This world is like this valley named Jarama…


Amelia Earheart

Proud walk skinny with stained bodies
Observing reptilian sun
Don’t go away, don’t go away

Dirty mail sunk with Amelia
Scars on skin depict
100 year wars,
divine architecture,
and angels,
Don’t go away, don’t go away

Bodies of rising water
From mist to ice defined
The memory of this life
Lines to an unknown play

Don’t go away, don’t go away, don’t go away.

Ecstasy or Pain

Will you be sincere 

Whispering into the juice box (jukebox) scared

The music, after all the lights are turned out for the day, still plays for ghostly spirits past midnight once a perverted chill takes hold of the concrete.

In the Pacific North-West a lone trail rolls through forest bending into Klamath hill. 

An orange light betokens a cabin abandoned between the trees. And quiet you can hear Alan Vega from an uknown source, some speaker cracking in the dark. 

Only one hears the voices inside ones’ head

I may rise from the dust 

Sipping on juice box innocent, just a boy

Or someone else.

Am I queer to dance? Or expressing all boundaries of human soul? Is it still of me to question if I am man, or woman?

What do I do?

Whose name is moaned from my lips in ecstasy or pain?


“You’re so soft spoken it’s hard to hear. Atleast for an old man like me.”

What a bad animal.

A child paces up and down the aisles to catche a glimpse of schoolyard friend after saying hello. 

You have nice music to listen to here in the schoolyard foggy and empty, crying alone.

Who knows how long it will last?

The human body moves erotically behind a glass like an animal without a name.

” I totally forgot what I was after.”

What is my name?

Cowboy in a red apron stands underneath a silo in the orange folds of a purple evening, watching his children run away…

Who soon learn pain in the heart comes from leaving home too early and watching the only people that ever cared for you grow old in your absence.

And the din of your childhood home is depressing and no longer warm.

The Earth is eating the worms.


I can never remember, or realize, why I find myself in situations such as these; watching people in buildings where I  shouldn’t spend so much of my time.

 People whose hair matches their skin matches their eyes that matches their clothes,

With freckles and one just a little bigger than the others underneath their eye, and cursive tattoos of flowers on the shoulder, just visiting.

One chef comes through the scene collecting ingredients for tonight’s dinner – first time meeting the new parents.

My past is asleep

Time moves oddly, and slowly….

And suddenly.

Glasses go by biting into jelly-filled donut, large.

I hardly find justification for my beliefs or self-assurance, or what in particular it is that I take offense to —

So how can I feel anyone else is justified in their own narrow-mindedness and habitual tendencies?

Life is bought with Bleach ad things are fine.

They slide the Nickel-ads off the stack, dozing off before reaching he door befuddled by drunk from last night, the night before.

My Papa doesn’t recognize me today. I share his name, they used to all me his boy.

Old ladies grab condolence cards and hurry away, they can’t steal, an kids crowd the doorway in an unbroken stream.

In Pencil

You are making my butterflies go…

My mother are you warm? The general, he don’t ride so well- anymore.

As long as grass shall grow;

Apache tears, Custer

The talking Leaves

The Ballad of Ira Hayes

Drums, White girl

The Vanishing Race

Bitter tears were sweet when they ran.

Wagon train rolling along Whiskey