Monday, January 31, 2011


There must be a certain trust between men for things to work right in this world. When human rights are flag, law, or leadership deserves the right to rule. All world-wide leaders must be held accountable for atrocities commited on foreigners and their own citizenry. There are those among us in our own government who want to attack the working man. They lie that the unions are responsible for our present day economic crisis.

Be fearful of all bureaucrats. Watch carefully the habits of men who drive fine cars, smoke cuban cigars, and wear two-thousand dollar business suits. Be fearful of these guys. They are the ones who attack the middle class with unfair taxes and invite slave labor into this country. The ruling class loves it when the masses fight each other over race, religion, and money. They love disunity and animosity. They thrive upon it. They side-step the reality that THEY are the cause of the disenfranchisement of the citizenry, through their evil machinations. Countries in economic and political flux employ war as a means to keep an unemployed citizenry in check. Workers are kept busy killing other workers in foreign lands. Profits are made by arms manufacturers, politicians, corporations, and the powers that be who hold political strongholds throughout the world. The wealthy never fight their wars. They only profit from them.

Abraham Lincoln once said, "All that serves labor serves the nation. All that harms is treason. If a man tells you he trusts America, yet fears labor, he is a fool. There is no America without labor, and to fleece the one is to rob the other."

This sentence must also apply to all other governments throughout the world. We need to reward the common man worldwide for his labors. We must punish all those who offend with their GREED. If we are to do away with war and unrest on our earth, we must use our assets to uplift man, not degrade him.

Sunday, January 30, 2011


the ride is long
pack your bedroll tight
put on your spurs
you ride tonight
under the light of stars
and sultry moon
the cacti stand
like haggard men
and warriors dance
from days long gone
and the smell of death
lingers on
from gunfights past
and the search for gold
cowboys searching
the young and old
for better days
and honest ways
to deal with life
and mountain haze
the leather hands
and faces well-worn
have lines of life
from many storms
so ride on cowboy
and let it go
ride your life
your tale of woe
the miles are long
the journey true
ride on cowboy
for me and you


I call my computer, the confuser.
How many times does she do me wrong?
Every day is another tragedy.
The computer is a whore.
It is a lover gone bad.
It is an evil mistress.
I need her, but she treats me like a dog.
She lies to me.
She takes from me.
She absorbs my time.
Why am I addicted to her?
When will I give up this obsession?
She is a heartless mistress.
I coddle her.
I take care of her.
I constantly purge her of her sins.
I give her cosmetics.
I give her my care.
Yet, she denies me access to knowledge.
She is driving me insane.
I thought I controlled her.
Yet she controls me.
I am damned.

Friday, January 28, 2011


I'm lonesome
but I ain't alone
it all comes over on me
like a purple shade
or a bad vibe
slide guitars fuel the fire
of the desperateness
of the dark
smoky bars
with the laughing
women and men
cacophonous noise
happy chatter
popcorn and stale pretzels
cheap whiskey
watery beer
but still alone
all in our little lonesome worlds
never touching
even when we fuck
yeah, lonesome
pain never ends
we come in alone
we die alone
even when we hold hands
or paws
lonesome dog
lonesome cat
lonesome man
lonesome bird
lonesome woman
lonesome me.


I don't work.
my car wont work.
government doesn't work.
my telephones doesn't work.
nothing works.

the cable doesn't work.
the TV doesn't work.
the puter never works.
my congressmen don't work.
government doesn't work.
the post office doesn't work.

my siblings do not work.
the neighbors do not work.
my health insurance doesn't work.
my grievances do not work.
my budget does not work.
my washing machine doesn't work.

I load my gun.
i put it in my mouth.
i say my prayers.
i pull the trigger.
it doesn't work.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


This neon world is too much for me.
It's a world of fast food commercials,
policical chicanary,
deparate houswives,
and fireworks displays.
It's a new world that masks realities.
"Everything is gonna' be alright",
is the war-cry of insanity.
This carnival is non-stop,
with pom-pom girls,
quarterback heroes,
and reality shows that are unreal.

The book stores are closing.
Art sales are down.
Ronald McDonald is still America's clown.
He thrives.
So does Walmart, Starbucks, and Taco Bell.
No mas!

It's fourth and one.
A mere ten seconds is left in the game.
The home team is on its own five-yard line.
Ain't it a shame?
Education's not funded.
Intellectualism is dead.
The neon world is stuck in our heads.

So let me live my virtual life.
Soon I might have an adroid wife.
Sunrises and sunsets will be viewed on a screen.
Outdoor activities, only a dream.
From birth to the grave a neon haze.
Lordy, I long for the "good-old" days.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


We now are the "old and lonely guys".
We have become the guys we used to laugh at.
Old bums or geezers living alone in trailer parks.
Guys who toiled in thankless jobs at factories.
Warehousemen, construction workers, cops.
All worn out and confused.
Sad that our wives have died.
Our children have moved.
We are happy for their success.
But why can't they call more often?

Once we were heroes.
In war, on football fields, or on dance floors.
It's all gone now.
Some of us still talk about these times.
Most of us don't share these tales anymore.
We've worn them out.
Many of us stare out of nicotine stained windows.
Bar room windows.
We smoke packs of butts.
We go on coughing jags.
Whiskey serves as a cough syrup.

Our bodies are denying us.
We just don't feel right anymore.
It all went so fast.
It was never supposed to be like this.
Sometimes the kid in the trailer across the street,
hauls my empty garbage cans back to my porch.
This makes me smile.
I love petting my cat, and falling asleep in my chair.
Most of the time though, I am lonely.

I spend too much time watching TV.
I don't worry about dying anymore.
I never thought I would be so brave.
It isn't courage, really.
There's just nothing left for me to do.

Monday, January 24, 2011


Man found rock, so he built with it.
He used it because it was hard.
He built great monuments to his pride.
They were built all over the earth.
They represented his perpetuity.
Damn the ego of man.
He is skin, bones, blood,
and mostly feeble minded in his ways.
In his deluded state, he thinks he rules the world.
He makes war on other men.
He commits great acts of horror.
The old monuments come down.
New ones are erected in their place.
Better materials are used,
like steel and bulletproof glass.
Man protects the new monuments with better weapons.
The balance of power on earth is ever-shifting.
Men are always dying, and new men are born to take their place.
The sun, the moon, the rain, the wind, and time,
are the only real monuments.
They are the omnipotent ones, until earth expires.
Nature is our ruler.
It could laugh at the insignificance of man,
but it doesn't.
Nature is wise.
It has no mind.
It only has purpose.

Saturday, January 22, 2011


there is hope in the Holy Bible.
there is hope in a loaded gun.
there is hope in a mother's embrace.
there is hope in a dirty slum.
there is hope in a bottle of gin.
there is hope when there is sin.
there is hope in each may flower.
there is hope in ill-gained dollars.

i wish for more hopeful days.
i hope that my mindset stays,
with thoughts that are for "the good".
not foul things that are in my "hood".
for if I stay with hope,
i just might evoke,
a life that's good and clean.
it won't be sick and mean.

these ways which deter my mind,
and give me a feckless spine,
are all conceived by men,
who falter and sin again,
without a damned concern
for the money and fame they earn.

there is no free without hope.
there's just the end of a rope,
or a life that wasn't lived,
with knowledge or will to forgive,
oneself or others who grin,
and seek the way of sin,
and pleasures of evil men,
who lose souls in the end.

I pray i stay on a path,
that keeps me nimble with craft,
to spin these madman's yarns,
and do so not to charm.
for hope is all i need.
it's just a tiny seed.
i nuture it right now.
it's planted with the plow,
of good intentions for men.
i've said enough.
the end.

Thursday, January 20, 2011


He was a gangly lad.
A bright boy.
He learned the value of work at an early age.
An alcoholic father was the impetus for his success.
The boy did adequately in school.
But what he really loved was work.
He always had a couple of jobs.
He saved most of what he made.
While other children frittered away their time,
this young man made plans.
He was fueled by a growing hatred.
The boy was sickened and embarassed by his drunken father.
He was sick of dragging him out of bar rooms.
"Home to dinner, eh pops?", he said sarcastically.
These chores he did for the benefit of his doting mother.
They twisted his mind.
They blackened his heart.
He found no use for college.
Instead, he sat at the feet of wealthy men.
He listened to their wisdom.
They mentored him about finance, investments, and the stock market.
They liked his zeal.
Many of them had lazy sons.
They voted the hard-working lad into their special clubs.
The young man ended up wearing expensive cashmere overcoats.
He bought the finest Homburg hats.
He drove fine cars.
He bedded beautiful women.
He had arrived.
He took good care of his mother and his siblings.
He never spoke to his father.
He hung onto his hatred for the man.
After many years, he confided in me.
He was elderly now.
He still hated his father.
I told him he would never have peace until he let his anger go.
The drunken old man was dead for over forty-years.
I told him it was insane to keep the rage burning.
It was as putrid as the cancer that was consuming him.
Right before the end of his life he told me,
"I look at my mansion and all the beautiful things that I have acquired,
but do you know what?...They mean nothing to me anymore."
Out of all the wise things I learned from this bright man,
over a period of fifty-some odd years,
this sentence had the most meaning for me.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011


the derricks.
the twisting drill steel.
the dance of labor.
on the drill deck floor.
calls out to me.
they ran two, twelve-hour shifts.
the endless cadence.
tha-thump...tha-thump...tha thump.
as the drill steel twists and turns.
these were hughes bits.
A-grade carbon-diamond bits.
the hardest known to man.
patented by howard hughes.
they got stuck anyway.
we acidized holes.
used tv cameras to see our dilemnas.
there were blowouts.
we climbed.
never any rest.
the work was non-stop.
for leather men.
with calloused hands.
all absorbed.
in the tasks at hand.
we were part of the machine.
the game was played.
in heat.
in cold.
in desperation.
my heart was hardened.
like case hardened steel.
then it was lost.
on these drill decks.
these derricks of steel.
in smoky bar rooms.
between legs of whores.
oh, to find comfort.
in whiskey.
and speed.
and so much more.
then nightmarish sleep.
it was never enough.
'til the next shift.
sometimes two in a row.
in search of black gold.
in some texas town.
and dreams which never came true.
the memories,
and scars,
are the only bounty,
that remains.


I love to watch the football games.
Without this drug,
life ain't the same.
I like the hits,
the violence too.
I get right with the hulabaloo.
The playoffs really get me off.
The hits are harder.
It's really great stuff.
Then there comes the Superbowl.
The food is good.
The booze does flow.
After this there's nothing left.
I feel abandoned.
I know there will be brighter days.
but May and June is far away.
I guess I'll have to be satisfied,
with lesser games to keep me alive.
Basketball, Hockey, Weightlifting and Track.
They are there to watch,
but somehow lack,
the mystical feeling of the football game.
Without this sport, I ain't the same.
The baseball games put me to sleep.
I need my fix.
How many weeks?
Then comes August and pre-season joy.
Then once again I am a boy.
On fields of mud, and sweat and blood.
I guess I am a football slug.
I don't care if Casey is up at bat.
I like the game of field attack.
The cold winds blow,
the wild men charge.
The battle cries,
are grand and large.
I feel the surge.
I feel the flow.
The game is on.
I won't let go.

Monday, January 17, 2011


I wanna' be just like that guy in the Viagra commercial.
You know the guy.
Tall, good-looking, in shape.
He has the muscle car.
He has the cool jeans, and cowboy boots.
Suzy-Q is on the radio.
He's one tough, old cowboy!
His car is overheatin'.
He stops at the gas station,
and gets some water for him and his ride.
He doesn't even fear the gall-danged hot radiator water!
It wouldn't dare splash him,
even if he can't get a hard-on!
He leaves, and Homer at the gas station,
waves him goodbye.
The gas station attendant knows this old boy is cool!
As the sun sets, you see him pull up to a
million dollar home!
Yeah, that's right!
This dude not only looks like a buff construction worker,
but he has money too!
He just can't get it up, without the little blue pill.
One light is left on in his house.
It's his hot Barbie Doll wife waiting for him.
She has on his favorite nightie!
It's gonna' be a long, hard night.
Yeah, sure.

Saturday, January 15, 2011


You're working at what you think is optimal functionality.
You are at the top of your intellectual game.
Students and professors look up to you.
You are linking facts together.
Weaving and extrapolating into unknown ideational territories.
The connections lead to new, other connections.
You study sixteen, sometimes eighteen-hours a day.
You eat to stay alive.
You smoke cigarettes and drink coffee to stay on the edge.
Finally you isolate yourself from people, social events, and God.
The psychotic break comes ever so slowly.
You don't realize you are losing your rational mind.
You can't reason your way out of it, no matter how hard you try.
Your old mind is gone.
It never comes back.
Your synapses have been burnt too badly.
You realize that you will never cerebrate at a genius level, ever again.
You accept this sad fact...after years,
This is the worst feeling.
You admit defeat.
You settle for less.
You realize you are normal.
Yes, you accept "normal".
But you always wonder,
"What if?"

Thursday, January 13, 2011


I took my daughter to Shannon's Irish Pub.
It was nice to treat her to lunch.
I used to hunker down on the bar in there.
Spent many a late night with the other drunks.
Catherine and I both ate salads.
Coffee is my drink of choice today.
I looked into her sparkling blue eyes.
She said, "Dad, you seem distant today...
like something is bothering you."
I told her I was fine.
Then I told her that I am always in pain.
It's the normal pain of arthritis and legs gone bad.
I then told her, it was just a fact of life.
Not to fear.
I am happy.
She walked too fast for me.
I wanted to linger over lunch a little longer.
But she had to get back to the city.
I took her to my friends shop.
Just for a few minutes.
He read her some strange poetry.
We had a few laughs.
I wanted her to see that there were others like me.
I am glad I am in my comfy shoes now.
I am grateful for such a beautiful child.
She has the aura and beauty of youth.
I thrive on her freshness.
There is a time and a place for everything.
I loved lunch with my Catherine.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


They worked us hard, in unsafe conditions.
We were afraid of the falling rock.
The limestone and coal dust.
Diesel engines spewed black exhaust.
They told us there were scrubbers on the engines.
This would protect our lungs.
I coughed up black mucous for years.
I showed a jar of it to my union steward.
He looked at me as if I were insane.
Finally he said, "Take it to the safety man".
The safety man didn't do shit.
He was probably paid off by the company.
OSHA didn't do anything either.
I was labeled a trouble maker.
I thought I was a good union man.
I did my job.
I just knew there were many things wrong.
Guys were getting injured.
Some lost their lives.
Everyone was afraid of losing their jobs.
These Oil, Coal, and rock mining conglomerates
never cared about the working man.
They despise the unions.
They got away with whatever they could get away with.
They hired scabs if we went on strike.
We were hauled off to jail, for defending our jobs.
They killed us with guns and hired thugs.
Yes, this still happens today.
Yeah, it's happening right now!
I see children hungry.
They're crying for something to eat.
My union brothers and sisters are suffering.
We have to draw the line somewhere.
Decide which side you are on.
I'm broken now.
My lungs don't work.
My legs don't work.
I have painful arthritis from the dampness.
I worked underground, and outside in freezing cold.
And I'm afraid of what the future holds for me.
I hope my union pension and health and welfare,
doesn't go bankrupt.
These guys in the news media with their multi-million dollar jobs,
are blaming the unions and American workers for all kinds of problems.
They are calling us lazy.
These goons in the news media are the mouthpieces of corporate America.
They ought to be ashamed of themselves.
The owners and stockholders of huge companies are making obscene amounts of money.
Workers of America have no jobs, and can't make ends meet anymore.
Yet, they are raising our taxes for our own good.
The wealthy are the beneficiaries of all kinds of tax loopholes.
I'm not smart enough or rich enough to retain legal experts,
to see how I can screw my government out of tax dollars.
I guess I'll just have to pay up.
They say I'm milking the system for all it's worth.
They call guys like me, bums, malcontents, and rabble rousers.
Now, I ask you:
Who's the real culprit in America today?
It sure ain't the American worker, by God!

Monday, January 10, 2011


He wasn't a star athlete.
Didn't distinguish himself in any way.
He was middle of the road.
Graduated from college.
He was 7th Cavalry.
He traded his foot powder.
Got a bottle of scotch.
He smelled death as he disembarked.
The sweet smells of marijuana.
The humid jungle.
His feet suffered jungle rot.
The foot powder went to a short timer.
He knew he got the bad end of the bargain.
He survived the Ia Drang Valley.
Viet Nam.
1800 of his fellow soldiers died.
It was a bloody welcome.
He left his youth on the battlefield.
He became a soldier that day.
Now he is old.
He can't forget.
He lives with guilt.
For surviving so long.
He was a soldier.


love is helping someone cry.
love is sitting in someone's lap.
love is taking out the garbage.
love is tasting a coffee for your mate,
to make sure it is not too hot.
love is listening.
love is always being available.
love is acceptance.
love is smiling at your lover,
even when they are sitting on the toilet.
love is giving away your last cookie.
love is now.
love is everywhere.
love is found if you look for it.
love is the way.
love is everything.
love is for everyone.
love has happy prisoners.
jail me with love.
throw away the key.


what do you do with a shit day?
start it over, i suppose.
i do that, but the anger still remains.
drudgery, monotony, disappointments...
all the same old, same old.
it's a sucky day.
go away.
legs ain't working.
lungs ain't breathing right.
bonds are down.
cancer doc tomorrow.
aortic screening in the spring.
out of the loop.
too much techno bullshit to learn.
losing my edge.
saw some college kid call a guy in my gym old today.
the "old guy" was forty.
i am sixty-two.
that makes me ancient.
felt like kicking his ass.
and i could.
this day blows.
sucky, sucky, sucky.
it sucks man!
now i sound juvenile.
a juvenile, geriatric piece of dung.
i start my day over.
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
the end.

Friday, January 7, 2011


why the hell was i in afghanistan?
the weather vacilates from bone chilling cold,
to sweltering hot.
We march up winding trails.
rough terrain.
rock and mountains.
everything is weird.
we dig in, while we are being shot at.
it frightens me.
we are in a valley now.
they shoot us like fish in a barrel.
we go into villages.
we kill the taliban.
but we also kill "friendlies".
my company commander says it is unavoidable.
he explained to the afghani elders that:
"your sons take money from the enemy to fight us."
it is explained to them that they will have riches,
if they fight for us.
it seems so insane.
i remember seeing my first dead man.
then more were killed.
my friends.
the guys who came here with me.
we were on such a glorious adventure at first.
now it is a nightmare.
i tried 6 different sleeping meds.
none of them work.
i am back state-side now.
i have no work.
i spend time at the gym and in the bar.
i don't feel young anymore.
i still wonder why were in afghanistan.
i like to think i made a difference.
but sometimes it is hard for me.
i hope things get better.
i shouldn't complain.
i came home in one piece.
i was one of the lucky ones.

Thursday, January 6, 2011


take this one moment
and make it yours.
it may be the one
which defines your life.
don't take time for granted.
one moment may bring you up.
one moment may let you down.
one moment may alter all of your days.
nothing in time is insignificant.
most people sleepwalk through life.
they worry about needless things.
things work themselves out most of the time.
concentrate on important things.
make your to-do lists every day.
do your best.
then let the rest go.
grab your important moments.
keep your eyes open.
keep your ears open.
keep your mouth shut.
see what happens.

all of this should work for you,
unless you are an artist or a writer.
if you are one of these creative types
put your head between your legs,
and kiss your ass goodbye.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011


he hid in dark places
played cat and mouse
scurried about furtively
not wanted
he was the ratman

he ate from a can
in gutters
from old candy wrappers
brown paper bags
he ate gifts from old hags
and bums
he was the rat man

he wore a coat of gray
a shabby fray
in disarray
a hobbled walk
he never talked
he always dread
what they said
about the rat man

in his final gasp
it was a rasp
he glorified life
in spite
of the horrors he'd seen
he was not mean
he was the rat man

and so he died
no diatribe
about this man
who said, "I can."
he simply went
his life was spent
like a shooting star
behind the bar
he was the rat man

Monday, January 3, 2011


he punched out early
the boss glared at him
the bus would take him to the west side of town
the fight was scheduled for ten rounds
he smoked his last cigarette
entered the banquet hall
a lopsided ring faced him
dilapidated folding chairs

he went to the changing room
his trainer taped his hands
gave him a rub down
said, "kid, you ain't made for this no more".
the trainer knew it
so did the fighter

he was on the card early
he was fighting a young terrier
an up-and-comer
he was cut up badly by the 4th round.
he was knocked down in the 8th.
he kept getting up
the trainer told him to stay down

they booed the fight
they threw garbage at the old fighter
he finished the fight standing up
he lost the decision
his take was fifty-bucks
no-one stayed to talk to him
it wasn't like this in the old days

he bought some smokes at the liquor store
jumped a bus to connely's bar
some old whore said, "what happened to you?
"yer face looks like it ran into a train!"
the crowd laughed and so did he
the fighter closed the joint
but he bought a round for the house

he went home and soaked in a hot tub
he was drunk
he was happy there was no work tomorrow
he was happy for the extra fifty bucks
he plugged in the space heater
he dreamt of the old days.

Saturday, January 1, 2011


the bridges are cracking
social services lacking
the parking ain't free
it all bothers me
they say we can fix it
they lay off the cops
the workers
the lot
the people of use
the engine
they drive a caboose
what in the hell?
it don't ring a bell
of sanity here
i desperately fear
for help
this spiral is now
no one has a clue
of what to do
just watch tv
and you will see
how bad it can get
you can bet
on regret
before it's all through
there'll be nothing to do
for the sanity here
is gone
like a tear
down the cheek
of lady liberty.


It's time for resolutions.
Diets for new constitutions.
The fat must seek a solution.
How about a revolution?
The rich are weaker now.
They've eaten the fat-assed cow.
Get on your camouflage now.
Put greasepaint on your face.
And how!
We're gonna' take control.
We're gonna' rock-and-roll!
Don't forget to lock-and-load.
For money that's been stole.
From fools like you and me.
We're rock hard from poverty.
So get your game face on.
A new order will be found.
We'll beat them to the ground.
We're muscled and sinewed.
From years of toil and spew.
From corporate theives that knew.
They're screwin' me and you.
So get on with your resolution.
For the worker's revolution.
Don't let them fake the blame.
We won't forget their names.
It's crunch time don't you see?
A new reality.
Where the fat and thieving rich,
Won't pitch their evil bitch.
At educated fools.
Who learned to use the tools.
To build America.
It ain't just bru-ha-ha.
So raise your hands up high.
Point them toward the sky.
And remember to defend.
The women and the men.
Who labored for this land.
I know you understand.