My story is told;

so go now you,

be vivacious in waking,

be courageous in dreaming,

all the monster’s

mimeographed madness

to you is but harmless cottonwood

drifting on the breeze.



What Ever Happened to DayGlo Blow


When the lake is shallow, some spots feel deep.”– Edwin Meek



He’s got neon green pedals

freestyle bar spin à la mode

pineapple pattern haircut

multicolor Sonic tattoo


Is that a bit of hot-white powder

stuck in his long pinky nail?


He’s on it like a bonnet


If the face fits, punch it

If the face fits, glove love it

If the face fits, it’s yours to keep


Don’t waste the gladness of its body

on discount moral rationalizations

Don’t waste the gladness

it’s yours to eat


If the face fits, teeth love it


We lie

We drug

We murder


But oh no

we can’t eat the dead

that’d be wrong


What ever happened to

DayGlo Blow


He went the way of


He went the way of



If the color fits, wear it

If the skin sticks, peel it

If the meat’s fresh, eat it


Color Discord GPR


says Uncle Federal Reserve,
it’s the only color
worth its reflection,
one that makes paper
pass as gold.

as kings and queens,
who overreach themselves,
once considered royal,
is now just royally silly.

a lifesaving transfuser,
a sign of strife, or
the coming of new life,
can muddy all other hues,
binding them in near blackness
of fearful and unstable
false tranquility.

Don’t Mind the Abrasions

There’s unpolluted fantasy in my head,
And the world keeps peering in

It abrades my skull with perfected hubris,
Hoping to see some tender, strife-free crannies inside

Just as sanctuary is glimpsed,
It tears me wide open,
Pumping its contamination in

You should ride downtown on vintage green bicycle,
And join me standing undead on warm wrinkled pavement

I like it when you dig my splinters free,
Pour the hydrogen peroxide in,
Then patch me up again

We should walk with a limp and moan violently

I’ll bleed from worldly abrasions,
As you hang head heavily to distort spine,
And we’ll gain priceless satisfaction from those who park their asses,
To eat their lunches,
On soiled park benches

Sun setting,
We’ll build a firewall of delight and truth in my head,
Watch the unending metal traffic inch by on the street tip to tail,
And when bored beyond bearing,
I’ll flip the switch for world detonation

Everyone outside our wall,
Will burn in their contorted passions,
Of greed,
And lust,
And pain,
A hot-flash parade of human torches,
As unable to stop the change,
As chucks of seasoned wood

And we,
Will abide

Broken Green Bike

A broken green bike, like depression, lies heavy on the mind, lost in a field of gnarled trees, flirty bees and powerstaion flowers.