broken fix

The longer I live
and the more I survive,
and relenquish,
and sacrifice,
give and take
the more I feel the fracture
in the world,
the despair
in the masses,
the pain of the old,
the delusions of the young,
the lies of the rich
and the hunger of everyone else.

The world has been broken
ever since man first
tried to fix it
and every fix since
has been an end
to a world
that now only exists
once upon a time.


One less ride

The phone dings with a request
My right thumb finds the screen
Pressing to accept
While my left middle finger
Finds the turn signal and lifts

After a ten minute ride
And a 3 minute wait
I find the mark
Smoking a butt
And waving for me
To pull into a spot
And park

He's waited long enough
And now wants me to wait as well

"You called for a ride?"

"Ya. Just pull in. I need to finish my cigarette."

"How long do you need?"

"5 minutes."

"I can't wait that long. I've already waited 3."

"You can't wait 5 minutes while I finish my smoke?"


"Well, if you don't want to wait why don't you just get the fuck out of here!"


I cancel the ride, swing around the block,
Light a smoke and smile
While I wait 5 minutes
Before trying again.

It felt good, to take back a little power.
It felt good not waiting for another drunk asshole.
It felt good not caring what he thought
or how he felt
or what he wanted out of life
As terrible as that may be.

The pool cue in it's case slung over his shoulder,
The worn denim vest over the dirty plaid shirt,
The trucker cap,
The straggly beard,
The holey jeans,
The bar where he hangs out
And the people who frequent that bar
Told me all I needed to know
About him
To know
I didn't want him
In my car.

I finished my smoke
with 30 seconds to spare.

Let's see who needs a ride.


Not dead yet

I can suddenly see my age
on my hands,
spiderweb wrinkles
spanning across my skin.

I remember not so long ago
when my hands had
fewer scars and were

Save for the grey in my temples
and my beard
my face still holds
a youthful shape
with the hint of wrinkles
just beginning
to crease
the corners
of my eyes.

I look younger
than I am
but I feel much,

The battles,
the losses,
the sleepless nights,
the endless days,
the lifted spirits
and the broken hearts
have all taken a toll on my soul.

The women shy away
from me
like never before,
their averted glances
more painful than razors
on my flesh
as I have stumbled again
and again
into the mire of lust.

Unfulfilled and unwanted
I am unknown to those
I might care
to know.

Shunned and discarded,
humiliated and cast aside,
lamented and resented
by nearly every friend
and lover.

Where once I could cross oceans
I now feel I have forgotten
how to swim
in the sea of misery.

I no longer know
the rules of the game
that I never learned to play
very well to begin with
and so very rarely
have scored.

Now I have come to the age
of remembering
and careful contemplation.

Now I have come from feeling
to knowing
and finding true loneliness in a crowd
and absolute anonymity
in public
as I pass by wide open eyes
completely unseen.

Now I must ponder
the outcome
and the consequences
of a life mostly misled.

Now I must try again
to build some sort of home
from the rubble of my past lives.

I have come to nearly a half a century of life
and for the life of me
I cannot find any trace
of the person I was supposed to be.

I feel as lost as ever
and in many ways
more so than when I was
a child.

I feel that all my knowledge
has led only to my knowing
how little I know
and how much I have failed.

My age is showing through
and I can feel the weight of it
pressing down.

Part of me wants to roll over,
face up
and let it smother me
like the bloated whore that it is.

But the part of me that likes a good trip
still wants to find out
if this cow has some life left in her
and just how long
I can hold
my breath.




And I crumbled
Like a sand castle
Standing in defiance
Of the tide
As I realized
All that I have lost.


Secret rock star

Every poet wants
To rock
And be the drummer
Or the strummer
But the singer
Most of all

And if they don't
Secretly yearn
To be
The star
Then they are
Most likely
Not much
Of a poet at all.

The lights
And the strings,
The sticks
And the skins,
The keys
Played so deliciously...

All things
The poet
Is forever denied.

I would die now
If I knew
I would come back tomorrow
As a songwriter
Destined to jam
In bar
After bar
For the remainder
Of his rock and roll days...

They all want it
And if they don't
They should because
Gives a shit
About poets,
But if you do,

Then the poet
Shouldn't give a shit
About you.