You seem to be falling out,

like fading away, playing

fool/goof/phantom/drunken joke

to grown up little boys and girls

across sad broken south Philly homes

that chug and churn like the machines

of the past regurgitating old

memories onto old faces and wrinkles

of the mourning night too

close to sunrise to remember—

too locked in twisted horns

with dead things, meaningless things

that need to be let go— a drowning

universal truth slugging its way

at your temple—a a a—

just to let you down and you brood about

these things that can’t change

next to open window and open veins,

when you’re supposed to be the one

that lives and blazes and burns—


Incoherently I’m incoherent

137 miles in hell and away

like fading rivers pulled under heavy roads

of gray dawns—I’m connecting these thoughts

drying out—


You seem to be losing your grip

on where your reality resides—

 The Setting of their suns


Let’s drown the star-eyed


in the vegetable sea

you & I

at the birth of our world

worlds away
Some Change for the Time Man


Anchor me down with the past…

I’m a floating helium-centric

goon of the heavens babbling

incoherent love songs to the sick—

oh well, it was a mighty cause

when I fought it, when I remembered

what it was, but now I’m ground

up in old groundhog day

senility starting 8 hours behind

the sun and escaping into the night

only to sleep never to live

never to live—I’m a lay about—

society bites me, keeps me moving,

I’ve fallen so far from my feet—

they’re dragging toward the gorge,

an endless plastic coffin filled

to the brim with only the faces

I’ve known, the ones with

concentric circles spinning round their

golden heads—that’d be us Joe—but

they stick the swords to our backs and the

planks vibrate to the frequency

of the queen’s machine—

there’s no footing, there’s no branch

only falling—

Kerouac said this once 

Just realized

—I wrote a poem

at 28th & East River in NYC

2011, 60 years after

Kerouac in 1952 sketched

the scene, sitting at same

location temporal shift, tho for

me it was urban oasis new dog-park

walking under Robert Moses planned highway,

for Kerouac it was still pure shipyard,

maybe (I watch a tourist

river cruise leave at 1230

every tues. & thurs.) the river

was brown & gray, in the bend

of time we painted same image

a scene of shifting life, but the flow

remains, it’s New York after all,

it’s the East River for sure,

there was trash, there was graffiti,

there was beauty.

























Bulldozer war homes


Her castle is a shadow

puppet’s lair built deep into

the gold damp mountains

under the crystal sidewalk

stairs—it’s down south,

ancient president—dead

society—fitted beards;

It’s a chin up kinda place

at the end of ended streets

a make believe cauldron

beneath wronged stars—mistaken

constellations—scattered maps—

it’s below the sea-level line

an anachronism 4.6 billion times—

it’s a home with bladed grass

and circus traps—


it ain’t far off the armada’s path—


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