Monday, May 3, 2021


Zen Seagal


Just like your dreams,

Steven Seagal is Hard

to Kill. The slower he fights

the more the villain's punches

land in empty space,

as though he's throwing them

from a different time zone,

or an older edit of the movie.


Always one step step ahead

by being one step behind,

Seagal slo-mo's through a world

perpetually in fast forward,

until the bad guy moves

so fast that our hero becomes

invisible to his speed,

and he cannot separate Seagal

from a rock or a tree;

then wonders why he feels

the kick he never sees coming.


One day Seagal will make

a movie where he stands still

and says nothing: with no one

to fight and nothing to lose,

the villain will despair

and fall down at his feet.


Why in such a hurry

to wipe out the world?

Seagal will ask him.

All you have to do is wait.


Blame Game



Bucket of vodka,

twelve red bulls
and a pack of pro-plus

raise the stakes but not
the game: no matter
how fast you spin
one day you
ll wake up here;
a bust piece of scrap
mainlining oil and blood,
all the plasma they can spare
to keep you out there
calling the shots

till the line goes flat
and your connection
s dead;

you’ll check out
never knowing if
you played your hand
or it played you,

either way youre out of here;

through with bottled beers

and blow jobs.


Its not a matter of the good book
versus the bad look, Jesus grappling
with Lolita; just the uneasy reckoning
of how much you
re willing to lose
to get high: a long life sitting

like a waste basket
in the corner of the office

versus the shortfall pension
of flooding the tank
with a blindfold over your eyes
and telling yourself keep going.

Either way youll crash out

where you knew youd ditch

all along. Every mans
a brave coward, but every bed
a death bed. Every road
detours here behind the house
of ashes where you smoke

your last smoke,
but only the clouds are getting high.


Laughin’ Lenny


Leonard Cohen Live



Between ‘nearly dead’
and ‘not dead yet’
is a sliver of silence
thinner than a vinyl groove:

but here you must work
to prosper the IRS,
straightening your tie

and tilting your hat

once more from the top;


knowing there never is,

never was, such hallowed turf.

All of the now you stake a claim to
is here: the smile on your face

as they pronounce your name

as though invoking an old god,
believed long deceased.

Remixed by the asking,

the telling, the need
of the songs for someone

to sing them as they themselves

would sing. Once more

from the top, old friends.


Stop The Count



See this towel? I threw it in

years ago to spare myself

another beating; but the crowd

is still screaming and the cornerman

whos watching my back

yells attack, attack!

as I back away from the barrage,

wondering how much more

my body can take before

it sinks to its knees


or I can throw myself down

and out, judging the crowd has

smelled enough blood

to offer mercy; hoping they wont

look too closely as I climb from the ring

knowing the real fight

has barely begun; that the bell they ring

before they announce the verdict

is only calling out my next bout.

And every judges scorecard will agree

I lost to the better man.


A Small Price



I dont take it

to get high


I take it to feel alive

briefly one of you

instead of one

of me


someone who might

reach through

the mirror

and come out

the other side

feeling so alive

theyll never want to

come back


  until one day

Ill be done with dying

the same way

Im done with living


and Ill find out

how you feel

when you launch a firework

from a high window

I can only fire

from the ground


 – find if death seems

a small price to pay

to finally be free

of the dreaming


Along For The Ride



Whos in charge here?

Not me; all I do is

ride the runaway horse

and heave on the reins

till he comes to a halt

and I can pretend

my pulling stopped him;


when the truth is he runs

where he wants to run,

and the best I can do

is coax and drag


till he gets bored and stamps

to a halt a few yards

from the cliff both of us

are tempted to plunge over

and lie motionless

on the shoreline; rocking horses

going nowhere fast. 

Ian Mullins 

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...