August will Adjust

August 2021 Rescue Dog Poetry resplendent w/ typos in tact. Hope it gives some satisfaction to those to say how these paintings are still spelled wrong after 30 years-

O I can do that


Lost & Found Note Book Po


I wonder if I will ever write anything

In one of this little brown notebooks

That anyone will ever read someday.

Wolfe wrote the leaf the stone the door

I am the Mr. Roberts of poetry

Supply officer on a transport barge

Like prose truck driver delivering lost pages of dried ink

To the attic in cardboard boxes to yellow with age

And collected dust awaiting the salvation of recovery and rediscovery – Notebook circa 90s



Open Notebook on the bar

My Carrot

My Stick

While October awaits

Wearing this year’s mask

All outta treats and tricks

Thinking if the aliens are demons

In the dirt go all our dicks

The cattle of earth

Are merely stray strain of herd limited mentality

So giddy-yap little doggies

And wonder if the genetic crossbreeding will take

Our orbit the merry go round somewhere better than

A sun with the exploding face

Baba black sheep nine spheres full of cold lifeless spin.


Tiny Talent Time       (for Frank)

Sunday Night wise guys hold court

Talking too loud to ignore

Like minute white rice yaps

Burning on the stove.

And you could never stop talking to her

More often than not

It was the other way around.

She speaks of sleeping without dreaming.

Tonight Frankie made the Hockey talk

Sound like wild poetry again.

I promised you

I wouldn’t smoke in bed alone again.

I lied.


Mundane Quartet

4 guys saunter in the bar

They all have girl friends

who smell like patchouli oil and clove cigarettes

They all snivel and gesture a lot

They keep asking each other

What’s the story

Wanna Cheeseburger ?

They don’t wanna

Whata you wanna drink ?

They don’t know- a debate ensues

They all order Kamikazes

She says these are big shots

He says No we are the big shots

Then good ole Ike comes sauntering in like he’s golf pro at the local links

W/two DWI’s under his belt in the last week.

He buys me a beer

Assesses the quartet

Say’s so what’s their story ?

I say you don’t wanna know

And nods in agreement saying

Neither do they.


Remembering the Yuppies

They all have

They all have plans

They all have dates

They are all stunningly attractive

They all have their moments

They have good jobs

They all don’t have a prayer

They all don’t pray anyway

They all have money in the bank

They all have ridiculous debt

They all have their regrets

They all have someone to talk to

They all have nothing to say

They all talk non-stop all the time

They all have drinking problems

They all have cocaine problems

They all know everything

They all admit to nothing

They all have been everywhere

They all never left town

 They all have air-tight alibis

They all have stories full of holes

They all cast shallow shadows

They all have broken hearts

They all don’t have them anyway.



I want to talk to the Residents

I want to talk to Larry

I want to talk to the City Lights

I want to talk to Richard

I want to talk to Thanksgiving

I want to talk to the Silent Night

I want to talk to those who it is written in their faces

I want to talk to those who know the answer to this question

What do you call a limbless person without eyes ears mouth or heart

With a scar on their forehead?


But most of all ?

I want to talk once again with you

And this time.


– Lost & Found Notebooks circa 80s/90s uncollected/revised 7/2021


July Shorts 2021

Another Slip-ism                For Leo Gorcey as Slip Alawishus Mahoney

Suppose ta rain tomorrow anyway-

Which will irritate da  plants  


Minor League Poet

I was a minor league poet

Who could play any position

DH pinch hit/run

Occasionally I might square one up

Swat it good- but really

Just warning track power

Or throw somebody out at the plate

Or double a runner off 1st.

Or maybe- just maybe catch one

That nobody thought I could

Ever get to.


Roll the Credits

The light in my kitchen

This time of year in the late afternoon

Looks like the last scene from Iron weed.


What Kind of Guy was He   10.0 ?

When watch people share a wishbone

He rooted for it to snap in the middle

So nobody got the big end

Or their wish


It was in the Script

So I throw myself at you

And you put on a catcher’s mitt

-Claire Trevor to George Raft in Johnny Angel


Hank would dig this

Dig this Big Beat lie

7/10/21      Uncollected

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