Category Archives: Poetry

The Pressing Concerns of the Insects

Awright, before you plunge forward into this, I have something to say. Poetry has that tipping point. You know what I am talking about. What is sincere and real and raw can quickly slide into pretension. This is one of those. I always liked reading this at spoken word gigs. There was something about it that I always liked, maybe it was the concluding lines. Maybe the title (I struggle a lot with titles). There are times when I go back to this and I am quite pleased. Other times, it is uppity rubbish. Regardless, I am posting the damn thing.



The purpose of life
Forever sought for
The sacrifice of the old ones

"weird eyes" by fRandi-Shooters

On the altars of their convictions
To their theories
Which exist as gods
Their worship – their search
Their prayers – their documents
Their ritual – their research
All beings
At all times
Seek the meaning
The point
The reason
The answer
To why
And where it is going

We are the living ghosts
The wandering Jews
Whose individual sins
Force us to meander
Never to put our feet on the ground
Even if we did
They would be as mud
Giving to our weight
But slowing our explorations
In all art
In all approaches
The subconscious foundation
Is the reaching out
By the insane
How pathetic
How tragic
How ironic
That our saviors
Would not rise above us
Wearing crowns
But straightjackets instead

Dubious to all
In the end
All biological function
Is what seems automatic
A part of the anonymous program
That runs it all
What is the construction of
Our struggle
The hauntings
The forced leases
The silent laws
That we follow
The monitors that observe
The omnipotent voyeurs
Document our peril
Our unique despairs
There are no sympathies
There are no judgments
That which creates pain
Is a molecule in the movement
Too basic for ethics
And less than dust to god

So is our breath
As is our lives
Minute to the immortal
And crucial to the insects.


Where Have All My Old Friends Gone?

Feeling like an anthropologist, I dug deep through my scrawlings and discovered this little number. Years ago I was quite the spoken word beast. I am pretty sure I jotted this one down while watching my performance partner screaming into a microphone. Turned out to be pure prophecy, as I have not heard from him in years.

As I watch you
Yelling and screaming
Your brow twisted
Your manic frustration
Putting your eyes in focus
And your brandished teeth
Flash grimly
And fist clenched (typically)
Around an old microphone
I wonder what will become of you

Where the future goes
These questions and others
I often ask myself
You, my mirror
Fate or precise plans
Cannot be counted on

Where do the souls go?

These old souls who have
Marched in line
Lead and fell
I recognized your soul, sir
Although from where
I do not know
I cannot shake its familiarity
And so old souls go
To find each other
A necessary direction
That brings a brief passing
And momentary comfort
In this world of strangers

Mother’s Day 1969-96

A poem written to my mother as a gift, Mother’s Day 1996. Yep, it’s autobiographical.


Woodward cruises
Beatle beats, young and pretty, blonde hair
reflecting golden sunny glow coming down from jewel-blue skies.
“Can you feel it when it passes through you?”
Skinny, Rock & Roll. Oh he’s so dangerous. Rebel rebel on the street,
friends keep asking you why he’s not a normal American guy.


Warmer days and cooler nights, school concluding, future plans ideas
at best. Why do you like this bad little boy, fringe leather long hair and
shit-eating grin?
Fair skin, gentle smile, Berkley girl
Who could hang for a while
Cool kids in a fragile moment
It’s not so bad in this shrinking spring 69

It’s cool and that’s all
anybody needs in the treasure of youth. He’s a perfect pirate at best.
But for a sliver a bit it had all been a returning smile a gentle wink and a
walk around town.

Detroit and its almost summer. All right. 69. Xtra life in your belly.
Sweet mode, the summer of love upon you and its greatest sum is your
Maybe now it’s not a rebel you seek, but there he is.


You feel fine. All the love of the world grows inside you.
Who was that young glowing mother whose sandaled feet strolled under
that warm season sun. Fresh and full of life, scared but hopeful, optimistic
but cautious, courageous and poetic.
Suddenly it’s not so simple, but beautiful none the less.

Music comes out of convertible cars rolling slowly down Woodward
in proud De-troit style. How life’s course changes in an instant. People who
might have been a night away from can affect the events of decades to
Slowly turning tires on flashy cars, music, the beat–the heartbeat of
the street. Young girl, the mess of love, now with belly swelling dire. A
range of emotions like light through a prism.


Late August humid nights. Young boy and young girl in the face of
life. A knuckle down in the sacrifice
for the upcoming
and now the price.
Random like the leaves off the trees. No one can plan their fall.
Design beyond our reach. We can only sweep thereafter.


It’s colder and bolder in the heart of the city. Big world has come, ready or
not, it is quickly becoming time for the big game. He’s staying for the game.

Darker skies and November chills your boy(?) is almost upon you.
How the days have passed, I can only fictionalize. Summer of loved passed
to fall nights, Berkley taillights. What nerves danced behind your doe eyes?
Were you dying or lying or crying behind them or did you laugh and smile
and await your child?


It’s coming up in just a while.
It’s crisp and cold. It’s a Michigan winter. Loose long cotton sheets give
way to thick dark wool and pile on the duck feathers. The wool scratches of
young love are contrasted with down comforter sympathies.


Oh will it be alright? Will it be good? she asked herself.
Young pretty mother soon had watched other mother’s daughters
engage in ritual in local parks and hilltops. Happiness rained down on these
hills moments away.
Slide down and away on billowy coated snowcaps.
Whisping, swirling snow. Soft and flaky, gentle bed. Young will-be-mother lays down in it.
Starts making snow angels. Sometime after Christmas (she smiles)

It WILL be alright.

Another Command Will Follow

In my crazy postmodern apocalyptic world, there exists the Dodge Tribe. More on them to follow. They have a few poets that lurk in their ranks. I have managed to wrestle this short piece the grimy paws of one of their reluctant bards.

A sinister flash of teeth caused an agreement
to happen without cautious second glances
Now, a fortuitous hero wills his rise from rusted ranks
and former idol worshipers now condemn last minute strokes of genius
Yes, genius or brilliance in simplicity
Could lasting actions build tradition or shore up ethical balloons
in a corral to prevent exposure to toxic elements
Elements – periodic in definition, organized in hardened flesh of sheer disaster
Former chiefs can create new obedience in tired fists
Blasting caps fuel memory armed in apology
Could forgers pose as the holy in retribution of the convicted
Tattoo change on the base of the necks of the leashed

Watch Your Step

Taking a break from the Bleak Verse, and concentrating on something a bit more concrete…regret.

Cold winter night
Young lovers a moment
In his car
Outside her door

"Snatch" by boskizzi

Flushed with emotion
He delivers his sentence
“One year from now my dear,
A ring will be yours”

If you could have seen
Her face
A powerful gesture
Fueled by careless words

One year or so later
He lay in bed alone
Someone should love him
Someone should love her

Wounds slowly healing
Insomnia nights
Replay the regrets
Asking what if

Clutch that pillow tight.

A Day in Your Brickyard

Another experiment in Bleak Verse, always enjoyed reading this one at open mics.

rolling stringy mealyworms

Big Empty Feeling by Patrick Henson

in cracked layman hands
spell a manifesto
of strange proportion
wringing in the ash
a ripple effect
sound as light
arms raised in futility
offer nothing
but roughshod thoughts
and backslide wide
question marks
leave it and begone
a long wait
ending with gray hair
who needs a glorious statement
a mangled aspect
a damaged mind
the blinding light
can’t stop the voices
can’t stop their music
shield my eyes
or block my ears
with bloodied stubs for hands

The Growing Crisis Under the Billboards

I do this thing I call Bleak Verse. Don’t know what if anyone else is using that term, so I am claiming it until otherwise notified. I am not a natural poet, but sometimes I give it a shot. I won’t describe what I am trying to do, that’s always pretentious and a bit annoying.

A treacherous web of veins straining under
sloughing skin as wet drops glisten
cool damp earth dig in as
a question develops out of frantic need
a causal nod and wink
a gesture a thought or two
give cause for
these clammy hands to
cramp with excitement
doubt could be their name

IMG_3384b by kittivanilli

and the cracking of tired knuckles
awaken an old world recycled
from a quilted skin and weathered bones
a concern of identity and
a loose snug fit
give birth to confusion
distracted eyes blink in unison clearing a
speck of irritation as glorious
condemnations reach out a neck
a neck a yoke a broken wish
is under this rubble and damnation
run, run forward as the ground
dissolves to reveal an ever growing
blackness and stunted wonderment

a sense of loss
a survival instinct
primal urge
stop, drop, and roll