My Generation

I wasn’t born with a club foot
I didn’t fight in Vietnam
I didn’t teach at Columbia
I wasn’t fooled by Nixon’s charms

My generation was as lost as Hemingway’s
And just as productive.

I didn’t escape Minnesota in a snowstorm,
I didn’t go mad at Arfderydd
I didn’t smash a guitar at Woodstock
I didn’t drown in Delacroix

My generation was just as angry as Townshend’s
And just as destructive.

Arfderydd is pronounced Arf-der-ith (“th” as in father)

Senryu for Allen Ginsberg

Mind breaths all over the place
First thought is best thought


Poem #8 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo)

Updated 5/23/17 This was originally titled “Haiku for Allen Ginsberg” but upon reflection I think it qualifies more as a Senryu than a Haiku.

Dreams of Poems Already Written

Allen was in Asgard reciting America and
Singing the Buddhist Bible Blues for All-Father Odin
While Bobby and Baldr compared notes concerning
Daily dreams of darkness, depression, and death.
Byron rode up and down Bifröst bridge
Writing a poem about Don Juan
(No, not that one, the new one!)
Marcus Aurelius read the mythologies of Midgard,
Studied philosophy with Plato,
Admiring the stoicism of Socrates,
As Rimbaud wrote rhyming prose about Ragnarök,
Containing nothing but the truth,
Delivering it to Valhalla for the consideration of
Siddhartha, Thor and Wōđanaz.


Poem #3 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo)

Thoughts, Dreams and Reflections (Video)

This is the first of what I hope to be many videos I will be posting of myself reading poems and singing songs that I’ve written. For my first video I have chosen to read Thoughts, Dreams and Reflections (For Allen Ginsberg). 

For Bob Dylan

Written on the occasion of Dylan being awarded the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature.
Could be sung to the tune of ‘Song for Woody‘ by Bob Dylan.


You’re out there traveling another mile down the road,
Listening for messages when the cold winds have blow’d,
Writin’ ’em down and sendin’ ’em out,
Trying to figure what this crazy world’s all about.

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Radical Authenticity

Allen told me, If you want to find your voice
Forget about having it heard.
Speak your true unfiltered thoughts.
Don’t hide that special spark of madness.
Say what you say when no one is listening,
Write what you write when no one is reading.
Don’t write for “likes,” page-views, or popularity.
Open a vein o’er the inkwell,
Vomit gray matter onto your keyboard.

If you write it they will come,
A raggedy band of freaks and weirdos,
Marching out of step with themselves,
Painting their passports brown:
An audience looking for what you’re writing,
Searching for what they didn’t know existed,
Congregating together, hanging on every word.

In an age of cloned sheep,
Thinking for yourself and
Standing apart from the crowd
Can be a revolutionary act.


Inspired by Discover Challenge: Radical Authenticity

Is There Anybody Out There?

Can anyone out in the hallway hear me?
Skrit-Scratching on the walls,
Floor to ceiling pencil poems
In prescription-cursive fonts,
Hand cramps trying to keep up
With the torrent through my cortex.
Thoughts crying out, screaming the night,
Jolting awake, dream-fog questioning
The reality of sounds in the dark.
Strain to hear soft sobs through
Shared bathroom walls,
Fetal-curled on the tile floor.

Randomly reciting passages from Plato
Epictetus and the Buddha.
Waiting for the appropriate countersign
From Aristotle, Epicurus and the Gita.
Murmur-chanting Howl and America
Softly, steadily swaying like a Rabbi praying Torah.

Desperately shoving notes and folded photographs
Under the cell door, hoping an Orderly doesn’t see.

Walls full, pencil broken
Poetry flows on, scratched into the floor,
A spiraling binding protection circle of words
Writ with a broken bloodied fingernail.

20-21 September 2016

Written in response to The Daily Post‘s Daily Prompt: Silence

Thoughts, Dreams and Reflections (For Allen Ginsberg)


I. Thoughts

I thought of you today, Allen Ginsberg,
As I often do when the howls from
Desolation Row enrapture my mind.
Rapid fired images stolen from
Dreams and nightmares of America.
Starving in the streets like
Hysterical angel headed hipsters
And raggedy vagabond doctors
Crouched in darkened doorways
Snarling, scratching at the
Constable’s carriage for
A scrap of bread.

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