Stop Motion Sundial

Stop motion sundial
Sowing seeds of denial
Smashing disembodied head
Against the fourth wall
Somnambulant suicidal sawed-off
Pointed in the wrong direction
Unable to erect a mission statement
Blood on the mirror
Not actually upon face
Shadows ripping apart at seams
Got to get to the bottom
Of this Escher-esque catchall
Reliving nightmares from
Past life pillow cases
Roadblock up ahead
Already slumped over on the shoulder
Hillbilly hiccup hotrod holy days
Mumbling a safe word
Sighing lines of cyanide
The left hand pretends not to know
What the right one rinses off


Ironic Poem

unnamedIt’s 84 degrees in Denver.
Hot sun bakes cracked concrete
in the overpriced parking lot
off Cleveland Place.
Suckers. Glad I don’t park here, I think,
and I walk along 16th Street
shaded by the towering
Sheraton and U.S. Bank buildings,
sipping my small four-dollar coffee.
Sensing the irony of it,
I sit down on a hot bench
in the blistering sun
and through my faded denim jeans
I feel my ass cheeks burn.


I need an anesthesiologist
to bring my feelings back a notch

I think, wouldn’t it be fun to feel no pain
like that Blond Giant
from the Millennium Trilogy

congenital analgesia

to not feel the spike going in
and still be nailed to the floor

to peel back the layers and never blink an eye

Quiet Kind of Sick

To all those born with slow-burning deformities,
victims of a long con unraveling;
the ones who, outwardly, seem just fine,
but smolder on the inside;
those not bleeding out or shriveled up;
having ten fingers, ten toes;
possessing sharp sight & quick wits,
yet suffering inside;
on the surface so serene,
their smiles conceal a silent cry

to all those with a quiet kind of sick:
I am not loud, and I know I’m not alone

Of Bums and Bus Stop Preachers

Bus stop preachers
think they’re going to save
all the passersby
on the corner of
Transients & Businessmen
thinking they’ll transfer
lost souls with their litter-ature
they hand out

Preacher Man, I’ve no use for your pamphlet

Before I arrive
at this bustling intersection
dripping degradation
I pass a bum campground
around St. John’s Cathedral
a hundred men
two hundred outstretched hands

Homeless Man, I haven’t a dime for you

Hands out
Handing out
& Saving

This is not the fix we’re asking;
not the gift we seek