A Bottle of Booze Will Do

Being sober fills the inside

of my head and scrapes

the back of my eyes with

unjust images and words,

like incest, spousal abuse,

and kids so hungry they eat

their own.


I can’t be without booze

obliterating the wounds

society has assigned to me


Well you can say goodbye,

but please don’t be blue

my bottle is empty so

bring me my running shoes.


I may be considered low down

and a dirty fool, but that doesn’t

mean I don’t love you.


Don’t be sad, because when

I get a bit of booze, I’ll go

to a place where injuries

aren’t allowed to exist.


A world where striking colors

and flowerily fragrances mix

with luminosity, integrity and

honesty, spreading compassion

to anyone existing there.


This utopia where I go

after I drink a little alcohol

heals my tortured soul.


Well, you can say goodbye,

but I won’t be blue, cause I’ll

have what I need to enter

a world of my own,


Poetry at work!

Reaching for the Moon

When on a date with a woman I’ve recently met,

I’m soon wishing I was alone, until I met

a brightly shining star hovering above the crowd

of single women I know.


To her life is glorious and her enthusiasm

is contagious. When I’m with her, I’m happy

that I’m alive and dream of the nights ahead

when I’ll wrap her in my arms and my fervor

she’ll learn, and return without concern.


My aspirations are as high as the sky. I think

I can make her mine if I get her to drink some

beer and wine. I sometimes think that my visions

of her and I, are entwined and I will be left behind.


Is she such a bright star that I’m too dim and far below?

Her orbit is so far above I may never get close.

If I learn to ride a horse, will she be impressed, or think

I’m a dude and probably a fool?


It’s only the afternoon and I’m already

reaching for the moon?

Who’s To Blame

My subconscious sent words through email a week ago,

and created thoughts I never would have had if, they

weren’t hidden in the membranes of my sensible mind.

If I had been aware, I would have edited and revised.


Sex is what it’s all about, and wants to be let out, so those

thoughts will never cease to flow, Freud had said so long ago.

If that’s true, it’s my little brain that’s in charge and we all know where its thoughts go, but I had no idea they were out of control.


Lord have mercy, for the little guy thinks he’ll never die, has

no principles and wants to have his way, regardless of any consequences that may arise. There are only three things on

his mind-Sex, sex, and more sex are the only specs.


So don’t blame me when you receive the written term, or when you’re near, and hear the words I can’t eclipse flowing over my lips,

because like a rising tide, they come from the dark side of my mind that controls my libido and forces the thoughts through so,


I cannot be saved, because, because, because, it’s out of my control

and Little Brain is the one to blame.

A Little Verse by Joe!

This little verse is jealous of the poetry tucked away until today,


and the words I use in it aren’t pretty and don’t matter to me.


If it knew I’m not the one who makes the choice of all the words under the sun,


and my fingers dance to ideas flowing through my veins and into my brain


that keeps the beat and makes my fingers tap computer keys and though


I can’t dance, my hands must do what my brain commands.


I’ll never run out of words, so even if this poetic piece hates me for what I write


I must validate that it’s a verse and not just a bunch of words. I have no choice


but to do what I’m told by that creator who uses me to create his designs.


I have feelings I never felt, and words that will never come out.


If only I could write lyrics that would shine my poems like yesterday’s sun and bring


tears to any eyes that saw my outstanding words I’d use in tomorrow’s poem to prove to


this little verse that it matters to me, and I love it as much as any other I’ve written over


the years. All I can say is, I’m happy to be the writer, not one of those out there who have


to pay to listen to what I say.



A cautionary word is what I need when I
begin to think and see a hike I like, or a river
to kayak on, or a beautiful girl to love.

When I impulsively do things as I have during my life as
if there were no strings, I now have to pay with pain for
doing what used to gain respect with no side effects.

I’d drop the thought if I heard that therapeutic word STOP!
I’m not a kid any more I’d see, or even young enough to take a plunge,
or hurry across the street without suffering

pain from taking steps faster than I’m used to. It’s tough to
think that I’ve reached a point where my body has aged past
the point where it can’t easily recuperate.

Inside my head, I’m only 22, but my physique disagrees and acts as
though I’m 104. Which isn’t true, but looking at you looking at me
as I try to compete and show I’m still fleet, I come to believe

in your eyes I need a mojo to win your heart even though you have
ways I don’t understand. Years that separate us form notions,
emotions, and potions that flow at different speeds and we see

different things. Before I get too deep, I need to think of that
word to stop me from getting pretty girl blues over you. If I
do, I won’t suffer physical pain as I usually do for my impetuosity.

I’ll be psychologically damaged and tormented inside my head instead.
There’s no escape, unless I take drugs and drink to clear thoughts of you while I
cry into my beer, but that’s only good until the next day when I hear a whisper

and a picture of you appears before my eyes. To tell the truth, I go in search of
Gypsy Tooth Ruth who’s famous for making oceans of love potion # 9. I find her
at Hollywood and Vine where she sells her potions. I ask for one to erase

pretty girl blues that I caught from you. “It’s going to cost you,” Gypsy Tooth said.
“You’re not the first to ask for love to be reversed. What I have to do isn’t in any book,
so don’t look while I whip it up.” I closed my eyes, and when I did, she poked my finger

and said, “Sign here, and don’t you dare look.” I scribbled my name on what, I didn’t know, but as my finger traced my name, I dreamed of you and wished you’d come home with me.
She cackled and said, “You’ve just sold your soul. Now you’re unable to sit at the table of love.”

I opened my eyes and saw the contract she held dripping with my blood and it was true.
I no longer loved you or anything else. This is how it feels when you’re without love and owe your soul to, Who? The urge to know became so strong I impulsively jumped in front of a bus,

because I couldn’t wait to see if I’d smile or not when I saw who’d claim my loveless soul.


When I began, I was an honest man. I admit to having faults,
but wonder If other men are like me who try not to die and
shirk from responsibility and common sense at times.

As a man I brag about all the times I showed how brave I’ve been.
The speeds I reached while driving, heights I dived from over rocks
waiting to tear my balls off. The fight’s I’ve been in.

The times I’ve been stabbed, shot at and missed too many times
to list. Threatened by a gang of guys with hate in their eyes.
Races I’ve run and long bike rides taken.

I brag about my kids and grand-kids. The wives and girlfriends I’ve had
and say I’ve never been in love or had the need to feel greed. Those are
thoughts I hold dear and they remain above the subconscious mind where
the cowardly and stupid things I’ve done go to hide.

The times I was afraid to fight, or didn’t protect
a child or girl from the evil in this world.
Thoughts of my stupidity lay alongside my cowardly
ones trying to hide from the truth in me.

From nowhere memories arise that cause me to shiver when I see what
I’d done to maybe more than one, and the steps I could have taken. I see I’m
not so smart or brave as I like to believe. Why couldn’t I have done what was
right those nights and every other time instead of letting weakness rule?

The thoughts that I wasn’t cool haunt me and lead my mind to the dark side
where I think because of showing how stupid or scared I was at times makes
it so I want to confess to the world that I’m not who they think I am and I
don’t deserve to live because of the lousy decisions I’ve made.

My hand closes around an imaginary gun. I put the barrel into my mouth
and want to go South, but bite down on cold steel and start to feel before I pull
the trigger. When I do, I’m happy I only imagined, because I know I shouldn’t, even
though it’s a purple night, but sometimes I wonder if I should shoot to make it right?

Last Poem

This, I swear with despair, is true, when I met her, words already in
my mind from living so many years weighed down my thoughts
until she spoke and opened my eyes to words written by an artist and
poetess like her could lift the weight from my muse and allow my simple
words to surface. When they did, I began to write again and every word I
heard or saw had a meaning I never knew before her.

Enthralled that an accomplished woman like her could or would find my long
suppressed words had meaning lifted my ego from where it hid beneath my feet
to the top of my head. Life had meaning again and when the artist within awoke,
he forgot how many years had passed and thought her mind and his had met in a
space where only artists dwell and all those years in between made no difference.

But when logic stuck its ugly crown through my dreams and showed how an old
man like me could easily be made to look like a fool. A fight began between the
artist in me and the rational part of my brain to see what I should do and together
they went over what happened to me and though I was forsaken again, I pretended
I wasn’t one of them who let little things like rejection upset my face and turn it upside down.

In a writer’s world rejection only proves one hasn’t given up hope and has the guts to
try and try again I’ve been overruled so many time before that I’ve become immune and
when I hear or read dismissive words, they pass by my ears and I hear what I want to.
Rationality doesn’t stop reminding me that no matter how many words I write, they’ll
never bring me together with a woman I want.

I begin to wonder if it’s a woman I want or is it acclaim? If that’s the case then I’d better
stop wasting my time by writing every day and use my talented hands instead, or is that
another delusion? Why do I believe I have talent only because I feel the need to create?

To say feel doesn’t explain what happens when I’m overcome with the need to make something beautiful, something no one has yet seen. My arms begin to tingle and the feeling spreads to my hands and then my brain, and then has nowhere else to go. I decide here and now not to use words, but to create with things I can feel. No more poems or novels will be written by me. Give me clay, paint, or steel I can weld instead.

Love What

I worry that at the closing of the day, I may run out and will be lost without,
so I take the shortest route to replenish my supply of the one
thing I need to color the wings of my world with shades of gold

If I go without, darkness descends and I get what I deserve if I don’t succeed
in filling my need. My fragile nerves will curve into bare electrical wires floating
in a pool of crimson blood short circuiting my heart .

The things I see and the programs I watch on TV all become
joyous events when I find what I need, but when I don’t, color
grows duller and drains from paradise and my life dries out.

I ran out and almost put my eye out when I found out, I Was without, my wallet, money, or credit cards, and then I remembered why I didn’t have any of the above. I don’t even
have a rare disease to use as an excuse to beg, borrow, or say I’d pay back tomorrow.

What am I to do, because it’s true? Suddenly, I find Life Can Be A Dream, and the Magic Minute takes me by surprise when a woman I know presses her lips to mine and they’re sweeter than wine. My search turns to love, because she’s sweeter than any brew.

When I hold her tight, I’ll never worry about running out and choose to change the hues
that are brighter than jewels. They’ll always be warm and true like my love for her sweet
lips. I worry, it’s such a hard decision to make. When she’s with me, I never thirst

for what I wanted first. When she steps away, the desert wind surrounding my heart blows through my mouth and I thirst for at least a taste of what it takes to change my world from dark, damp, and colorless, to one clothed in colors I love.

All it’ll take is a case of Bud Light.


Why did it have to be like that?
Why must all things die?
why am I alive and how long will I survive?

Why do I have these thoughts night and day and why do they stay?
Why can’t I accept while asleep or awake what’s common sense,
and never ask a question that gives me indigestion ?

I know there’s no answer. Like cancer, what happens, happens,
deprived of divine or any universal plan, deaths occur when they do
and make us blue. Why we’re alive, or why we’re here we won’t know

until the darkness of life is lifted, and then we’ll see why, I believe
and pray our destiny isn’t arranged and will be changed when freed
from bodies anchoring us here in a reality that’s unreal to me.

I have to ask, why, so many times a day, because I can’t comprehend why
we’re so cruel and don’t treat others as jewels? We sit eating peanuts while on
TV, bombs supplied by nations like ours, fall on hospitals and schools.

It’s okay because it’s them, and not us getting blown to fragments
of flesh simply because the powers that be can’t decide why those
poor fools think they have a right to live and be free from control.

Why do people believe life is fair like breathing air? When bombs
begin to fall, then they’ll wonder why. After passing through death’s
door, they’ll find why.