from waterfalls,

Listening to the sound of home-runs being hit, in these jungles.

On radios that are not in these jungles.

on radios you do not even own,

staggering while doing so,

                           limping towards civilization,

towards all the towers and the lights and the empty buildings, and the campfires,

a spring in your step now,

still striving to fly in a straight line,

                                                                               Not quite flying in a straight line,

 like some crows do,

                    like some crows do,



A picture of a man getting a haircut

Actually stuck in the tar pits for once,

                        The floor of a mobile home,

                 littered with yellowing magazines,

& dinosaur bones

and  textbooks regarding mythology

Complete with the most beautiful pictures of medusa,

And still no one was turned to stone,

and instruction manuals to children’s toys,

Lost in the mud long ago,

Left alone to be consumed by the snakes,

All this literature, still

Higher definition then  the paisley couch on which everyone sits ,

that is slowly coming undone.

                                                                                                                    Slowly turning to stone,

 and almanacs,

so many almanacs.

But the picture is still missing,

All of this,

The bones and the literature and the magazines

all  bound for a dumpster fire,

Instead of a funeral pyre,

Narrowly avoiding the luxury of being burned  and subsequently  evacuated excavated-

under the cover of moonlight.

By an amateur archeologist,

and then

Dusted off in some hotel,

In a room with no numbers on the door-

              By a man with quarters on his eyes,

By that same amateur archeologist,

Who is now

A gambler  at the booking window-

A glass window,

Which means their is transparency here.

There are ghosts here.

Putting up whatever he can muster,

Coins, and chips  and shell casings and tubes of lipstick,

Pushing the entire avalanche towards

The man in the plastic visor,

Picking his horse,

Picking this horse,

                                     securing nothing, but an eventual stampede.

A hood over his face as he walks toward the revolution,

Sand whipping up all around him like some desert wind has blown in,

The sound of

Galloping horses  and busy answering machines  fill the air

                                                                 and his nose

and his eyes and his mouth,

instead of the gritty sand.

Much better than the gritty sand,

Accompanied  by the light from a procession of torches,

Leaping over craters,

In slow motion.

The tar pits  clamped down like a hungry shark,

Taking with it  his shoes and his socks,

But not his resolve or his jeans,

Damnit, not the jeans.

He can still skip into the streetlight


carried  by the calls of angels,

but they cant hold on,

He slips through the talons of the eagles that have replaced the angels,

his neck is too heavy with pearls.

his heart is too heavy, also

thinking of that lost picture,

                      The picture that he drew himself,

              He is no artist,

but it was him-

it was meant to be him-

A man getting a haircut,

Laid back  in that big robotic chair,

Dizzy from the spinning,

Head  tilted back in a sink,

The thought of drowning occurring to him now more than ever,

Staring up at hissing cats,

Feeling like an android now more than ever,

clippings of his hair falling into the basin below, and circling the drain,

                      But he cant see it.

He can see it.

He doesn’t want to see it,

That picture he drew.

he didn’t know why he drew that particular scene,

A man getting a haircut,

Why he thought

A picture of a  man getting a haircut would absolve anything at all.

Lost among pictures of medusa,

             and so many almanacs,

so many almanacs













The crops are safe, though

No cryptic message here,

Only elasticity,

A focus so narrow;

The lines bend and blend together

On the days where only an occasional engine is fired up

and the rest of the world is on a vacation ,

Hanging above white sand in a hammock,

                                                                 hat pulled over their eyes like a sleeping cowboy.

There is a mild smell of sulfur in the air,

and the recitation of scripture is aglow and

                                                                                                           very, very real.

Followed by the echoes and certainly by

 the explosions of geysers in national parks,

 the explosions of geysers in national parks,

Posturing for something more real, then a tourist wearing a sweaty visor.

A buzzing of winged insects…

A plague is upon us,

The crops are safe through

The crops are safe though,

When hyphens replace all other forms of punctuation,

and the sound of thunder threatens the heavens and the earth

but never really makes an appearance,

A hallmark;

A bookmark;

A certain salvation

Signed  and left (for dead)


In a box, topped with a red flag,

Topped with a  red fire,

                                on the very edge of the property line,

on the very end of the galaxy,

on the very edge of the ocean,

The fire visible for miles, for eons even.

Burning resolutely,  like an archangel in exodus,

Like a string of holiday lights,

Left hanging a little too long.






                                        Born again,

Stuck in time

Awash with                                                    movies


with fairies

and on an afternoon

That was blessed



With no clouds whatsoever.

With no chance whatsoever.

A hopelessness blows,

Not loudly enough to move the wind-chimes.

Shining through the closed widows,

Keeping the sinners and widows out

                                                        Passing through ruffled curtains-

Passing through deserted towns-

Phasing in


Out again

Hating their own handwriting-

Nursing their  own injured  hamstrings-

Waiting for the oven to finally preheat

Seconds turn into place settings and minutes turn into

musical chairs.

What little light does shine through,

illuminates the dust-

Illuminates the angels present within this corridor,

Salvaging what can be salvaged.

This motion picture,

Stuck in this quicksand-

Tundra clouds fast approaching,

                                                  Tires screeching,


Sounds from tired  chainsaws.

Sounds born from the mouths of volcanoes,

Sounds born from some distant forest,

Sounds born out of violence.

The only place to truly rest,

Is glued to a loveseat,

In between previews,

Tossing and turning,

Calling out for any hero,

Calling out for any gorgon,

in between previews

                                                                                       still lost in the mist.



I’ll remember you by the banana peels you left behind

Summer days spent like currency,

Exchanging hands and falling in between the cracks,

                Feeling in between the seats, but still out of reach.

          Falling in between stars, but still out of reach

                                                     As the windshield wipers make their case as hypnotists.

                                            As the headlight make their case as exhibitionists.

Blowing like leaves,

Yet afraid of the  height from which they fall.

A land of no water but of so many possibilities,

So many waterfalls,

Infinite ideas blooming all the time,  like a garden when spring is thrown  onto the canvas,

                                                                      By a very tired winter.

                                           By a very tired wint…

Stray cats, and their non-existent collars spring back and fourth like volleyballs,

Darting from yard to yard, scaling fences like

Rampant tricksters,

Or wayward volleyballs,

Spiked over taut nets,

Silent as they make their way;

                                                      Worrying the  panting dogs and delivering on their promise of annexing all the  surrounding above ground pools.

Still at night.

Still in the night.

Watching intently the   boundless peasant, wandering the countryside and begging for crumbs,

Flask  at his hip, concealed in paper bags,

           Or in yesterdays newspaper,

Shirt wrinkled and un-tucked,

What hair is left, having never felt the embrace of a comb.

                         having never lifted a finger anyways,

sneaking in when the old mother falls asleep, listening  to talk radio,

Seeking out a place to sleep, and nothing more.

But the observant  cats,

Looking for the flattest rooftops on which to imagine the moon as a ball of yarn,

And dream of unwinding it,

and tiptoeing around  the fluctuating  tides that would

Inevitably spill over  as a result,

Spending nights like these,

Only ever keeping one eye open for the occasional sprinkler,

With either poor or perfect timing, depending on you’re perception;

Days will arise and garage doors open,


The houses yawn,

The houses yawn,

A potted plant, cut from the cloth of another.

Cain & Abel, in garden form.

Gifted by a neighbor, a traitor.

Planted by a founder, and an innovator,

The banana tree shoots upward into the sky like a beanstalk,

This  particular crop yields no giants though.

                                                                         This particular crop yields no giants though.

All the eyes of all the cats,

Eyes like marbles and like planets and some like bottle-caps,

Watch the tree grow gently at first,

Crawling on it’s hands and knees,

Tended to ,


pruned and showered with praise,

Sent off to college to learn lessons of nutrition,

& incandescence, and other incarnations of light.

Then battered by sharp, seasonal  winds that shred the leaves like tissues,

                               in it’s adolescent years.

Looking  more now like bony fingers and tattered flags

then  the once vibrant, technicolor leaves of yesterday,

But with an focused


                                                     Nimble  audience such as this.

Such as the one existing  only in this universe, watching from

Open windows, and

Some sitting in trees,

A select few seated in the VIP section,

who also get to fire the cannons, at the end of the ceremony.

            & their assortment of eyes,

& colors,

& duties.

The banana tree regrouped,

Sat in a comfortable chair,

Spoke to a therapist,

& then

Cut it’s teeth on some discarded cinderblocks used to hold up

A  nearby derelict fence,

 practicing  the  lines so frequently  until they couldn’t   bare to echo  anymore.

And practicing the lines until they echo,

until they  sunk in forevermore.

With gaps  so large, entire suburban  conversations find their way through;

A toothy smile, slowly on it’s way down.

 Wayward trails of  smoke or steam float up and over,

like  the sultry , phantasmal arms of cartoons,

permeating from a destination unknown,

trying to recruit the passing vampires.

                                trying to recruit the technicians dispatched by cable companies.

Followed by a static  phone call,

To a pest control company, and

A subsequent  argument about pricing,  and the validity of termite prevention,

entirely   on speakerphone so the rest of the universe could can hear,

So it can be remembered, and archived,

                                if not only for the sheer magnitude of it all.

& as the applause began, and the trophy was being polished back stage,

The magician waved waves his wand, and all the clowns piled into one car, and for once the one-liners


Non-sequiturs from the mouths of the stand up comics,

Who took the stage last,

Didn’t fall flat.

                instead, they soared,

Over the tops of streetlights, and the heads of many others,

                                 and so  a

Beautiful bundle of bananas  was born,

                                Hanging on the wrong side of that fence,

                                                 Hanging just out of reach.

& then thy neighbor was gone, passed like a spirit into the mountains.

Pressed like a photograph into a scrapbook.

advice you should never take.

& the cats and all their eyes  were left,

                   left looking for something to sink their teeth into.

Looking for a place to store their daggers.

 Left behind  to watch the moving trucks and

The white horses pull away,

And the dust that will settle behind them.

A finely manicured lawn, and some low hanging fruit, the only reminders, of

                                                         what was.


Unlike wind-chimes

Unlike wind-chimes,

Banging together,

                                A calamitous decoration,

Hoping to be everything the xylophone never has been,

In a still wind,

The mythology is entrenched, and over saturated, now more than ever.

Written on the walls of caves, and embossed on the front of business cards,

A phone rings in a quiet house,

Sounding like apples falling to the earth,

In a faraway orchard,

Each fruit more sweet than the last,

Each crater deeper than the last,

                          Each fruit, moving faster then the next.

                                                                     Pulling gravity down,

& waving a blanket in front of it’s face,

Waiting for the snarling bull to charge,

Waiting for the horns to tear into reality,

Silent  silverware, and steaming platters, laid out for a feast;



Reluctant to try something new.

Unable to keep the silence,

Unable to keep the peace,

A din that drowns out dinner follows suit,

Dressed to the nines of course,

Skipping  both the eighth and seventh cloud on it’s way down;

The sound of a thousand crowds, cheering for the lion instead of the gladiator,

& the squawking

A murder of crows sit atop the Colosseum, mocking the mockingbirds,

and admiring all the bricks it took to make this roost.

Waiting to pounce on the empty bags of chips left behind,

 A sober reminder of what was.

This cyclone moves through the city,

Breaches the plains, flattening cornfields, and farmhouses,

Taking up all the water from babbling brooks along the way,

                              and casting  it towards  oceans that are

Themselves, immune to suction of  any kind.

Only detracting from the salinity, slightly.

While the scarecrows wait with open arms, for birds that are

Already busy enough, with chores and other demonstrations.

With other demons;

With other demons;

The sound of a tornado,

The sight of a chimera on the horizon,

                    (if you squint)

Sounding more like wind-chimes then the wind-chimes themselves  ever do,

Glowing more lucid than any candle

                      or  brighter than any dream could ever be,

More black and white than any movie, or instruction manual,

More partial than any spatial arrangements,

Lining the tables at  a wedding,

Winding down, with mostly wineglasses stained with lipstick left behind,

As well as a few place settings that were never unfurled,

The vows said, still basking in the evening air,

More charisma than those  words could ever describe,

On a collision course with italics, 

Begotten by letters than are themselves, bold in nature,

Semantics, and rhetoric, scrawled on a note-card, that has been folded into

A swan,

                                        and left to admire;

Left to float.

Left to float.