Bituminary Park

Festooned by a quark in Bituminary Park
buffoons laying low like a luminary lark;
I feasted once again ‘cross the mighty dim Ardennes
never wishing for a secret truce and then,
‘neath the willow wonder thunder-beaks
a hundred other blunder-tweaks
and I’ll ride home again I don’t know when;
lest lavender across count for all their lethal cost
or fiends find friends to face eternal loss,
I can’t predict an outcome yet I hunger for the day
I’ll see the carousel and yell again some other way…

– K Poleet

“Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.” – William Shakespeare, Richard II

Like a rotten orange hiding in your refrigerator

A stranger form born midst the veil of dusk’s brume
you would never know
you could never know
its undying hunger,
aching, relentless…

It creeps in the unseen shadows
hunting, always hunting,
like a rotten orange hiding in your refrigerator
waiting, always waiting…

You sense it, you think,
for just a moment,
then it passes by,
subtly laughing,
this thing called love…

“Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.”
– William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 3 ,5. 6

Call the Carpenter

Forever a Carpenter ‘neath the lowing sky,
in my mind’s eye, you can see yet not be seen;
seems it’s not yet the sleeping scene…


In search of lost time, a Black Plague carrier costs one thin dime,
but just this once, mass-murder’s not really a crime;
dark skies closing in on the devil’s clever sin,
incarcerated martyrdom, don’t play dumb with me,
hand on my heart I salute the Brute with pride;
all the pansies and chrysanthemums hide
with dinosaurs and dime-store whores,
quartz crystal candlesticks sweep slick sickly fizzlesticks;
so, please play hide-and-seek with me for all eternity,
hold me, hug me, never tell me the truth;
like sand falling from my fingers, moist-lipped kisses linger,
a symphony of sympathies full of inconsistencies;
call the Carpenter a transcendental mental case, just in case…


“No,” said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, in contrast with his usually careless and unemphatic speech—”there’s debts we can’t pay like money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. While I’ve been putting off and putting off, the trees have been growing—it’s too late now. Marner was in the right in what he said about a man’s turning away a blessing from his door: it falls to somebody else.” – George Eliot, Silas Marner

Caligula, Driving down I-95, At midnight

Like a Mack truck doing ninety on the interstate
my blood races
I’m trapped between the moon and sun
Clever cadaver it just doesn’t matter
hopelessly longing for an eclipse
Scrinching my guitar string too tight
I know will never come
My head spinning like a flipped penny

I’m trapped between the moon and sun
hopelessly longing for an eclipse
I know will never come…


I’m trapped between the moon and sun
Like a Mack truck doing ninety on the interstate
my blood races
hopelessly longing for an eclipse
Clever cadaver it just doesn’t matter
I know will never come
My head spinning like a flipped penny

I’m trapped between the moon and sun
hopelessly longing for an eclipse
I know will never come…


“Before all there is the question as to the meaning of the dream, a question which is in itself double-sided. There is, firstly, the psychical significance of the dream, its position with regard to the psychical processes, as to a possible biological function; secondly, has the dream a meaning—can sense be made of each single dream as of other mental syntheses?” ― Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams

Foxes have holes

Foxes have holes, and birds have their nests,
I’m pretty sure we all know the rest;
conquering hero, our very own Nero,
fire and blood all over the place.
Did she deserve it?
what do you think…
Your stink covers multiple sins,
you cheated your way to multiple wins,
millions of victims all over the place.
We all bow down
to the king on his throne,
throwing lightning bolts at his beloved.
But what about our beloved?
what do you think…
Foxes have holes, and birds have their nests,
I’m pretty sure we all know the rest…


“Fish,” he said, “I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends.” – Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

I don’t know

I don’t know
who blows the wind or spins the earth,
or tickles a baby till it makes the cutest cackling laugh;

I don’t know
who put wings on an eagle or flippers on a whale or horns on a bull or breasts on a woman;

I don’t know
who made the stars shine so amazingly in the night sky,
or who gave such wondrous gifts to artists and authors and architects and actors and Bach and Beethoven and Brahms and the Beatles and Beyoncé,
or who made the hearts of so many so conniving and callous and cold and cruel;

I don’t know
who fills the summer with salty sea-breeze air, kids splashing in the pool, young lovers in sensuous embrace,
or who fills the summer with bomb blasts, AK47s, IEDs, and the shrieks and cries of fathers or mothers who’ve just seen their daughter’s or son’s face blown into a thousand bloody bits of flesh and brain and tongue and skin and teeth and skull and eyes;

I don’t know
who wrote all the cryptic secrets in a book no one can really understand,
or who decides who should be a billionaire and who should starve in Darfur,
or who should be a Caesar and who should be gassed to death at Auschwitz;

I don’t know
if God is the Wizard of Oz fumbling around behind a big red curtain,
or Charles Manson making his Helter Skelter followers
and kill
and kill
and kill
in His Holy Name,
or the Godfather blessing those who kiss His ass and putting a bloody horse’s head next to some poor sleeping schmuck whose only sin was not showing the Big Man all due respect;

I don’t know,
I just don’t know…


“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool..” – William Shakespeare, As You Like It

The second worst poem I ever wrote

Something strawberry in the air
innocent freckles smile
slow-motion wind in her hair
innocent as a child
like pink cotton candy
it’s stuck in my mind
the memory of
when she left me behind…


“The desire for a strong faith is not the proof of a strong faith, rather the opposite. If one has it one may permit oneself the beautiful luxury of skepticism: one is secure enough, fixed enough for it.” – Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols