that soft love
she presses against me
we lock arms and she sighs

i kiss her forehead
and we connect
her stress
my fears

flushed away in
a moment of contact

given and
taken in an instant

this woman that i love
that soul that i need
her body that i ache for

our fingers entwine
her eyes soften
my neck tingles

our cheeks touch
my throat chokes
she reaches beneath

i am hers
she is mine





warm, thick

sweaty thighs
pressing against
wet shorts

sitting in
her backyard
fresh mown grass

the week spent
sneaking glances
of her body

white cotton shirt
clinging to
hard perky nipples

long auburn hair
braided and wet
against her back

she would hop
over the sprinkler
young chest bouncing

out of breath
drinking lemonade
and eating carrots

her eyes piercing
into my nervous
emerging libido

we sat on the
redwood bench
awkwardly talking

i loved her
she tolerated me
we were hormonal



walked past her house
every other day
going to jason’s
or ben’s house

snow white husky
behind a chainlink fence
i would crane my neck
hoping to see her

her hair glowed
in sunlight
and in shade
green eyes cut into me

i never talked to her
but had conversations
with her
in my head

we had everything
in common
favorite color
and lucky number 8

a perfect match
made of my own delusion
i would make sure
we never met

walked past her house
and mumbled what i
would say
if i had the nerve

never talked to her
didn’t want to
break the dream
of nervous infatuation



“For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”


in a quiet room
his heart skipped.
he saw her
from so
far away.

his throat was dry.
she sang.
it was
fast, yet

he never thought to
talk to her.
he would walk
near her and listen
for her voice to

that voice.
it shook his soul.
she made him cry.
Every fucking time.
His heart shook.

Her deep blue
Her shining
red hair.
He worried.

it was love.

she never knew
he would never tell
her that it
was love.

it would always be
random chance
awkward times
to meet
with an anchor in tow


michelle wrote
in my yearbook
“I haven’t known
you long but you
have a nice ass.”

she held my hand
and I kissed a
woman for
the first time

hot summer morning
we left school
and drove
for hours

amusement park
pool and haunted house
hot dogs and potato salad
trading tickets for
second base

we burned styrofoam
and cigarettes
felt lips and tongue
on my throbbing

she cussed
never wore

michelle was
always ready
she needed
a boy
a woman

she confused
she loved
she mystified

Confused and Sad

blurred eyes
he walked to the end
of the street

barely remembering
where he is and
when he needs to
meet her

he sits on the bench
with a schedule in his
starched pocket
smoking a cigar
and gazing through
amber tint

buses come and go
the sun drifts behind
that hill and he squints
his worn schedule
confuses him

fountain pen
pencil marks
scratches and tape
keep his day together

she explodes
into his broken
her bright blue eyes
and searing red lips

that summer on the lake
when she taught him
how to swim
and not be afraid

that humid night
when they
held their
bodies close

a family of five
she died
and he was alone
in a home
of forgotten heroes

he kept her close
that shawl on that one
night when they
were animals

he wears her
jasmine pin
and smells it
when he can’t

tequila and cash.

she sits in the dark
her ass tingles
from the hard

she wiggles
in her chair
she bites her lip

awake at 3pm
at home
ramen on the stove
takeout in the fridge

wednesday night
at a bar
bright orange cheese
pickled jalapenos

tequila and sour
her will is pliable

legs wobble
a weathered man
with large lobes

blurry images
she relents
her body wants to

she rubs her eyes
her thighs are bruised
a bag of frozen peas
between them

she remembers when
it was passionate
when she loved that
one special man

her eyes close
she lets it rush
into her soul
frozen and
on fire

that one expensive
she crosses her
her eyes shut
and a tear

she thinks of
that man
with large lobes
between her legs.

Late Night Waffle House.


A night
of family and
awkward glares
from past loves.

Beer in hand
smirking and
shaking hands.

I bite my tongue.

We need food.
Greasy, cheap, food.

The truck stop comes and goes.
Waffle House.

Car parked.
Holding hands as
we walk up the steps.

Worn red vinyl
and chrome chairs
prop the doors open.

It’s stale
and greasy inside.

A once tall man
greets us.
Sergeant bars
on his apron.

Bill shakes my hand
and we sit at
the counter.

She asks for quarters.
Louis Armstrong and
Otis Redding
spill from the jukebox.

Short order cook named
Brandi fries up
a banquet.

Plates appear in
a sweep of gesture
and graceful apathy.

Gravy. Sausage. Eggs.
Pecan waffles, butter

She tells us about
her old man.
It’s not working out.

Bill remembers a Vietnam
reunion in N’Awlins.
Almost kissed a
man in a dress.

Brandi cleans the

We dance to
Conway Twitty.

a crowd of strangers
come in.
the moment is gone.

The drive home
is blissful.


take me home.

darkness that is almost
one red hot dot.
a car passes by
and I see the curve
of her body.

I can see her
and that scar when we
got drunk and smashed
bottles behind the
drug store.

she takes a long drag
and tells me that she
can’t do it anymore.

it’s not high school-
we aren’t kids now.

she pretends that she wants more,
that she wants to go to college
and wear a lab coat.

she just wants to steal
oxycodone from work.

I think back to that night.
When she kidnapped me.

took me to the lake
sitting on a picnic table-
hearing soundgarden
and weezer
in the distance..
from her white Merkur.

beers and shots
came out in the dark
I can’t see what
I’m drinking

‘take me home’ falls out of me.
I can’t handle the unknown.

I go back
to when we would
walk home from school
in the 5th grade.

It’s not the same.



sundownriding towards the light
to unfinished concrete
and soft grass.
that one cement seat
for rain and filth
we sat and wished
of riches, women, and fame.

as it set past the land
we wished of love,
and parents that never fought.

it was always the same
frustration, hope and fear.
it was never the same
hormones, sex, and anticipation.

riding away from the
purple and orange.
hoping and dreaming.
we had sat upon the concrete
and knew that was our

to wish, to dream, to imagine.
a secret shared.
a hope confided.
a future dreamed.
I sat at home.
looked to the sky
ignored my life,

and knew.

Hooker Love.

musty cotton sheets

soft, hot skin, sweat.

she smells like cheap

patchouli and benson & hedges

freckles on her thigh, her

arm resting on her drooping tit.

she buries another fucking butt

into the ashtray and asks

when I’m going to get a

curtain for my goddamn shower.

she likes the avocado ones

with mushrooms on them.

I tell her she’s a moron and

can’t pick it out.


the ashtray

empties in my face

her fat ass and small waist

gets up.

she still smells like

sex- her legs wobble

and buckle as she sits on

the toilet.

my door doesn’t lock.

she wants breakfast.




the bitch wants me to keep

paying for a relationship

that usually lasts an hour.

Food Haiku.


happy box on shelf

contents may not have settled

prize is on the top



hot and gooey cheese

stuck to the top of the box

no tip for you, pal.



warm soft tortilla

filled with meat and spicy love,

belly hurts so much.



crunchy orange goodness

in ranch they are amazing

and now not healthy.



food of fat orange cat

popular italian dish

noodles from china



oranges are tasty

pineapple is really good

kiwi is fuzzy.


Corn Dog

hot dog wrapped in corn

mustard is the best on them

ketchup, not so much.


Chinese Food

better the next day

fried rice and orange chicken… yum!

chopsticks take practice.


Ice Cream

sundaes and milkshakes

versatile cold frozen

don’t get a headache



beef, chicken, tofu

veggies, crackers or noodles

but it’s still just soup.



fried till golden brown

Homer Price used a machine

that flung dounts out


Chili Dog

when I was a kid

I would eat 4 at a time

bellyache for me



leafy crisp and green

topped with so many choices

now it’s bad for you



Tiny or quite large

Have they been deveined and peeled?

That’s just too much work.



cooked to perfection

seared on a red hot skillet

use a butter knife



cold and thick with skin

easy to make in a bowl

in pies thrown my clowns



sandwich or salad

no flavor until you add

at least seven things


Mexican food

many different things

cheese, meat, beans, lettuce and sauce

it’s all the same thing

how i wish we’d met.

dirty frozen pavement
pristine lines of white
footprints melt into
concrete path

passing strangers
cold wind
pink noses
and visible breath

narrow walk
heads buried
in rhythm
of clumsy steps

fleece and woolen
brushing once
for just an instant

a gentle touch
a quiet nuzzle
of elbow
a moment of spark

no glance back
to watch her go
just soft

weeks pass
the walk
was lonely
cold and wet

watched feet
old canvas
on pale denim

nervous chest
feels heavy as she
glides past me
quiet and fragrant

sudden rush of
sweat and anticipation
that gentle nudge
of elbow

that rush
lingers on
hours days
months years

a lifetime
written in
the touch
of an elbow.



small moments
of sound and breath
tearing into ears
and hurting
aching hearts
with deep chills
up spines

infinite touch
in one moment
warm fingers
against quivering
and smooth

still calm
and frenzy of
feeling beats
in ears and
waiting for it
and needing it

bliss and
moments of
rushing memories
and forgetting
wanting the next

and love
deafening beat
of spent flesh
and tingled


cold rain does it to me every time.

frigid rain
fogging up
black thick
knit wool
tight over
ears and

howling wind
through cotton
and denim
sleeves over
numb fingers
new shoes
kicking icy

racing dreams
thoughts of
places far
and hearts
longing for
the chill
to subside

time forgotten
in stares
through wet
windows and
shining metal
playing out
a life

Booth at the Restaurant

warm amber
dances against her face
into her eyes
the booth is soft
and quiet

they hold hands
across the table
stolen glances
from so close
breath lost

whispers forced
from throats
that beg to
scream their

the gentle glow
from frayed lamp
and dusty shade
flush against
the walls

his eyes catch hers
that perfect
slow motion
that kills you

their hands
spines freeze
and they remember
that moment forever.

to the movies.

crunched white ice
under worn bowling shoes
frayed laces and empty

stone dead hands
inside borrowed
fleece and cotton
holding rolled coin

knit cap on top
gray and black
over long thick

he walks alone
to the near empty
and asks for just one

in rolled quarters
and looking past
the popcorn

he forgets why
it took him here
the cold weather
and the coins

in another place
the dark helps him
calm his world
for just 2 hours


in the moonlight

reflection of
solid red glow
in the cracked
scratched glass
sitting up in sweaty
and dry throats
quenched by stale
mineral water

linen sheets
breathing over
naked legs and
soft corners
and lines
of pink skin
chest heaving
still trapped in the
locked in that embrace
that has no words
it has no moment

no defined time
or feeling
yet vague

the sweet smell
of love and bodies
twisted in knots
that go on forever
deep sighs and
closed eyes
stealing wanted kisses
and glances

between puffs of smoke
in the silence
the mirror
beaming moonlight
giving us enough
to light the next cigarette

to catch the life in our eyes
as we laid
hand in hand
billowing and sipping
loving and silent


unfinished poem

short beats
of muscle and tone
timed with intense
rhythm and volume

long sighs
of breath and soul
worried with quiet
thoughts and wrinkles

empty songs
of noise and pain
taken with absolute
hate and anger

summer rain.

out in the day
squinting eyes
and thick heat
on naked necks

clouds in the far
dark and wet
filling the expanse
with its journey

soon they meet
a cool rush of air
rumbles and ozone
take relief in each other

low rumbles
and lines of quick light
wet and hot
humid and raining

Sunday Morning.

quiet love
draped in deep sighs
and cigarette smoke
eyeglasses and
cold coffee

long days in bed
newspaper on the floor
ashtray full
baggy shorts
on the floor

calm brain
no need for thought
just breathing
and loving
holding onto the sheets

talking in pauses
between long drags
and sips
white cotton
worn like a uniform

the memories flow
and fill the room
billowing and stinging
then fading into


the red flows
out of slits in
carefully manuvered
and slices

the release
rushes up from
toes and fingers
feeling the loss

against the grain
solid lines
inside frail skin
leaning against
cold white

wet and afraid
but feeling the
calm and end
seeing less
and taking nothing

hydrants and wrinkles.

stones feel
red hot
bottoms of
pink toes and
hard heels

we took
pleasure in
the tower
of wet

in white cotton
and store bought
we darted
and jumped-
the red man
from above.

shiny hair,
matted locks
on backs,
swollen eyes
and out of breath.

we were the same.
loving the moment
till the light dimmed
and our teeth
in the summer
evening heat.

My First Attempt At The Biography Section.

So I have started reading Charles Bukowski. I have also started reading Pablo Neruda. I knew that they were influential writers of the 20th century, but did not know who they really were until I started reading. As dissimilar as they first appear to be, their emotions parallel. So, if I got any of this wrong, would someone tell me? I’m new to the whole “biography of poets I hardly know” thing.

Bukowski (Heinrich Karl Bukowski/Henry Charles Bukowski) was born in Germany to a reportedly abusive father. He went to college out of high school for two years. At 24 he was published, and then again two years later. He stopped writing for almost a decade, disenchanted with the publishing process. When he DID write, he wrote about Los Angeles. He said, “You live in a town all your life, and you get to know every street-corner. You’ve got the layout of the whole land. You have a picture of where you are. … Since I was raised in L.A., I’ve always had the geographical and spiritual feeling of being here. I’ve had time to learn this city. I can’t see any other place than L.A.”

From what I’ve read so far, there’s some recurring themes… roses, beer, bums, women, sex, death… he seemed very attached to the life. He seemed very depressed and unhappy.

Neruda (Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto) was born in Chile. His father didn’t approve of his writing, but received encouragement from others. By the time he was 16, he adopted his pseudonym. Neruda took his pen name from Czech writer and poet Jan Neruda. He later changed it to his legal name in 1946. He was a writer and communist politician.

Neruda writes mostly in a romantic, high emotional way. However, like most poets, he also has his dark moments. He was often forced to leave his family, friends, and home because of his beliefs. That sadness was also reflected in his works.

His poems range from amazing love poems, political views, historic poems, to odes to common objects. He has been called one of the greatest and most influential poets of the 20th century.


A 30 Second Dream

in the dead blue night
the solid hard still cold
the steps are small
darting and weaving
for sure footing
to find the journey end

feet entwined
reaching for
familiar and exquisite
i find her

her tear soaked
her warm chest
fumbled hands
know the skin
that has never touched his

it is calm
and still he cries
not hearing her voice
but feeling her words

in the still warm comfort.

found, cold and ashamed.

awkward feet
stinging in worn
drenched with mud

shame and sweat
stabs in chest
from the cold air

tired hands
shaking in the dark

found her
silent, cold
blue and

her chest
is still
her breasts
do not heave

he would gaze
from afar
as she curved
and softened

he felt her
marble cold face
touched the skin
he longed for

took her innocence
she never lost
when red love coursed
in her thighs


Banana boxes
filled with books
and journals
sit outside the door

Garbage bags
stretched thin
with clothes
and twisted hangers

Dusty frames
off of the wall
in a twisted tower
they lay

Ready for the jump
divots in the carpet
holes in the walls
empty closets

It will all make sense
even if it’s confusing
and new

They cry for their life
they smile for the new
they hold hands
and journey ahead.


radiant wit
unbridled lust
amazing humor
glowing beauty.

she cries every day
she can’t sleep
her anger and pain
is heard through
the distances.

he listens
and cries for her
his heart sinks
and melts
in the same breath.

they close
their eyes and

she keeps him
every day
and beautiful.

soon the days
and nights will
be complete
as it should
always have been.

the tears end
and the smiles
are bigger
and the hearts
what they needed.


goth and the jock

jake sat with his friends
in the same uniform
with the same lunch
laughed at the same
tv shows

maddy stood outside with her friends
different clothes
puffed a clove cigarette
didn’t laugh at the same
tv shows

jake walked home with his buddies
maddy kicked rocks alone
jake came home to love
maddy’s mom is never home
jake went out to a movie
maddy sulked in her room

jake walked to school
with maddy
they held hands
and kissed
and talked
about their love

maddy walked to the bleachers
jake walked to class
maddy bummed a smoke
jake did the work
maddy cursed overachievers
jake yelled at the goth kids

button down shirts
scuffed black boots
perfect slacks
holes in old jeans
perfect hair
black eyes

they walked home
holding hands
still alone



more poetry… i can’t seem to express myself in just sentences any more. can you guess what this one is about?

they fall as a group
random yet coordinated
releasing the filth
changing the colors

almost a new start
so giving
and beautiful
the group is dangerous

but they descend
and give their role
as a group they shine
and then are not seen again

as their givers clear way
and warm glows embrace
their fallen soldiers
they vanish to be thrown again


sat alone on the first day
was the only one
everyone watched
fingers tingled
head heavy and pounding

sat alone on the first day
wasnt the only one
watched everyone
hands sweaty
head heavy in thought

sat alone for many days
with new friends
that did not know
or understand
or care

sat alone for many days
with old friends
that knew
and understood
and cared

sat alone for many years
with no one
with pen and paper
pouring it into the blank

sat alone for many years
with myself
with my drawings
keeping them close to me.


I don’t really know what it means… usually I just sit here and try to let the words come through. Sometimes I tell a story and it’s just random- sometimes I tell a story and the words repeat in some oddly read pattern. I’m not sure if I’m any good at this poetry stuff. People tell me I am, but in my experience something as subjective as poetry can always be considered “good.” Like modern art. A dot on a large white canvas is “genius.” All I see is a lazy artist that can’t finish his artistic obligation.

falling short

i read the list
all of it makes sense
and in an instant
i dont remember
the words

my heavy heart
my eyes blur in
it is all true

failure is normal
just another symptom
of my gifted mind
wired wrong from
day one

i read the list again
hoping it has changed
convincing myself
this is not why
im a genius and a mess

author artist poet
friend lover confidant
son brother nephew
all fall short

not enough to be complete
sufficent in quantity
lacking in depth
hiding my voice
and inexperience


the house.

so much was in him
for many years
he was strong
and faithful
to them all

over time he faded
his joints creaked
and ached
but he was brought back
by the ones he loved

in thunderous roar
and cold snowy eve
through hurt
and sadness
he was there

the old man
comforted them
sheltered their
tired bodies
against the world

even when they
were apart
there he was
waiting patiently
for all of them to return

away they go
soon to build
new lives
and dreams
and loves

forever he stands
in their hearts
and memories
for the next
to come to him

his arms open
ready to love them
and keep them safe
from the cold and sadness
the roar and the hurt


upstairs and alone

fist pounds against metal
she staggers into it
it opens and she is there
shaky feet as she yells
the half empty bottle
spilling out
onto the front step

she confesses her sins
and stands there
hoping for embrace
and release
of a forgettable
night of sweat

that aroma
seeping from her
throat as she slurs
and kisses and
and touches
her invitation is
all too hard to ignore

her body is warm
and her heart is cold
yet still my arms find her
i kiss her forehead
the night so dark i dont
see her face as
i leave

i hope and wish
for more
that her breath will
not sting my eyes
that she will not
curse me for spending
the night in her bed

but the music is
heart on fire
her closeness
with conditions
her love
was casual



he sat in the dark
wiping back the tears
spinning the gold on
his dry finger
wondering why it had
to be this way

she had always
been there
since they were children
holding hands
laughing at the world
praying for the best

their skin thinned
in their age
children grew old
but they had their
souls to appease
the fading memories

young and pigtailed
slender and spry
they took on the world
with youth and love
kind and patient
wonderful and decent

building their world
as they needed
wanting only
for each other
they were love
the purest form

he poured his heart
into her dying breath
holding her cold
frail aged hand
aching for more time
feeling her pain

his head against
her shoulder
to look into her eyes
as the sparkle he loved
sank into the dark

so he sat in the dark
shaking his head
feeling for his love
rolling the pristine
gold on his finger
asking for more time

j. jay-


i was going to wait to write about my birthday on the actual day, but i decided to get it out of the way. the day will come and go, and i will not be changed in mind, body, soul, spirit, or outlook. i will go out to eat with the parents, i will open some gifts, some mediocre fanfare, and the day will end. the birthday cake will be in front of me, i will blow the now 28 candles on the frosted goodness, and close my eyes and wish for:

  • wealth
  • fame
  • love
  • happiness
  • all that other stuff

we all do it. we all wish for these things that we want. not what we need. instead of:

  • health
  • stability
  • patience
  • compassion

but it’s just candles. it’s just smoke. extinguished in one blow. where the tradition came from, i don’t know. i could probably google it. but that’s beside the point. we know that the wishes won’t come true from blowing the candles out. it likens to tossing a coin in a well or fountain. or catching the bouquet at a wedding reception. one doesn’t affect the other. it would be just as effective to put an aluminum pirate hat on my head and dance, all with the intent of world peace. i know it sounds pessimistic, not in the tone of the birthday. but… meh. i’m an old man now. i can wallow in pessimism.



early morning
my legs numb
and steely
from the abnormal
immense and placid
my gaze is the same
open or closed
my blind eyes
darting for a glimpse
a hue
a shade
a color
folded arms
worn gray warmth
pulled over my bone
hard fingers
feeling for anything
but the darkness
my world is
in front of me
if i only knew
which way to stand
and walk coldly



the wind invites my stride
pushing my heels
against the world
arms spread
fingers hard
and clenched
gazing through
the dark green
my heart lifts
digging heels
lighter beneath me
piercing pale blue
deafening screech
rushing past my ears
opening my fingers
touching the open world
in the clouds
the haze below
the blackness above
feet free from the world
mind untethered from the earth


i try to remember her face. i close my eyes, and try to remember her perfume. her scent that i could smell before she came into the room. i try to remember her laugh. her hearty, loud, boastful laugh. she only smiled when i made her laugh. my brain strains and hurts to recall anything that will open my horrible blocks of memory. anything… a word that her thick accent would butcher… her soft small hands that i had kissed for hours as i pleaded with her to take me back. i despise my cursed brain. the back of my eyes throb, my neck is killing my concentration. i can remember all of the things about her. yet her gentle, soft, loving face is nothing but a moment.

it has always been that way. i have memories of my childhood. i can tell you that i used to look up little girl’s dresses through the planks of the floor in the fort at private school. i know the phone number of the first girl i ever loved. my brain still holds onto the memory of the first group of friends that ever told me i was worth anything. i remember being laughed at and teased and beat up because i never belonged. i remember when my drama teacher in 6th grade told me how i had started a tradition for the school that lasts to this day. lost love, found treasures of hope… all in my patched, faulty brain.

the one thing that i need to remember, i cant. i promised myself that if i forgot everything else, i would never lose her face. i lost her love, her trust, and her soul. when she left this world it was real and terrible. but that face. that was all i had. i have to remember her, i need to recall her olive skinned beauty. but it never comes. my mind betrays me again. the frustration is too much, and i cry. she is lost to this world. i never had the chance to reconcile. i never told her how i missed her. i never got to see her again before she was gone. we were together for years. she was almost my wife. i dont have a single photo of her. not even a moment of her in my mind that i can recover.

j. jay-

minus one

nudges of the shoulder
jokes made

understood by only one
brotherly but
not brothers
slaps on the back
holding them up
in the worst times

the comradery
dulls with
decisions made
the ease of it
hurts the bond
backs turned
in a moment
of blind pride

hard as it ever was
brotherly bond
it tears one apart
as he walks the wound

never seeing the huddle
that he leaves
or the life the other
brethren held him to
not just his fraternity
but his home

so hard was the
abandon for them
he never knew
the feelings spent
on the one that left

all for one
as the three
should be
one takes his
world for granted
not needed
for the lost
or for the proud


anger and weakness

memories of me
when i was happier
i was someone
they all knew my name
all cowered in my shadow

it was me they feared
the gaze i sent through
their weak souls
leaving deep holes
of confusion and

i grinned
the fear and hate
made me strong
they all ran
no one was safe

memories of me
when i was happier
i was someone
they all knew my name
all cowered in my shadow

in my fists
pure anger and torture
they will cower again
at my deep wanton

i terrified myself
with all that i kept in
my fists relax
the rage stops
it all seems unreal

memories of me
when i was happier
i was someone
they all knew my name
all cowered in my shadow

i sit in my old chair
no longer mad
as aged as this seat
that relaxes my weak

they do not
all praise
at my passing
it ends

memories of me
when i was happier
i was someone
they all knew my name
all cowered in my shadow


the dance of men

bruises and heat
clenched teeth
white hot fists
frenzied mind
shaking so hard
it hurts to think
eyes blur
in the rage
crunching jaw
lungs breathe
pure hate
pink and purple
tender and red
body soaking in the love
of the dance
the rush intoxicates
it brings clarity
and instinct
and hate
it feeds on the
growing power
from the blur
of red
and white hot fists