Category Archives: #journey

ACT (of) ONE

THE curtains open to broken applause
an audience of great mystery
i cannot see their faces
nor their eyes
my Usher flees me!
And Time, the soliloquy
for Thespian lies
with each act an act of Life
and props on spot
for dramatic plots
Agh! my lines evade me!
Evade me for all i am
worthless within my House
of Theater:

The Absurd
The Humour
The Horror
The Love

of tears of joy of laughter
of sorrow of broken lines
upon my heart
upon my face
within the glass
upon the shattered floor

AND within the miles of aisles
of faceless witness
my lines flee me!
Within and without such cosmic shatter
an audience so abstract is my life
an Act (of) One.

:: 08-19-2018 ::


i walk three steps        beyond hallucination
and my feet have wings take flight into the air
people telling me “you’re not here…”
say, i’m saying who’re talking too?
i gotta go gotta go
gotta go —            i’m in the air

f l y i n g      three feet above
the ground looks so good not too far if i crash
crash into the darkness and the Muppet-faced people
move their necks “you’re my friend” but i hate
you saying “you’re so scary”
a fevered heart melting
a fevered heart melting
all in Palestine Texas
driving the white line in deep darkness______!
i see the tree line outside headlight sight
and the moss in Pascagoula seeps inside me
a moss heart swampland lover haunts the road
just want to play my tunes making a beeline
to Palestine Texas
but the moon sashay          into my heart tonight
and the brain inside my head          feels so weak
so this noise is about revenge all along
the road of I-10 a n d   i   s c r e a m  inside all me
just before i’m dead i see the finger of
her; she has a white glove full o’moss (uh huh hum)
grab me take me they’ll say “he’s all dead”
but all the lady-victims of I-10 say so
good to see you alive for this moment.
“Come here poor boy, lose identity in
the night” and so we road the highway
of swamp and night some wear white
but the ladies wear red

:: 08-18-2015 ::


THE entrance was kept
in well lit corners
the rug a long dead beard
once hung upon a living face
and walls adorned in history
like the smell of something
that took its last breath
by dimmed years ago
And the boxes!  Of spoons,
knives, and busy-doing life
and one of photographs;
the stolen moments of time
caught unprepared!
Faded, raped, and torn
of once living souls from
the 1900s — i could not hope
but to find one to make my own;
then caught my eye it did!
clearly written in white margin
“May 4, 1886”  A Victorian
death photo — of me!

:: 03-07-2015 ::