Pity to those who travel here

seeking witty banter, jocular

prose or even perhaps that

momentary respite inside this

old, hectic mind: a thought about

the current state of fascism all

wrapped up in beautiful consumer

goods and single-use plastic.

A throwback to the good old

times, which might have never

really existed, except in this

dusty memory. Clouded with

regrets and gin, swaying drunkenly

in a second line. Closed eyes,

a smile, clutching this bourbon

and crumbling from the



Sorry to those who made this

journey, only to find the old

girl dead. Still at attention, she’s

decaying in the air, choked

by the fires, and blowing

away with the warming

Santa Ana winds.


Leif Ericsson on Mount Rushmore

Fancying ourselves as simply

hardworking Protestants,

bringing refinement and manners,

family values to the Thanksgiving

table, we truly celebrate the

colonization and conquest

of this new world: tearing apart

drumsticks and mutton chops.

Feasting with mirth and mead

in our American-made

Valhalla. Three cheers for

our determination to conquer

those who have extended

our lives with their



It’s so cold and grey outside.

People seek refuge in the

heat of the teppan, but

no amount of sake can

warm the soul the way

a bossa nova lilting past the ears,

like a dream of palm trees

and turquoise water,


And the heart

grows rapid at the memories

of the heat and that

summer we spent

making love on the

beach in Salvador.


Eyes Wide Shut

In the quest to blame and

vilify another for life’s

hardships and disappointments,

never must one discount

the real possibility that

they, themself, are to

blame because they are

likely an asshole or a

narcissist. But it’s easier

to look in the mirror

and see the beauty we’ve purchased

instead of the data,

the likelihood of which,

we are the common denominator

in our own misery.


A poem for my family at Thanksgiving: 

It’s the great white way

to traipse verbally around a

subject, avoiding any meaning

or complimenting freely

from the back of the hand

or the bottom of a martini.


And when one learns

the shortest distance from

a to be is a direct route,

a zipline of my words,

like a child who can walk,

it becomes a habit to speak

thus, in all situations.


But the delicate sensibilities

of the elite passive

aggressive and somewhat

intellectually dim, get

offended so easily by

crystal clear communication

and thoughtfulness

which has been fully formed.


It isn’t any wonder Thoreau ran

screaming to live alone in the woods.

I’m still searching for the place

where words can be understood

as a means of communication,

not offense, for people

who feign frustration but simply

are too obtuse

to actually comprehend their meaning,

much less their responsibility.


game over

Terrified all these years

to finally let go

and as soon as the wounds

healed from the coiled,

barbed grip on us,

It became apparent

that instead of falling

into my own darkness,

turning away from us

meant finally


to the light.