A little doggie named Duder

Growling loudly at intruder

They can give him a snack

So he wouldn’t attack

The intrusion now less ruder

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The bell rings
so someone bought the bar a round.
You look up 
to politely acknowledge
the kind stranger.

You have another shot
You go with J.D.

The creative juices
are flowing 
and you feel inspired
Great—or at least adequate—poetry
might be committed today

but then you realize
there’s no ink left
in the pen you have
You don’t want to draw attention
by requesting a pen.

It’s even worse than cock block
when you feel a poem coming on
and lack the means 
to commit it to paper.

The locals in the bar
are chatting up a storm
and craziness is abundant.

Thru the chatter
I find out
that moose barbacoa
is actually a thing here

I want to be writing
as the despair 
of the locals 
is begging to be exploited

On the radio,
I hear Boy George singing,
“Do you really want to hurt me?”

the answer is yes.


The old North Star bar was a true legend.  It stood on 27th and Poplar.  It was far enough away from Center City to be off the beaten path.  They had the main bar on the first floor and a room upstairs to host poetry readings.  They had readings every Tuesday and it became a place to go for poets.  Gregory Corso and Richard Hell did readings there (although they got to perform on the main stage). 

A fun place to jam

pints of Guinness flow freely

poets offer hope

I used to do the readings and order a few beers.  I always needed to walk back to Suburban Station after the readings.  This usually entailed a quiet but drunken walk back.  I needed to cross the Parkway to get back to the train station.  I was often running for my life crossing the multi lane thoroughfare.  It was always scary.  Some people wonder how I’ve managed to keep myself alive through all the madness.  Somehow, I have.  And now with the North Star Bar gone, I can occasionally walk by and feel a lump in my throat—and in my soul—looking at the empty space. 

A piece of my youth

sadly vanquished by evils



How unsettling it was to finally realize that Nurse Ratched was a Bajoran.  You read the credits and it raises so many questions.  Someone points out the amazing coincidence and we all have to pause to say “Hmmm”   It clearly confirms Louise Fletcher as an acting legend and national treasure but then confusion reigns supreme.  So Nurse Ratched was a Bajoran religious leader and just as bad ass running Bajoran religion as running an mental institution in America.

Mind boggling to think

the implications unclear

ponder the meaning

So we don’t have the same timeline so we have to figure it all out.  Did Kai Winn Adami travel back in time to become Nurse Ratched.  I always felt that Chief Broom escaping from the Cuckoo’s Nest was vital for the survival of the human race.  Randle Patrick McMurphy was a true martyr.  You’ll never convince me otherwise.  The Bajorans needed Federation interference to survive.  Maybe the Bajorans sent Kai Winn back to make sure Chief Broom was motivated to escape.  Or maybe reincarnation is the rule of the day and Nurse Ratched several lifetimes later was still a total ruthless badass bullying and dominating innocents.  Lack of growth defeats the purpose of reincarnation but who knows?

Ponder mysteries

the universe so complex

the great mysteries

remain ever elusive

will truth ever be revealed


I saw the best minds of my generation 

destroyed by blandness

MTV spoken word tour; sewn up vaginas;

dismembered penises, poetry slams

featuring dickless, cuntless verse

spewed by genderless eunuchs

all in the name of advancing pop culture

for lamebrained, gutless pansies

trying to rap out poems

to the underage audiences

running around pretending it’s deep

yeah, Henry Rollins,

16 year olds think you’re deep

but we falsify the nature of the beast

mindless infidels, staggering drunks

The feasts that were promise 

were never delivered by corporate—

yes, corporate MTV execs

pathetically trying to be hip

& failing miserably in the effort;

Timid poets pointing a finger at me

while I raise the finger at them;

All the yuppified, glorified culture

Jim Morrison wannabees and white boys

trying to rap like wiggas

without a clue about riddum

and the ever so sensitive—

ever so sensitive political correctness;

worrying about Bill and Hillary

or trying to eliminate sexuality

It’s all a crock of shit to me

Don’t have an alcoholic drink

make it water with a lemon twist

Try to create a giant rubber room

out of this glorious planet

so our Volvo’s and Saabs

can run freely in peaced

hide inside petty rhetoric

allow tv producers to think for us—

can’t actually expect us

to actually think for ourselves

figure out how not to offend

while pretending to be radical poets

those people cutting into my scheme;

but don’t think I don’t know it

only I admit it up front

that it’s 90% art, 10% pretense

or maybe the other way around

I just cling to my insanity

but it slips through my fingers

It, like sand beaches, is eroding

I am falling prey to the plague

but I try not to be defeated

try not to be like everyone else

It is a desperate, lonely plight

but not without its charms

as I keep the candle lit

and burn passionately through the night

determined to escape the fate

of albatrosses & other fallen angels



As I waltz through my life

whiling away hours, weeks,

years & even decades

I never found a shortage

of certain undesirable sorts.

There seems to be 

an asshole lurking

under every rock

& a bitch to be found

around any old corner.

The cretins aren’t coming.

They’re already here

They appear out of the mist

when you least expect them

always willing to lend a hurting hand.

There’s no longer any surprise

in finding someone new

only to learn they are not dependable.

You’re only an afterthought

they never truly care for.

As I get older

I find I have fewer friends

and more casual acquaintances

and that’s very much by design

as I try to keep my life real.

I’d rather be surrounded

by those relatively special few

that I know I can count on

than have thousands of false friends

valued at a dime a dozen.

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They found him

in a room in Thailand—

pants down, belt around neck

big smile on his face.

The prostitute in the room

sobbing and swearing

it was an accident.

Auto erotic asphyxiation

gone horribly wrong.

And then there are suicidal tendencies

and people hanging themselves.

But families lose the Ka-ching

if it’s suicide

so now we have lawsuits

claiming deceased loved ones

were really just perverts—

No intent to die

Just intent to cum

Auto erotic asphyxiation 

gone horribly wrong

But maybe we’re taking

our idioms and adages too far.

Maybe we need 

to drop “choke the chicken”

and bring back “spank the monkey”

There will still be

a lot of redness and swelling

but at least you’ll live

to recount your shame.