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.

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.


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


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


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.