• Alligator Martinis

    The street was wet with rain and warped neon. I stepped into a bar and lounge called Cucumber. That’s it. Just Cucumber. It was just me and my raincoat. The place was loud, and I worked my way through the nightlife haze until I found a small table. I looked around and realized that everyone was an alligator. But the thing is, they were just like people. They stood upright or sat in chairs. They wore clothes and talked and laughed and drank cocktails. They danced and played pool. A couple of them were making out. No one seemed to notice that I wasn’t an alligator at first. But then I started to panic and wonder when they began looking at me and talking behind my back. Was I, or wasn’t I?

    I had to find out right away. I made my way back to the men’s room and looked into the smudgy mirror above the sinks and wet counter. Nothing. I was still just me, according to my own eyes. A couple of alligator people came in, unzipped their pants, and started talking at the urinals. One of them turned to look at me. He laughed, drunk.

    “Nice costume,” he said.

    Then the other one looked at me. “Did you not get the memo? Halloween is already over.”

    They both laughed some more, zipped up their pants and came over to the sinks. One on either side of me. They washed their…hands?

    The first alligator person dried himself and then turned to look at me. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re pretty outnumbered around here.”

    Then the other one said, leaning close. “Yeah. Outnumbered.”

    I had to wonder if they were gangsters. They wore black suits and acted tough and threatening.

    “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to my table,” and I walked out.


    I woke up on a bench in a quiet and dimly lit park.

    “I must have been dreaming. That could never be my real life.”

    I sat up straight and yawned.

    I was sad because I was alone now.

    Most have been taken away and locked up in cages and camps.

    I just don’t get it anymore. The breaking down just goes on and on. They cheer for hate and the hurting of others. Will we ever learn? I listened to a calm yet frightening world around me. Sirens in the distance. My chest has been hurting lately. My nerves are burnt toast. I just want to be able to smile and laugh again. I felt drained of hope.

    I stopped in a run-down and sketchy convenience store. A disenchanted clerk leaned on the counter and scrolled through his phone. The place was dirty. Nobody cared anymore. Horrible music played overhead. I went to the coolers and got myself two bottles of Yoo-hoo. It’s amazing when it’s cold. I went to the counter and paid with the few scraps of money I had. A person could just find it on the streets now and again.

    I went down to the harbor and looked up at the stars. It felt like they were backing further away. I couldn’t blame them. It was getting colder outside. I drank one of the Yoo-hoos and that made me even colder. It was time for me to go to my shelter.

    I walked to a darkened place of town. They call it the outskirts. The lonely black pitch of branches and bones for the lost ones of the world. I made my way into the woods. I had to use my little pocket flashlight. I finally came to my hidden cove. My place was made with a few sheets of plywood, some blankets, some tarps, some leaves and boughs. Some dirt. I got my fire started and sat down. I warmed my hands, listened to the crackling of the wood, and watched orange embers drift to the evening sky.

    I’ve been living here since the seventh grade. I didn’t want to go to school anymore. I couldn’t take the endless suffering of being picked on. I just wanted to hide away and be left alone. I gave up on society and all its poisons. I don’t know if anyone ever came searching for me. I suppose all those people from back then are gone. A lot of people are gone. I wonder when I’ll be gone. It’s a weird thing to think about not being part of the everyday world. It’s kind of sad when you think about not waking up anymore.

    All I know is, I hope to the everlasting universe it’s a better place to breathe and live how a person wants to live. Stop standing on everyone’s necks.

  • I Have Her

    The stars smell like Play-Doh tonight. It must be the encroaching rain or swarm of plastic angels bearing false prophets. She is my Manitou blue-eyed peace prophet. One of the best feelings I ever had in my guts, there at the postcard spinner in some kitsch moccasin shoppe with the rubber Native American drums and feathered hatchets made in China. It was a beyond beyond momentary bliss, a happiness to be alive like no other. We ate ice cream and drank rain. Her hand was warm and soft in mine. And there she is now, centuries later, asleep in our bed, in our room, in our house, on our land… I hunger for and have her love. And she has mine.

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  • The Somewhere Machine

    I carved a portal into the wall

    One that would suck me through and kill my due

    An orchestrated taffy pull

    Rainbow colored with extra pink

    I’ve always wanted to dine in space

    I just feel this angst of escape these days

    I can’t fathom the torment of what will be

    With an orange hellish king manning the guillotine

    I will miss the playthings of better days

    Why does my wizardry wane so fast

    Polluted water cast from a paper cup

    It’s not about healthcare – it’s about profit care, yacht care, mansion care, private island care, greed care, golf care, hate care

    A rudderless man-made business machine of psychotic turmoil

    A doomsday clock bursting at the seconds

    Robotic dope fiends and fanatics deciding life or death

    The air, the sun, and the moon are all gone

    Heaven has vanished

    Somewhere else now, please

    To sail away on a grief ship.

  • Light To The Gray

    Photo by Evie Shaffer on Pexels.com.

    Beehive morning

    Cold, gray, wet

    Remembering stars still spinning

    Dreams in deadlock

    I just can’t recall the colors or the shapes

    Somehow something about my mother again

    And her crucifixion for an innocent life

    Cold coffee on the desk

    Cold air through the window

    Cold skin

    Cold bones

    Wife sleeping in the background

    We churn out our days in nervousness, laughter, silence, love…

    I have to scratch in the gravel for joy sometimes when the outside world comes creeping in. Now, more than ever, I feel like I have to look away just to preserve my own sanity. What has become of us? Hate. Greed. Selfishness. Racism. Bigotry. Violence. Environmental destruction. The stepping on the throats of women. The stepping on the throats of the sick and the poor and the disabled. They cheer for all this alongside their god. I can’t make any sense of it. Why does so-called humanity willfully choose the hurting of others? It’s a sick world. I often think it’s hell after all.

    But my wife and I have chosen to get through it tightly knit together. To wrap ourselves up in our own love, our own little world. To save each other and the small circle of others around us. It’s all we can do. And also, to never engage in the hateful rhetoric. To never become what so many have chosen to be. To be decent. To find the light in the darkness.

  • Soul House

    There was a dark, lonely road of dirt that led to a bright spot at the end. There were leaves, turned sour and clotted in the mud. The road was lined with black trees, leaning in, almost like an arch, and at the end of the road rose up a white house – old, a bit crooked, quiet, serene, adjusted to a different time. There was peace there, yet malice. Distant ghosts hollered from the bellies of old lives once standing on the wooden porch and looking out. The land surrounding was wide and thick and green. Trees rose up at the edge of the interior. A crooked fence could no longer stand – like an old man wobbling on a cracked cane.

    I don’t know how I found this place. It just appeared to me at the side of the road and I turned. I was lost somewhere in Tennessee in the dead of summer with the sun shimmering like an earthquake, love leveling off, hope and desire sparingly filling me with fuel. I looked over at the empty passenger seat where she once sat. Red Hot Chili Peppers was blaring on the stereo – a strangely upbeat sound that somehow calmed my nerves. And I wondered. What is this world? Why are we here? Why are we all driving around like maniacs? Where did we all come from? For what purpose is it we breathe?

    I got out of the car and the only sound in the air was that of the door slamming. A woosh, clap kind of sound. The soles of my shoes rubbed against the rough ground. I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked at the place. It seemed abandoned. It seemed abandoned like my soul.

    Sometimes my heart bleeds through to the prayer. I reached down to touch my shirt at the breast. It was red with loss. I stepped up onto the porch. There were wooden planks abandoned by time, rough with neglect passed down through the ages. The door was dusty and wide open and I stepped in. The windows were broken. Glass littered the dust on the old floor. The place smelled like distant lives. There was a table, old and worn, but no chairs; rectangular, seating for six, perhaps, and a cabinet for plates and glasses now long empty and worn. An old, oval carpet collected dust. The kitchen was cleaned, but abandoned, the cabinet handles gripped the prints of hands that long ago touched. I needed a mercy pill for my pain. My jeans were torn. I felt sweat in my head. I miss that lava kiss she forgot. I am here, floating, like some device of unknown purpose, filtering through the traffic of frantic lives in a world we created completely based on cost, on money, on profit, on gains, on plastic corporate coma-induced bullshit.

    Earlier, I sat in an ugly parking lot of some ugly American strip mall today. I ate a sandwich. I called my girlfriend. I drank some diet lemonade cranberry drink. The asphalt is stained. The human heart is drained. This is life? The beckoning call of cattle to buy. The 40-plus hours a week of slavery? Fuck. I can’t change this dismal world. Piggly Wiggly should not be some dirty whore dump. It should be stars in a child’s mind of summer night.

    The house reminded that dead is dead and that this place was indeed dead. It would be swallowed up by the weeds like a dragon to night flies. This world is too coarse for me. Gunshot blasts just rang out in the night. I need love. For my life was so distant from it. Love has never been love. It has always been just a passing phase. A story, a trick, a lightning-fueled tick of the breath.

    One of the sweetest, best moments of my life lately, having been sitting in the comfort, wooden din of the Pinewood market, having a sandwich and an iced tea looking across at my blonde wonder, my wife invisible, the love of my near-ending life, biting into sweetness, talking, laughing, being quiet, refrigeration, menus, recipes, what cake shall we have for dessert? The hot parking lot. Paper towels at the table on a roll. Farm-fresh eggs on the shelves.

    For this world does not value love, or peace, or kindness like it should. The world does not value life. This world values money, and plastic, and the burning hours of our lives. This world values slogans, catch phrases and trademarks. This world values a money hungry god. This world values one life against another – when ALL lives should matter. This world values hatred and greed and starvation of the other-skinned. This world values profit over people. I’m sick to my stomach of it. I’m sick of the black-inked souls roaming this world.

    I remember opening the door to spring as a child. It smelled, tasted so wonderful and full of possibilities. It tasted of fresh, green grass. Now I drive through clotted hatred. I roam through a collection of lost souls every day. My solace? A lover lost between the lives of everyday living. She sleeps in my bed and I kiss her soft cheek goodbye in the caustic morning. She is my atomic bomb of peace and love, and yet I rage at her because of my imbalance. Normal is not good enough, eh? Throw in some madness to the mix.

    The house was blind and smelled of death. It was hot. Much too hot for a normal person to brave.

    I am neither sad or happy. I am neutral. I am Switzerland. Some weeds were growing up through the foundation. The cement was cracked. I feared asbestos poisoning and went out. My car stood there like a soldier. I got in. I drove off. I watched the sun set amongst the fields and the green. It was beautiful, but it was ugly and lonely and time consuming at the same time. The consumption of time. That’s a hoax they will never convince me of as being necessary for the greater good of the company.

    Maybe it’s starting to rain. Maybe I need to just relax and not have a stroke. Maybe I just need to patiently wait for the next world – for this one is like a deep slit in the wrist – it will eventually kill you. Maybe I should just let the love I have cradle me in the deep of night and let peaceful dreams of another world sweep me away. She is beautiful beside me – an angel clutching my hand past midnight, an angel I wake up with – coffee and waffles and a long kiss goodbye.

  • Vagrant In Hell

    The psithurism of the autumn forest flutters as the madmen of the otherworld profit from global uncertainty. I drive the point of a walking stick into the ground and take a breath or two. Eyes gazing outward and around. The forest is wet and orange. The trunks of the trees a slick black and gray. An airplane glides slowly overhead, high up, a vapor trail in its wake. I wonder where all those people are going and why. Escape. I groan at the idea of a chaotic airport and glad that my feet are on the soft ground of the woods.

    The woods. That quiet sanctuary. Leaves move like wind chimes. I move across the November blanket, a quilt of yellow and gold. And then the cold dystopian gong rises from the other world and the horror lands beyond. The sky seeps blood and ash. I’ll never feel better again. I’ll never wake with joy. The hope drained from my soul. Faith in humanity has become nothing but a stained, disgusting lie. It’s all about greed and hate and racism and a twisted god relationship. I can’t find peace in the future, but perhaps only in the other side of the light. I long to be a vagrant somewhere else, somewhere far away. A free vagrant would be better than being a crushed and caged creative and loving soul. This world must indeed be hell and the people all ignorant monsters.

  • Sector Cereal 12


    There’s only 12 left again.

    A pair of tulips, blue and orange.

    A heartbeat on two lips, river red and candy pink.

    A shade of warmth in her sleeping body beside me.

    She’s beautiful. Sonic Ocean Water blue eyes in a meadow of golden sand.

    And now there’s an empty blue bowl that just a few minutes ago contained blueberry pie. Why am I amazed by that? I put blueberry pie in a blue bowl… And then, I put milk in a white mug.

    It’s a night of racing thoughts and all the other travelers of the night are crashing into each other. I’m an emotional demolition derby up in here. I’m a porcelain Fonzie wearing a crystal blue motorcycle helmet from the 1940s.

    But I suppose it’s better than being dead in the head and like a log in a bog. The Creature from the Black Lagoon rising up out of the water with a penchant for panic.

    My stories need to dig deeper into the core of the Earth and the mines on the moon. I need to be a jackhammer mole of odd, creative fervor. I need to dismantle the dullards of dementia.

    But I want to be more than a bowl of alphabet soup… And now I’m reminded of the cereal Alpha-Bits. Perfect! My blog name: Cereal After Sex. Why? Because I enjoy a good bowl of cereal after sex. It’s like a magic Haitian cigarette for me. Plus, the words flow so nicely along the river of life and language.

    Anyways, cereal:

    I’d travel to the end of a rainbow for a box of Lucky Charms. I’d travel through a swarm of bees to get to a box of Honeycomb. I’d travel through a haunted cornfield on Halloween for a box of Corn Pops. I’d drink a forest of purple wine for some Grape Nuts. Nuts? That’s me. I’d lie out in the California sun until I was shriveled for a bowl of Raisin Bran — topped with two packets of Stevia.

    A sudden rumble and I sense the combustion of a cookie. What was that noise? I set my 12 bowls of cereal to the side and go to the window. There are huge clouds of billowing black smoke in the distance. There is an orange glow in the sky and ash and rockets and flesh. It looks like a pumpkin exploded on a very massive scale. The room is suddenly getting much warmer and I see a vibrant wave of pandemonium and power rushing right toward me.

  • Oaf Doomsday

    We just can’t anymore.

    This abysmal toast of every morning.

    The spotted sunrise.

    The opiate day curtains.

    The panic, the tremors, the heart rushes, the worry, the candy fevers.

    The daily death of dreams.

    Cracked crystal balls leaking hopeless futures.

    The bombs, the broken babies, the bazooka douchebags and their flags and Freedom Fries.

    An orange farting papaya-shaped Jesus sort of guy named Oaf Doomsday sits in a dimly lit adobe cantina on the outskirts of San Diego near the Mexican border. He’s eating empanadas and drinking cold beer and a milkshake. He’s blubbery and not very holy. He starts loudly complaining about all the illegal immigrants and a guy dressed like a rough and tumble cowboy walks over to where he is at the bar and punches him in the face. Oaf Doomsday goes to the floor. A couple of burly rancheros pick him up and shovel him like coal out the door and into the dusty street. He hits the ground with a gravel-studded thud.

    “Hate has no place in this establishment, mother fucker!” one of the burly rancheros yells at him, and then he disappears back inside the dim reverence of the cantina.

    Loneliness and despair.

    Black iron lungs in the air.

    A hooker named Harper Rae stands in the street and looks down at the orange farting papaya-shaped Jesus sort of guy named Oaf Doomsday. She has ivory-blonde hair, puffed up bimbo lips, and inflatable intelligent breasts. She puts the pointed heel of a teal-colored high-heeled shoe on his flabby chest and digs it in. “You still owe me money you goofy ass sack of shit!”

    He looks up and blinks. To him, she’s an evil angel of womanhood ringed by bright sunlight. “I don’t even know who you are,” he groans.  

    She digs her heel in harder. He cries out in agony. A small crowd begins to gather. “Harper! Remember? Like how you were calling it out the other night… ‘Harper, oh Harper. Yes, baby. I want to boink you so good.’ Ring a bell, ding-a-ling?”

    “I’ve never met you. I have no idea who you are. Kindly remove your shoe from my chest before I sue you and take everything you have.”

    She looks up at the sun and shakes her head. She reluctantly removes her heel from his chest. Someone from the crowd throws a burrito and it hits the orange farting papaya-shaped Jesus sort of guy right in the face.

    Oaf Doomsday struggles to get up and wipes away the mess with a fat hand. “You are such disrespectful shits!” he yells. “Which one of you crappy little immigrants did this!? I’ll have you killed for such a mockery against me!”

    The people in the crowd point at him and laugh out loud. More burritos fill the air, and he is pummeled with tortillas, warm beef, cheese, beans, sauce. He starts to scream like a little girl, and he runs off down the street to escape the onslaught.

    Harper Rae the hooker high-fives the people in the crowd. “Yeah! I guess you could say he was torpedoed with burritos!”

    Everyone laughs out loud and cheers. Street music fills the air, and the people there start to dance like the end of the world is on the horizon.

    Oaf Doomsday comes upon a park, a plaza really, and he sits down on a bench beneath the shade of some large trees. He is sweaty and out of breath. His clothes, skin and hair are stained with the remnants of the burrito attack. He aches from the punch in the face. He fumbles around in his pockets for his phone and frantically calls his lawyer.

    “Hello, Gene? I’ve been assaulted and I want to sue!”

    There’s a warbled response on the other end.

    “Burritos, Gene. They threw burritos at me like I’m some sort of awful homeless person.”

    There’s another warbled response from the lawyer.

    “Hooker?” He pauses. “I have no idea who she is, Gene. I’ve never met her before. And how did you know about that?”

    “It’s all over the news!” the lawyer screams out from the other end.

    “What? How!?”

    Oaf Doomsday hangs up on his lawyer and pulls up CNN on his phone. The burrito attack outside the cantina is the top story, complete with video, interviews, quotes… Everything.

    He shoots up in a rage and bellows at the sky. “This is a travesty of justice! I did nothing. I know nothing.”

    “You are nothing,” comes a voice from behind him.

    Oaf Doomsday whips around, growling in uncontrollable anger. There before him stands a brown-colored man wearing a long, white tunic with a red shawl draped across his neck and shoulders. He has unreal blue eyes, long hair, and a beard. Atop his head he sports a red baseball cap with the words: Make Heaven Great Again embroidered upon it in white, glossy thread.

    “Who the hell are you?” Oaf Doomsday wants to know.

    “I’m Jesus,” the stranger says in a soothing voice. He retrieves a business card from somewhere invisible and hands it to him.

    Oaf Doomsday looks at it and scoffs. He tears it up and throws the pieces into the wind.

    “Oh, boy,” Jesus groans.

    “What?”

    “You shouldn’t have done that.”

    “Why not. You’re completely full of shit!” Then Oaf Doomsday reaches forward and slaps the red MHGA hat off his head.

    Jesus sighs. “You really are a piece of work, you know that? I mean, I was told you were an unequivocal asshole, but this… This is just ridiculous.”

    “Look here, Jesus,” Oaf Doomsday begins to ramble. “Why don’t you just go back to Heaven. And you know, Heaven, it’s just such a terrible place. Run down. Dirty. Full of immigrants and gays committing crimes against humanity. Everyone says so. All you have to do is watch it on Fox News. It’s all right there. Every day. Bad reports. Believe me, I know this. So, why don’t you just go do your thing back up there, go clean the filth from your golden streets and I’ll do my thing down here. I’m the most important person on the planet, you should know. Everyone thinks so. Without a doubt… And here’s another thing, we don’t need two Jesuses down here. The people. They love me. They think I’m you. They don’t want you; they want me. They don’t want your peace and love and all that kindness crap. I don’t like people who are kind. Kindness is weak. The people want ignorance, ugliness and hate. They worship it. We’re burning Bibles down here. It’s all very popular. That’s me. I’m the real Jesus.”

    Jesus sheds a tear as he looks upon the sack of hopeless pollution before him. He bends down and retrieves his red Make Heaven Great Again hat from the ground and puts it back on his head. He sighs. “Well, looks like I’m too late. I guess I’ll be going now.” The Real Jesus begins to walk away but suddenly pauses and turns to face the goldenrod scowl plastered with grease and cheese and swollen flesh. “But let me just say this. Someday in the not-too-distant future, you will die. And when you die, the world will celebrate. The air will be filled with music and the tolling of bells. People will flood the streets and they will cheer and dance upon your bloated corpse. And when you come to the Pearly Gates and obnoxiously rant to get inside, I will deny you entrance. In fact, I will come to you and kick you in the balls as hard as I can. I will kick you all the way to Hell and the devil will have his way with you for eternity and beyond. I hope that all appeals to you.”

    For the first time in forever, Oaf Doomsday doesn’t right away know what to say. The only noise that comes from him is the revolting sound of long-winded, blubbery flatulence that stagnates the air all around them. “And that, sir, is what I think about that.” He grins like a baboon high on gasoline fumes.

    The Real Jesus scoffs in disgust and begins to walk away. Oaf Doomsday watches him until he dissolves into the horizon like a ghostly apparition.

    He then clutches his chest to cradle and manipulate some sudden, surprising pain. Oaf Doomsday is quickly short of breath and drops to his knees. He topples onto his side and then sprawls out completely on the ground. Before his final intake of air, he looks up to the blue sky and the clouds and the circular sun. “This whole damn retched life has been nothing but a witch hunt,” he manages to mumble aloud. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m innocent. Just ask anyone…”

  • Rathskeller

    Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.com.

    At the break of dawn

    the world is the color of a yellow and green ghost

    all the madness comes rushing into my head

    thoughts running wild

    the worries of the womb

    the rebel, the raven, the rathskeller

    the rock star of love

    But I must confess, star people

    and surely, I am not alone on this,

    the ragged Earth has run me down

    like an old watch about to die

    destined to gather dust on the precipice of a forgotten shelf in a forgotten cabinet of oddities

    Aye, this world is no place for the likes of me

    I am a rhombus trying to fit into a round, laborious hole

    Egg-burnt at the edges

    Trolling along the hedges

    in England or Wales

    capitalism has crushed me

    my dreams, my art, my heart

    Oh, the things I could have done

    the places I could have gone

    if not sentenced to the senseless toil

    And nearly 60 years on

    I cannot escape it

    We are crushed into dust

    burnt out, burnt up

    buried in a brown cup

    my grave the eternal wind.