Archives for August 2013

Running Around


Running Around




It’s not a sin to be broken hearted


because the one I put my trust in ran


around with a friend of mine.




I swear, every word I say is exact,


but if I drown, my name’s James Brown.


If I don’t, you don’t want to know,




my given name, because I’m wanted


by the law for what I did to her for


running around.




She shoulda been ashamed of what she did


to me. Because of her, I can no longer dream.


When I try, her bloody face appears.




She points her finger my way and says,


“You abused me!” I awake to the truth


and confess to God.




I did what she says, but it’s her fault for running


around with a friend of mine. So that’s why I’m


going to jump into the river and drown.




I discovered it really is a sin to be broken hearted


over a woman like her. The only way I can mend


myself is to take her life or mine. I can’t kill my love,






so please ship my body to her. Remember to


tell her that my name is James Brown, and the


reason I died was because of her running around.




















What Easterners need to know about Arizona.

To stay save, watch this short video.




Why in my heart do I love junk like I do?

Sometimes I just don’t know why when

I see an empty can or a rusted nail, I

can’t let it perish and instead of sending

it to its grave, I imagine it hanging on

someone’s wall where the public can

admire my genius for rescuing it from the

junk-heap and turning it into a piece of art.


Nuts and bolts welded into a woman’s torso

becomes beauty never before seen, When

like a miracle, the artist shapes her rump, he

fantasizes about its size and creates one so

large and round that he falls in love.


Like a child, I’ll lay it on the line. I collect common

things, even chicken wings that are thrown onto

the street, or into garbage cans. Others see only

trashy junk to be sent to a landfill, or maybe melted

down to be used again.


Like a miracle I’ll recycle a lot of junk and make it into

something that it’s not. I may create sculptures that move

and make people say OOOHHH and AHHHH and that my

friend, is interesting art.





She’s no fool, but even if brought to her

knees, a pediatric nurse is what she

wants to be.


On her interview she was gravely told,

“You’ll sometimes have to assist when

babies are born and you’ll see that,


because mothers drank from a jug

or did drugs, their ravaged infants

struggle to stay alive.


You’ll pray they survive, but babies that

have been damaged by adults often arrive

in the E.R. and sometimes die.


You’ll mourn when you have to wash

and dress the babies that die before

and after they’re born.


In the dark you may think they’d be

better off dead, and to lighten your load,

you’ll need a drink.


“Do you still want the job?” she is asked

and says she’ll do all of the above, because

when they die, they’ll all go to heaven.


She’ll also try to help tiny boys and girls,

eaten away by a fatal disease for which

there is no cure, especially for the poor.


She’ll draw blood and stick needles into

those tiny veins, believing it makes gains

and improves their chances to stay alive.


She must be divinely inspired to want

a job like this. It must be true that

a nurse like her is an Earth-angel.




I spend my time writing poems and stories

for people to read. When I finish composing,

it’s my job to go to facebook, twitter, and

plenty of other sites to announce to the world

that what I’ve written is out there and for sale.


I’m forced to send query’s to agents and publishers

alike, in the hopes they’ll like the words I put on

200 or more pages enough to print it for me.

Before they’ll do that, to earn some bread and wine,

I’m forced by the slime, to sign on the dotted line.


If I could understand every printed word, I’d never

give my rights away. But the size of the words are

always smaller than an ant. If I could understand,

I’d never sign on that last line, far behind so many

pages of lingo that only a lawyer understands.


A Better Place


A Better Place


Tell me how my brother who death knows so well,

came to visit me and covered me with shame, when

in a dream last week, he told me that I reek.


Him looking the same as he did the year he

went to the other side, made me wonder if after we

go, do we continue to flow in dreams by those alive?


Sometimes I want to choose to die, so that I’ll know where

I’ll go once I shake hands with death. Maybe I’ll discover

what I believe are lies about God aren’t that at all.


My brother floating around should be proof to me that

there’s another side where our spirits go, but something

inside of me refuses to believe what I perceive.


If it’s true that we live after we die, I wonder where

it’ll be. How long will it last? Every night that I lay

down to sleep I want to disconnect my brain,


because I’m in pain and have the blues. I drink some

booze and take some pills, but continue to dream of a

place that’s much better than here where there’s no fear.


I made a lot of mistakes, had lots of bad breaks. Life

has been cruel and full of despair, but once I sleep and

travel to that other place a smile creeps across my face.

My first 3-D Painting


Creative Non-Fiction

Creative Non-Fiction


Sitting round the table gets complicated, but

it’s overrated and can be debated. I miss back

before I repeated every word I heard.


Creative non-fiction I say, but lie and write

something bright or snowy white, to create

a craven tale


about going down to the river to pray. Oh sinners,

who’s going to wear the robe and crown when we

sit round the table and tell our tales.


I ask if you’ve ever seen New Orleans with all its

cotton bales? Have you forgotten the little green

eyed girl you met there?


Did you pray to find out where she had hid?

Was she asking for an early grave by walking

on down the street solicting every man she met?


Don’t lie and say no, because I’ll change your

words to ones I need. My words will sound better

than yours and I’ll say my story is true.


When that’s all done, I won’t write again until I

sell my story. When we sit around the table again

It’ll be a good night to create our non-fictional lies.



Strange Fetishes

Strange Fetishes

All I do is hang my head and cry because of
a foolish desire to put out my fire. Choosing
to do that made me lose the only one who
loved me half as much as I loved her. She
always got aroused by my flatulence and
suffered from Eproctophilia.

When she claimed she’s not ashamed that
my stink no longer turned her thoughts to pink.
So I told her about the murders I had committed.
That news rekindled her love for me because she
had another fetish called Hybristophilia.

She came to bed with a cold, a sight to behold
as mucus filled her nose spilling over her lips when
she spit. She sneezed, and I got so aroused, I
sucked snots from her nose, because I suffer
from Mucophilia.

I awoke embracing her giant Teddy bear
and became aware that when I had sex last
night it wasn’t with her but with the stuffed
bear. Then I realized I also suffered from
Plushophilia and really loved plush animals.

To overcome this phobia I dreamed of Amazons
on mars. Beautiful alien woman who would make
me king as the only man on Mars. While engaged
in sex with a dozen of them, it hit me that I
suffered from Exophilia.

After this epiphany I changed my dreams right
or wrong, to thoughts of women I had raped and
killed. Their ghosts appeared to me and begged
for more sex. It was then I realized I now had

I rushed to the john and puked my guts into the
toilet. The one who only loved me half as much
as I loved her saw what I did. She became
aroused and dragged me off to bed. I Knew she
suffered from, Emetophilia.

Love is going to live here again. No more loneliness,
only happiness. Birds will be singing as I go on
dreaming without a doubt that we indeed do have
and love our strange fetishes.

(No title)

Big Mouth

Once again I’ve said words I regret and yet

when my mouth works faster than my brain

it’s plain they’re sub-par, but only my mouth

speaks the Devil’s words to entangle me in

angles that become situations I don’t like.


It has ruined my life by saying, “Marry me,”

not once, but twice. My brain knew better,

but was unable to shut that hole in my face

that like an automatic gun, without a doubt,

spouts unthought words faster than I can think.


I take a drink and think that I should invent a

zipper to keep it closed, so I can’t disclose,

but if I did that, I wouldn’t have anything to say.

Maybe that would be a good thing to be unable

to speak or even shriek for at least a week.


Without words to do my dirty work, I’m afraid

in less than an hour, my brain will be overworked

when my mouth has been forbidden to speak all

week, and I’m unable to annunciate things I want

my big mouth to say.