I watch them all gather

to view the setting of the sun

but when the indigo spreads

poisoning the light

they will run away and hide

when the moon declares its hatred

of the cloying wistful night


Indie Writers, Bragging Rights, Tuck Magazine and Blurbs

Within the past two months, Tuck Magazine and more specifically, yours truly has been quoted in the blurbs of two volumes of poetry. Certainly I am flattered down to my bones with this honour, but more than this I feel as if my work with Tuck has mattered, in-so-far as the promotion of independent writers is concerned. When you toil alone it is so difficult to keep your focus unwavering and your self believe intact. The indie writer is a one person literary machine: creator, publisher, marketer, accountant and publicist. Clearly, anyone who is so passionate about the words is indeed a special breed of writer and deserves more than a nudge up the hill toward recognition and sales, therefore, I shall commence nudging:

Cat Catalyst was my interview for the June issue of Tuck, which you can read HERE

She has just released a book called “Emolution” that is much more than a good summer read,it is a spiritual and intellectual trek with an inspiring and insightful thinker/artist.

You can visit her shop window HERE to purchase a copy and to support a phenomenal indie writer.

Guy Traiber is a philosopher and seeker of truth found in humble an unconventional places. He also happens to be one of the best poets to be found online. I have been pestering him forever to write a book and lo and behold, he has finally taken the indie leap, with an unusual but very clever book: “The Pocket Zen Book of Irrelevant Answers.” I won’t go into the content but  I will be reviewing it soon for Tuck, so keep your eyes peeled. Until then, you can purchase a brand spanking new copy HERE to add to your summer mind/soul expansion reading list.

Off Kilter

Another day of living

off kilter



counting the cracks as they appear

beneath our feet

tectonic shifting plate people

once upon every time

to run would lay all to waste

slipping further out

and down

into the startled eyes of some sham divinity

where we crawl along on words and razor blades

cutthroat angry lies

spires of weeds

we take the usual punches in the face

all puffy and rearranged

in truth and things that permeate

through thin skin and fear

we are the shout that lives

inside the hollow of a sigh

lusty liar

There you stood

feet on shifting ground

gesticulating maneuvers perfected

in the art of manipulative entertainment

one fine distraction after another

and another

and another

ultimately stained by the turbulence of your conscience

it was counterfeit love to the jugular

three doors down from the last lie you told

and lust makes one final request

to slit honesty’s throat

once and for all

pretty tales and polarities not-with-standing

reality makes a corpse of your personality

for a funeral where grief is optional

drama, the dirge

Cup and Biscuit

They sit

with cup and biscuit in hand

a clearly defined purpose

to discuss the moral of the situation

steering the committee to new and loftier heights

but when the discussion allows in the unholy marauder of reality

cups are never filled

biscuits remain uneaten

and not  one crumb will ever be  tossed under the table

for the people who need it most

because they don’t do anything really


have tea parties

eye each other jealously


from behind their humble bumble bee stinging smiles

After all, it is in the truest sense of the word a sort of social club for the bland and unremarkable.

MAY 24 1971

Sandwiched between days

of string games on fingers

elastic bands knotted together

heights to jump over

and hiding from the tragic seeker

there is you

big league dreamer

toss me the ball

I’ll catch and toss it back harder

always a child of eleven


a backward glance

from the threshold of dying

that is my urging

my reminder

that to be here

in this place

of fear

of poverty

of greed

of rage

of war

of abuse

is still better than the canopy of angry flames that swallowed you alive,

the rest of us numb, sifting through the poison ashes

for the human remains of our murdered innocence


I’ve been truly spinning for you
matinee idol
suave of manner wise to me
on my craftiest day
sweet dream of mine
come through for me and you
heralding all that could be fine and true
suited to be tied in a matrimonial knot
that I didn’t want to share
our mutual breath choking noose
oh but sweet juice of a man
I could drink you under all the tables round after round
link your arm in mine
let me thirst no more for need of you
wrap your soul around my black and blue