Coping Is A Joke (I Hope)

when coping stops being coping

do gentle breezes kiss your cheeks rosy
do aviary songs chirpping about begin to make sense
does a higher power guide you without precedence

when coping isn’t a constant existential war

will the crunch of leaves under my feet make me laugh again
or will I lament the end of a fallen glory

when coping is merely a sense of being

will I know if these are questions
or statements mixed with a deeper brood

if coping stops being coping

will it matter

will I even be in the mood

if coping stops being coping

I’ll No

In Due Time

The Race

don’t overexert yourself
nothing stays the same anyway


The 21st century and race still matters

A race to what
& where are we going?

don’t get lost in the race

there’s never gonna be a winner & there sure as hell won’t be a loser

don’t get lost in looking around
at the gauntlet of unavoidables on the track
nothing stays the same anyway

so run and tell your friend about that
and while you’re at it, tell your soul about this

don’t get lost in the race

Mother Nature finds it insignificant

Hide The Bone

I see through the deception you wove with crooked fingers

It was always in plain sight, I see
I no longer see whatever it was I saw before
clinging on to hope like sick depravity

A real day tripper, a drip of your derision could cause delusions 7x stronger than 7 strips of acid

Success cannot properly grow under the eye of a magnifying glass with pokey fingers!

or an itchy trigger finger, laser sight targeted straight towards the jugular when it’s better aimed elsewhere

C’mon slick

Is that all you have in your bag of tricks?

I’ve been standing on the peak of the mountain & now I’m floating down by the wings of my pants

you’re still stuck on the trail, somewhere southwest of Hell
from what I can tell

Color me thoroughly unimpressed

& 100% over it

Letitgo In Sweet Sorrow [Soon]


a black star imploding on the 7th alley ’round the upside down
veiling the path towards the nexus of all creation behind a canvas scribbled in haste with heavy charcoal
an all black affair, as a matter of fact

down the dusty halls, down trails of a catacomb of the supersweet unknown to rectify a situation blown into a Big Bang


a proverbial cry on behalf of all humanity, those of whom have any humanity left under the surface of the still & deceptively deep blues

down the drain at the bottom of the sea and spat out the other side, where few things seem familiar & what is familiar is subject to intense scrutiny, warranted or not


a word with a myriad of connotations leading to too many conclusions 

down with it all
you, me, we, & the rest
allowing the deep unwind to manifest
gravity of a neutron star crushing down those on stand by
from this day forth

for The Dawn


Banshee Screams from the Pacific Coast

What is this desire to unsucceed spectacularly in every way, burbling in the underbelly of my being like a cooking teapot, scorching hot to the touch & an ear-splitting high pitched whistle?

The way it reels my soul in, leaving me gasping & flopping about like a common guppy….something in the air does not compute…

And what’s so strange, so scary, is that this sensation is a haunting from a specter causing an unsettling disturbance in the force from a source of which time has no bearing. The ghost of past, present, & future together in a cataclysmic bang of the forever beforeandafter

…temporal curses…

Ain’t that a bitch?

Less a question of ability, moreso a question of fortitude. A quiet quandary of epic proportions. Raging like the Great Red Stain of Jupiter.

something in the air does not compute…
there is no air

& I’ll suffocate under the weight of a thousand unanswered questions before I have time to wake up

Josephine II

under a pale streetlight

not getting any older
frayed strap around my shoulders

strumming a jig to no one in particular

the beatniks and the part-time rejects come to stay
to watch the wonder on display
of a wild jester at play

grooving to a funky tune

notes whisper sweet as crème brûlée

words are seldom heard

lost in the sound typhoon

whisper: Soon…soon…

butterflies in hearts flapping fast & swooned

under a pale streetlight

no streetlight in particular

Brother (A Lesson)

don’t try to control your children
until they know how to dream
otherwise all they’ll want
is to cry, smoke, and bleed

read read, read all about it in the morning papers
truth falleth upon the rapier
from atop the highest skyscraper

don’t feed the guerillas
until they know how to sing
otherwise all they’ll want
is to fight, cuss, and scream

in this regime

everyone knows
anything goes

everyone knows