(as in “Another” say it with me
in the count of three 1… 2… 3…)
I got John Galts eyes on me.
The holy guard of the almighty dollar…
Ayn Rands Rangers got eyes on me too.
Awaiting any sign of infraction.
Holding their line.
Said with the confidence
of a Dollar Store Discount God.
Said with the confidence
of a Dollar Store Discount Fascist.

(as in “Brother” say it with me
in a count if three 1… 2… 3…)
Fragrent soap for the hands
smelling like a beautiful delicate flower
or berry or fruit…
An aroma good enough to eat…
Spreadable by pump and spoon
over a perfectly toasted
slice of bread…
The tecnology of soap to cover up
the inferior strength of toilet paper…
To cover up the fact
that your finger just
busted through the toilet paper
when your wiping your ass.
Bust on thru to the other side…
that shitty finger
Becoming shitty with help
From inferior toilet paper.
It takes a handwashing
with the fragrant soap
to eventually cover up
the fact that you had
actual shit on your finger!
So you wash your hands
with the soap and when your done
you give your finger a security sniff
just in case…
Your finger might still
smell like shit!
It may need another dousing
of soap, washing and rinsing
to make positively positive
that despite the truth
about where your finger has been,
it smells only like
you been dipping it
in a bowl of fruit salad.

(as in “Fruit Salad” say it AT me
in a count of three 1… 2… 3…)
Thats why
it’s called fruit salad you know,
cause its all mixed up, in there together.
Me, you. Philip K Dick…
That four-fingered fucker Micky Mouse…
All of us are in there…
The fruit salad of life.
Nothing is forever.
Every empire falls.
Every king dies.
Every cadtle crumbles.
Everyone puts their pants
on the same way.
Who is John Galt?
That guy with shit on his finger.


Retreat en Fierce

As we vacated the venue…
A small gay bar whose
gruff-voiced bartender
we would later discover
was under investigation
for poisoning her family…
We drove back thru downtown
to the expressway
that would take us back home.
I was navigating…
Not driving,
but navigating…
I was in no condition to drive.
I was calling the home-shots…
Backing us out the way
we dove right in…
Gettin’ us back home…
Before the gates slam shut…
Even at my drunkest
I could always seem to get anybody
anywhere they needed to be
by directing them to turn here
veer there, stay this way, do as I say
for the big, big getaway!
This night it wasnt so much
of a getaway though…
The venue didnt have any money
for us that distempered evening
but we did get free beer…
That meant I was up to bat…
Fully activated…
My shine was brightly!
Ahhhhh… Shine!
As we drove away
in all post-gig glory available
we seen a bar employee
portering a two-wheel dolly
down the street back to the bar
with five (more) cases of Miller High-Life.
Heading back to the bar
as a re-supply I suppose…
I felt victorious!
I felt the saying
swell up deep within my gut.
I asked The Juice by Jerry
to turn back around…
“Turn back ’round Juice!” I said
“That beer’s for me!”
“I still have a job to do!”
“Im back up to bat”
I pleaded all of this
as pure truth…
But The Juice didnt turn around…
I had given enough home-shots for egress.
We were in full exit…
He seen what I didnt see…
All the banks downtown
were waving goodbye…
But this, it was a trap!
This so-called beer re-supply…
This town didnt want any more of me.
I drank all its beer.
I grabbed all glory that was available!
On this night I was a raging champion
consuming mass quanities
of the good stuff, forcing a re-supply
and I was ready for more!
I wasnt finished yet!
Im back!
Lets rage!

But alas, I was re-called…
I was pulled out!
Mission acomplished: Juice, that way home!
This town wanted revenge against me
and it knew my weakness…
It knew how to strike back!
A deep attack against my psyche!
A full barrage against me…
Against my sense of duty and follow-thru…
This town had enough of me!
It wanted payback!
It now held contempt and
only offered me layers of tragedy…
Layered tragedy for me and at me…
I was evac’d before
Lexington, Kentuckee could
strike back…
Good call Juice…
Good call indeed.
I know how I can carry on
but you did the right thing…
You got me outta there!
All the free beer gave me
a good ol’ fashioned cloud-shine.
Hard to see through the luster.
It was a thick cloud-shine too.
Real blurry stuff everywhere I looked.
I didnt see the path before me…
But you did Juice…
I was too much for that town…
Sent to the bench…
Place the call to the bull-pen.
Listen to the bugles.
Its time to go…
Split the night, in pierce…
Piloting a full retreat en fierce…
Goodbye Lexington Kentuckee.
Till we meet again
you jealous son of a bitch!
To you from me…
Often and frequently:
Fuck you…

A Vast Collecton of Scars Makes The Wound Visible

‘Tripple Kisses’ was MTVs last great contribution
to modern culture

One thing you can definitely say
is that a man juggling chainsaws
makes very few mistakes.

Fifteen steping steps
from a ballpoint pen and paper.
A bare maximum.
Existentialist arguements; no passe.

All the explorers feel dead inside.
They told me so
in the latest newsletter
or e-mail notification…
(you choose)

A man and woman find reprise
in the Waffle House bathroom.
The waitress had a strange accent
I couldnt pin down.

Take off my hat
but keep the cane close at hand.
I trust none of these bastards
except CT and The Commander
But that would change
soon enough.

Talk of war, art, actions.
Always behind
enemy lines.

Dont believe the hype.
Stings of breathmints…

Waiting for the bullets.
Waiting for the controversy.
Always waiting.

Time for a word
from our sponsors…
Ravenous bastatds…
Feasting on swollen hearts…

The dead die multiple facited

Our bodies are strip malls
and shopping plazas…
Not ‘temples.
We litter them with adverts
and fast food bags
then abuse them with pride.

I only partake in digital vices…
Digital whisky tastes like furniture polish.
Remember furniture?

Abandoned couches of today
are the museumed dinosaurs
of tomorrow.
Look at them in wonder.

Living in a day and age
where every company owns a holiday
and has a product
for that holiday…
A thru-the-pants ball-pinch
satisfies an itch.

Despite the enemies
and their impressive stats
Bloody flags static
at half mast.

Protect me from myself.
I am my own worse enemy.
I am my own hero too.
I am my own
screaming nightmare.
‘For Deposit Only’

Kill yr idols FIRST.
Heroes SECOND.
No one remembers
the poet…
Just the poets words
if by fat chance
and drunken circumstance…

Save the stem cells…
You just Gotta Collect’em all!
… to grow a new national monument.

Holiday Beasts.
Toothy Smiles…
Art Nazis…

Beauty is Pain…
Pain is the new beauty.
Sitches fill the eyes
as a deal is struck for its release.
it all goes unheard.
Dreams need capturing…
Still, after all these years
and the sideways looks.
Unheard pleas
and stained designer jeans.
The traps are all empty

Born of thunder.
Conceived in lightning.

Its all a game.
The Long Con is tiring.
Or maybe Im just a pussy.

Maybe both.

The Waffle House coffee
still does its trick.
It begets 2 extra cents.

Gonna lay down in a dark room
and listen to Joy Divisions
Unknown Pleasures
on headphones.

The Anti-Christ is out there
Setting new traps
Any minute now we will die.
Any minute now…
Gonna be a loooong night.

High Hopes on the Good Ship Lollipop Being Set On Fire

Telepathic arguments out loud.
The next war will be fought
with under 140 characters.
And buttons.
And toggles.
Lots of them.

Remember buttons?
Remember toggles?
They remember you…

Your life hasent turned out
as TV originally promised.

The trouble of finding glory
in a bunch of sleeping pills
and a can of dark beer
rest on my shoulders.
Apocalypse Now
is on the movies.

I realize that watching it
over and over
may not be a healthy thing to do.
Good thing I strive for life.
To tell the story of Colonel Kurtz,
I have to tell the story of Captain Willard.
To tell the story of Captain Willard…
I have to tell my own story.
Welcome to the Goodship Lollipop.
Flight attendants will shower you
with single-serving bags
that are scribed with High Hopes
on the side
but are empty
when you open them.
The jokes on you.
The jokes on me.
The joke is funny.
Don’t forget to laugh…
It’s the only thing left
These days thats still free
I think…

This is your captain
A great idea for a t shirt :
or maybe
Maybe both.
Please note: this is your captain
I’m still here.
So I (naturally) claim victory.

As it ends up and turns out…
Your favorite song
is a lone fly
buzzing in a room
without any other sound interfering.
The Fly–Bouncing off of windows
foolishly… Again and again,
You dont smile much anymore…
You don’t get erections like you use to
And now you have the free time
to ride bikes…
Walk in the woods…
This is your captain
speaking: They lied.
again. they lied.

This is your captain
It was just on the news…
God put the Ten Commandments
on tablets.
They found the Ark of the Covenant
inside Pearls Diner…
They opened it up
and found two iPads in there.
So they re-sealed it
and put an aquarium on top of it.
No more children’s baloons anymore.
Just don’t even ask.
Trust me…
This is your captain
Trust me you mother-fuckers! (ONE)

This is your captain
Swollen neuropic limbs
touching each other
have nothing but questions.
“Why you such a mother-fucker (TWO)
mother-fucker?” (THREE)
don’t answer that…
This is your captain
I know the answer.
I’m arguing in past-tense
about future shit.
Trying to say ‘mother-fucker’ (FOUR)
at least seven times a day
in conversations that least expect it .

“You want fries with that?”
“Yeah… Make it a ‘Large Fry’
you mother-fucker.” (FIVE)

There are still surprises in life
But everything comes with a price
And I don’t have any
mother-fucking money (SIXX)
mother-fucker. (7VEN)

Getting the ‘Slip’

“… you might get in mag. based on your reputation”

>>> “I’m not sure I have ever been accepted into a publication or otherwise because of my ‘reputation’ but that would definitly explain my lack of tallent.”

“locally here in cinti, there has been a tendency with small mags to accept folks based on most vibes on personal basis”

Smothered and Covered In Brilliance

Cover me in brilliance
If you please.

This time, in sunlight.

The girth of birth…

Right there in the meadows.

We are wild once again…
Like the wind

You know what they say:
This city is built
on rock and roll…
Let’s prove it!

You know what they say:
It’s a good day
when you do wake up
In a coffin…
Let’s prove it!

The suprise of a light wind…
From no-where.
Without plan…


├ętain blue

Take control of your kingdom. We are captivated, even fastinated, by the alarming tragedies. Yet we watch attentively. We wait with shaking hands, elbows and arms… Our fix is L i f e… A shade of ├ętain blue… The Art of being alone is magnified by the consolidation and redefinition of the family unit… Were fucked. The empire is fucked we just don’t see that.through the constant barrage of advertisements that we fight with other advertisements. A never ending stalemate of gain and loss.

We all carried switchblades. Why? That answer is still unknown. It was a tool used to shotgun beers. Maybe that’s why we did it or maybe, truthfully, we thought we looked cool. I only brandished my switchblade, which I refered to as a hook, once in anger when some fucking college douche got mad after I refused to give him the last can of a Milwaulkees Best Ice 12-pack. I thought I looked cool clicking the knife and waving it in his face, I was already drunk. It was a basement show… The entire populace of the neighborhood was alive with one power or another.

Hungry. The masses are hungry and they are fed a constant diet of Heroes. Heroes dissected into bite-sized pieces. Pieces. “I can’t believe we made it this far…” Someone sez and I don’t try to figure out who said it. I let the statement sink in. Like a Hot knife thru expensive butter. The Art of Knowing When became verily important.

The Fairey Tales are over. The masses want blood. Preferably, your blood. Normal reality has lost its appeal. Their life is your life is theirs. The return of the Midwest Apogee will be scary. I allready know you will runaway from it due to you being a true of heart son of a bitch and fucker of a brother. Let’s call it a day and give the wires and the beeps the night off. This country needs more bombs, bullets and people like you to use them! To give them homes in skulls and hearts and souls. The mirror shows you the real-meal-deal bastard.