Poem: Two-hundred and twenty-nine words on Loneliness

Standing around wrecking cages
in all kinds of places
counting slowly how the money pours out
at the corner of some bar
sitting alone on another inebriated excursion
in the company of nobody
crowded by bobbing head strangers
who weave and wade through the bar stool jungle

I’ve spread my cards on the floor, under the table
and I can’t read the future, though I try
as a one man band plays a disconsolate number
under ukulele lights, crooning at the girls

And I ask, where are all of my friends
the neals and allens, the konnegut wino and joe
Did they lose themselves in this flickering
dark neon paradise?

The troubadour beats the beat with the soles of his shoes
as I behold his folkloric deeds
the gospel of wealth –the noblesse oblige

While here, in my corner freezing
everything red red red
in the musical mist
taking in the staring dark beauty of song
seeking familiar faces, trying to grace a glimpse
of the eyes that placed me in this stasis

I have no more drinks to share
the sparkling wine is dead
and the yeast in my beer had found new life,
As the midnight clock struck through holy time
following up to a divine moment of truth
with each minute passing

Clarity fades in all the empty glasses
and the distance to the door can be measured in stumbles
Eyes closed the chatter drowns to mumbling whispers,
the senses feel an elevation in altitude
while memories turn into voids and wormholes
later to be filled in by strangers with questionable intent
procuring an ad-lib life

I can’t fake it baby
the case is what it is
So I’ll wait in this corner busting my chops
’til weekend comes ’round


a dog had taken a poop right on the sidewalk at my door this morning,
it was green and the first thought in my head was,
“that means go, go –GO!! you go-go girl!”

the things that can make your day for a week, if not a year.

Poem: Upriver! the boats

Talking to the walls back at home,
Trying to sound self-assured
in a moment of peace and forlorn,
it feels like I’m moving now
through the doors
–switching off lights

And my shadow’s floating upstream
singing, O life is but a dream
and what happens –just is
–now what should I make of this?

There will be no beautiful corpses
found at the shores of the dreams
that like sailing boats yearn
to be set free –by wind and storm

But, these galleys are stuck in the shoals
located in the corridors of my empty house
–with the lights all switched off
it is dark, yet there are no stars to be seen

So, broken they float upstream
–singing, O life
is but a dream–

Poem: Young, too young

Young, too young,
his young tender hands trace the walls
and the hinges of doors he wishes to fix
but he has no strength or drive,
his hands are soft and they bare no calluses
he doesn’t have grip, no

Young, too young
his eyes youthful, bright,
he watches the world through them
taking in the sea, and the breeze
that he cannot see,
but his eyes have no depth
they carry no turmoil or loss
.he doesn’t have vision.

Poem: September Strange

the moon fell into the briar bush
this september strange
as i climbed up to high heaven
with a rope made of rain
to watch the immobile melancholy
unfold in the dreams of gentle whispers

i greet september strange with tracing lips
trying to string words for her yellow-red leaves
that fall like tragic heroes with heavy hearts
whose stories are told with lines of black and white
on the wet streets that scream autumn

september strange has rustic eyes,
filled with low echoes
that bounce between earth’s prison walls.
she sets me to sleep
with that silent hum
–the wheezing wind that howls along her corridors

all roads are now set forward
all roads lead to rome
there’s potholes
no answers set in stone

so why should i head forward
when all the mysteries i hold dear
are bare, right behind me
layered in emptiness
and shrouded by the breeze

i will take this hue of sepia
stand still in this rain
and be forever gazing back
at september strange

I dreamt of being a pregnant woman, but then I woke up and it was 3AM and I wasn’t a woman.
Later I realized that I really am a woman. I am a female-to-male transsexual woman trapped in a man’s body.
It comes to me, I can never be happy.

Poem: there’s something ’bout Autumn

Autumn is summer’s hideaway
as summer elopes to the other hemisphere,
the sun turns a cold cold shoulder

I put on my thick winter coat
and imagine becoming a musher
with nine strong sled dogs,
while putting on a masculine face
in the likeness of

Charlton Heston, Jack London

But I won’t,
I’ll stay at home long hours
keeping warm
as autumn slips by like the ghosts
of Hallows’ Eve
I hide

And in Autumn,
just like the birds
some choose to escape
to South East Asia, modern day Cambodia
to smoke pot
enjoying the hot sun
living a more carefree lifestyle

I won’t,
I will wait for spring
at bus stops
in the dark northern night
drunk on laughter
singing Joy to the World
the King has come

Some find Autumn romantic
as they walk hand in hand
while the world withers around them
they run towards winter with sunshine hearts

I won’t,
I will watch the sky turn gray atop a hill,
I will move along the boardwalks
through autumn into winter
taking careful steps on icy alleys
and without holding back
beat the living shit
outta these frozen streets
welding them into spring’s youthful bloom
–but as it remains,
it’s still October…..