Wildcatting The Canard:

Fear, has banded together all of my senses.
Love, has been swept under the dog's rug.
Hate, is stoking my wood burning stove.
Lust, is the corrupter in all of my choices.
Greed, is the factor behind all of my goals.
Faith, is a harlot that I sleep with too often.
Revenge, a trunk toting cousin staying for the weekend.
Tomorrow, is a time that I choose not to remember.
Yesterday, her pond reflection under my skipping stone.
Family, is a picture held not by a squared frame.
Possessions are labeled and boxed into storage.
Alone, in this cabin with one bowl of porridge.
Denial, the way that I dance to forget spin,
but nothing was really that funny, now was it.

Overpriced, I can’t catch up...
Trailing behind this marathon of madness...
Organization, my only asset...
Reflected fraying sanity...
Fine spun, I must seem seem-less...
Look again at this chasm crawl...
I know this crater all too well...
How when wet, her sides do swell...
I felt her facets, and fissures within...
I named this pit Faith to forget why I
made her...

{Big wheel ride down Mt. Baldy, Ca. 1979}

An azure cross bearing the face
of Jesus. Riding on a scorpions
tail. Topped with layers as if a
cake. Prison is shelter when shelter
is freedom. The artist creates the
look. How freedom is wicked to police
with copper badges. Supreme work
in folds divine impairs my outlook
on world decline. Molten wet pennies
from heaven. Stinging dry no moisture
soothes. Puddles of spare change
form helpless for thieves. The paint
has clogged my pores. I'm waiting
in brickclad buildings with concrete
for sleeves. I rub the washing tubes.
The stairway to pleasure is not what
it seems. Back and forth with my hands,
but the filth acquired in days spent
staring has scratched my lens. Now
I can't look while stuck in windows
of glass shattered blame. Blind, lost
to problems, and closed secure. Until
the thinner has cleared the outcome.
Lonely, way to quiet for your own
good. Count the dust in my wrinkles.
Sketching pen works not for me. No
one to blame which road was traveled
when you went insane. Dealing in
slaves because money’s the game.
Face it, or just shut the fuck up proper.
Rocking back and forth as you read
the word of god with a gun at your side.

No more green men!
On rooftops.
Lately brown spots.
On Spring grass!
Is killing the Spring scene.
One last ride on my Green Machine.
Then I'll come inside.
For real this time
Grandma, I
promise.