BeThisBell

Click the link below to get my latest poetry book FOR EMILY, a collection of my best and favorite poems, for FREE for a limited time. This is my most recent work of poetry. Hope you dig it!

For Emily

Prologue: On the

Meaning of Art

Art is like a bucket of seething hot piss.

It is full of life, impurity, emotion,

Candor, disease, sexual innuendo.

It steams, boils, burns, and often stinks.

You can see your reflection in it

And it is not always pretty.

If you knock it over,

You might admire its beauty

As it captures the light of the moon

And the crazed colors of the night

As it scurries along the cobblestone streets

Before you decide whether to quickly quietly move along

Or obey the screams of the constable running towards you

To “clean up your filthy perverted mess!”

You think your bucket of piss is art?

Only when I know it is.

The constable is often wrong.

=/=

I took a photograph of the constable yelling his

obscenities at us in the moonlight.

   Instantly, my reality became art. It was beautiful.

   My friend Tara painted the scene in oil. The colors of

her night street were magical.

   And its truth became art again.

When, with word, I poignantly described the scene and

events in most accurate detail, capturing the true essence of

the event and it’s emotion on paper. My editor deemed it

too offensive.

   And the truth became art no more.

   The constable is often wrong.

Or is she?

Poem

Noir

Poem Noir as a genre paints a vivid scene from the perspective of a

voyeuristic third party observer—imagine, in writing in this genre,

that you’re an old film noir movie private investigator describing

the scene in vivid colors and images. Poems in this genre almost

always also add a thought-provoking touch of dark noir tinting

to the work. First person observations are allowed, but rare. They

can, however, occur in dream sequences or via a lustful, voyeuristic

intent, as a quote of a character or characters in the scene, or as part

of the private investigator’s scene setting narrative voice.

Film Noir

Poem noir

cheap perfume and cigarettes

sloppy sex on the fire escape

somebody misses her

our film noir queen,

in lemon neoprene,

she’s no villain,

just so killer.

our sadistic freak

in glam rock chic

somebody kisses her

I think I’ m in love.

I know I’m in love.

she dances on the street

I just try to keep the beat

her feet are dinner

her hips are mine

our film noir queen,

sight unseen,

in lemon neoprene.

just so killer.

on screen

and off.

Swell Kittens

Another poem noir…

She is a slumlord’s dream

Hooked on everything evil

and too proud to be homeless

She scurries from John to fix

Showers at the beach

She feeds the seals fish

and sings seal songs on the seashore

For their entertainment, and mine

I applaud like a seal. She laughs like a kitten.

The sky swallows the swells

   in a psychedelic rainbow,

complete with its own pot of gold

I can see now why she comes here

Loneliness is so hard to escape

Without rainbows, seals, and pride

I wonder if she takes pride in her work?

But I am now convinced she is not our perp

   Just a beautiful soul imprisoned

by capitalism’s need for blood

and the souls of swell kittens.




Diablo Nights

In the daring diablo of the early night

TV’s dim rays casting a glow on everything—neon metallic

Our story turns to romance that violates health codes

Catered charity events

Food that turns her soul on

Buttercream thighs

She grins as she indulges

Passion’s screams muffled by the sounds of a passing delivery truck

Passing out, sweet treats, two hot crumpled sweaty messes.

I so need a cigarette and a cup o’ joe

And a better TV.

(To be continued)…

Bittersweet Freedom

The two genteel old men sit

At the end of the table trading

Bittersweet stories and tall opinions.

The talk quickly turns to revolution

As the bare-shouldered blonde

Dances, turns, and swirls along

The front edge of the stage

To the sick samba groove.

Sweet innocence, dressed in red,

Watches as her mother spins;

The weight of knowing is too much,

Innocence lost on a casting couch

With cartoons and cookies.

Disturbed, disturbing, circling

Flames reflect off-colored strings

As the room begins to collapse

Into itself, and children run full

Speed in circles through the aisles.

Dance, eat, and be merry.

“For tonight, we celebrate our freedom,

In the morning, we fight!

Viva la revolution!”

And still the night is young

And so are our souls.

“Viva the fucking revolution!”

Let us dance.

The Broken
Whale

The Queen of Potential

I am the Queen of Potential and unrequited dreams

My confidence slain at the altar of your expectations

Your doubts only serving to fertilize the soiled wasteland

In which I cultivate my own fears of inadequacy

But at least, in that, I am successful.

   For if you challenge me to fail, I will succeed

   And if you challenge me to succeed, I will fail

   At least, in that, I am consistent, or am I?

For your hope in me is born in my inconsistency

Which means that I must have already succeeded

   in your eyes

Somewhere among my many failures,

   and perhaps I can again

Or perhaps you’re just being nice, already having determined

That I will never fulfill your initial expectations of me.

You euphemistically saddle me with “potential” to justify

Your prophesy and to excuse my failure to perform

Up to your expectations of my suspected grandeur

As if you needed reinforcement to prevent your doubts

Of my ability to fulfill your expectations

   from actually occurring.

Doubts of my failure or doubts of my success

I doubt that any of it truly matters, to me, or except to me

For I am the Queen of Potential and unrequited dreams

And within me hope springs eternal, and for that

I will potentially be eternally grateful.

Broken

Alone, afraid, seeking love

With edges that cut

And a mind shattered

By its alternate realities.

Broken, smashed, impaled

Into a thousand jagged pieces

That just don’t fit into this society,

Into one stereotype or the other.

Twisted, demented,

Full of anger and rage

Painful to watch

And impossible to hold.

She whispers repeatedly

To what’s left of herself

Life becomes what you make of it

Life becomes what you think of it.

And all the king’s horses

And all the king’s men

Cannot a queen make

Despite all her best efforts.

With one foot forward

And delusions held high

She steps into her own abyss;

Psychosis is, as psychosis does.

Deformed, and reformed

With hard glue made of asses.

A thousand jagged thoughts

Hurtling through space

And laughing all the way

ha, ha, ha

Life becomes what you make of yourself

Life becomes what you think of yourself

Life becomes what you think.

She cannot love herself. Love her madly.

A heart of gold, is just a Neil Young song

She sings to herself, when she cries.

The Mantis and the Whale

Praying mantis just sits on the ledge

He stares back at me but won’t move

My head is dead and so is Lou Reed

It’s getting harder to stay in the groove.

Orange butterflies float by the pool

Blue heaven just hangs on the wall

Strange-colored orbs sway dance among trees

White sunglasses stare at it all.

Old Spanish cross near an old rusty saw

Birds keeping bad time with their chirping

And the poet she calls on old muses to dance

While their words scurry into her poem.

Skull painted blue, and a mind that is black

Insane spiders reach out from her Mars

Tibetan death circles, drawn in red candle wax

In her words mad, I have found a new home.

One friend drinks ’til he sees it no more

One flies to the clouds but can’t see

One just searches, she’s the best kind of friend

And the other reminds me of me.

Little old man stands still on the sea

While everything rocks all around

I’m just standing here listening to me

And the sound that I make while I drown.

Crazy cat with a bird on her back

And now she dreams of being a whale.

Mother

Mother, may I eat this peach?

Might it fall betwixt my teeth

And if it’s flesh be my desire

Mother, may I light a fire?

To purify and then inquire

Might I choose to so admire.

And should I choose to bring it home

Mother, may I write a poem?

About the creature that lives inside

You know the one from which I hide

That worms its way into my mind

And leaves unnerving fears behind

About the thing that I love most

The peach, so sweet, of which I boast

For I am such a willing host.

For I am such a willing host.

Mother, may I propose a toast?

To the peach that is my one true love

Who says he hates to rhyme

And fell from grace into my life

To nourish me in times of strife.

I ask for little, he isn’t much

This luscious peach I long to touch.

Oh, Mother, may I finally dine?

On this peach of mine, oh so divine

Who’s promised when the stars align

To give his sacred seed to me

So that I might know and learn to be

The lesson I’d most love to teach.

Oh, Mother, may I eat this peach?

Be

I have pondered many things

Like birds that fly without their wings

One babe born poor, and one to kings

The meaning of love, and what it brings

Oh, I have pondered many things.

Like ants that eat an anteater

And why am I so insecure

Do fish all have their favorite lure

Or ever need a manicure?

Oh, I have pondered many things.

The zebra’s stripes, I think about

Are they inside in or inside out?

Is black a color, and white without?

And must I take the roundabout?

And if I do, will it let me out?

Oh, I have pondered many things.

Does whipped cream ever eat a cherry?

Or is this thought incendiary?

Perhaps it will soon be legendary

To those who are more literary.

Is every moment, momentary?

Oh, I have pondered many things.

At times I think I think too much

Is reality real, or just a crutch?

Can a stick shift drive without a clutch?

Do flights of fancy, fancy such?

Must writing have a personal touch?

Oh, I have pondered many things.

And when I wish upon a star

Does grammar matter who I are?

If I was smart, would I go far?

Is whiskey better from a jar?

Do feathers always come with tar?

Oh, I have pondered many things.

Will the internet still be around

When robots tear the whole thing down?

Am I afraid of silly clowns?

Or just the ones who wear the crowns?

Is knowledge just a hand-me-down?

Oh, I have pondered many things.

Yes, I have pondered many thoughts

Are words okay? They’re all I’ve brought

This tempest, tea, and work I’ve wrought

Oh, how I long to be a cosmonaut

To catch the dreams that I have sought

And lessons learned that I have taught

For in the present, I have naught.

And yet I ponder many things.

The more I lose, the more I cling

To poetry and thoughtful things

Of value none, except to me

These tortured thoughts that torture me

Oh, I have pondered many things

Like why I end this poem with be.

Neighborly

A neighbor helped me today.

I did not deserve her act of kindness, but she did.

Psychotic

Kittens

Cosmic Farms

I numb myself to kill the pain,

I kill myself to prove my fame,

Interrupt, I have myself to blame,

I think I'm gone, my thoughts insane.

So dance I must to plant my feet,

And run upon the swirling street,

Until I collapse inside your arms,

Imagination planting cosmic farms.

Landscapes sculpted, word and pen,

And I am in despair again,

My cigarette has lost its spark,

And I am writing in the dark.

The animals, they keep me calm,

A pig, a sheep, and ticking bomb,

A waddling duck, who gives a fuck,

And thunderstruck, the prancing buck.

Their stuffing falls upon the floor,

And down I go, my farm's at war,

Laughing, laughing, silent screams,

The animals, living out my dreams.

I ride to town, the prancing buck,

The sheep, the pig, and waddling duck,

All tag along to see the sights,

A priest administers last rites.

The bomb explodes, the feathers fly,

And I look the duck straight in the eye,

Should I forgive, or ring its neck,

But then I think, oh what the heck.

It's just a game, I must remember,

October, March and in December,

Snow comes down and melts again,

And reminds me I am still not sane.

And thunderstruck, the prancing buck,

The waddling duck, who gives a fuck,

The pig, the sheep, and exploded bomb,

The animals, they keep me calm.

The cow, unsympathetic, pulls the alarm,

As pain burns down my cosmic farm,

While stars above look oh so bright,

And I have lost my mind tonight.

Left Shoe

She has but one shoe.

She wears it everywhere.

Left foot, I think.

Her right foot is bare.

No shoe. No love.

She trudges on.

She washes her feet

at night, noticing the

calluses and scars.

She washes left shoe

scrubs it clean, again

with a deep love for it.

The next day, left shoe

and she go to school again

stomping their feet all the way

Marching, dancing, playing

soccer with her friends;

Her right foot scores frequently.

Left shoe just watches.

In once muddy puddles.

She is happy for left shoe.

She is happy for food. tonight.

She is happy to have a family.

And a school. In her village.

Where the shoes play soccer

with the non-shoes, concerned

only with making each other smile.

Existentialist Mothers

Existentialist mothers

Save the soul of the whole

Understanding nothing is

Absurd, yet everything is.

We are what we create.

Art is therefore important,

Not merely because it exists,

But because it teaches us—

Beauty. Reflection. Meaning.

Art is our collective consciousness.

In it, we find the unspoken truths.

In it, we can find ourselves, and

Our connection to everything—

To everyone. And the thoughts

Of all of our ancestors’ offspring.

Existentialist mothers

Understand nothing

Except the question

is necessary to the answer.

There is joy in the journey.

Live life like you intend it.

Truth is the only real path. And

Love, the only real connection.

Find who and what you love.

Collect it, cherish it, become it.

In this nothing exists everything.

Existentialist mothers

Teach us that to become

We must be. Beautiful.

When Hip Was Hip

I.

Sleeveless

she pulls her heartstrings

to the surface

to look around

join the beating ohm

and be

one with god

music being her vibration

my ears, her laboratory

her nature lives in a single note

prancing upon my eardrum

divine in all it's glory

resounding on our skins

in goosebumps laced

frivolity.

II.

with purpose

like a freight train

headed to Chicago

on icy tracks

with three quarts

of coffee, wired eyes

and a wife

     expecting

him home by daylight

An interesting twist, was this

     was this

who knew her vibes

contained overtones

of boyish melodies

genetically engineered

by thousands of hours

of painful musical experience

and heightened emotions.

III.

Hippies understand her trip

- they once let slip - back

when hip was hip.

Thursday Morning Art Class

Invisible light

blinds bright

eyes no longer sea

tidal changes, in me

the deft clinician

practices her art

the old man continues

to wait, watching it all

unfold, as a painting

of metaphors, doors

- opening and closing -

as a small child's laugh

echoes through the hues

buried within the hallway

clues to my unconscious, the

view changes its perspective

riffing along on a Thursday morn,

warm coffee, feeling quiet, unborn

If I Never Write This Poem

If I never write this poem

I might never have met you

been able to guess all your secrets

or undressed your waves in my mind

all before you finish

the next line

I might never have gone skinny-dipping

under the brightly colored stringers

in the calm bay waters, freezing,

while thinking about your eyes

and what your life will be like

- If I never write this poem

I could never say what I think

unless, of course, you are as bizarre

and fun, as I think, you might be

- dancing among the pink tutus

trying to see, and avoid being crushed

by the spinning hippopotami, of

a culture that consumes too much

If I never write this poem

    I could never say how I feel

about our future together

without clean water, GMOs, or

tiny homes for all the homeless

   people, the money chase

creating nothing beautiful,

except when it benefits all

our collective future, kind

being the best part of man.

And I might never think

to write about my mother

or pen a line, send a thought,

a smile, to make her cry, laugh,

and remember the day she

first brought my giggles home

-how would she ever know

how much I love her now

Some details can never

be artfully spoken

If I never write this poem

Would your life be different?

If the people around you

knew how you truly felt

Truth is not always love

But love is always truth.

I wish more people knew this.

I wish more people knew

the words I put on paper

And scream to the crimson sky gods

when the muses are drinking again.

This time, Vodka, bloody marys,

with giant stalks of mint green celery

salt, and splash of worcestershire-

Heart-breaking pain, on a pretty page

served with fish-egg hors d’oeuvres

and only the finest French cheese,

being one of the only luxuries left

a poor man can still afford, to love

something you might never ponder

- If I never write this poem

Let it be known that I love my girls,

even if I feel like a failure to them

     if I never write this poem

How would they ever know,

this is how I express my love.

Girls I Know

Inkwell, Blood-Red

Poem written for a good friend and a great poet.

She cries at night

I dare not console her

She abhors sympathy

But empathy is her strength

It is difficult to be a poet

Who feels all so deeply

Collecting tears and smiles

And piling them on your own

Exponentially magnificent

If one can survive the pain

She cuts herself to keep

Herself grounded in reality

Blood-red tears

She builds her nest of words

Like her friend, the wasp

Do not enter, do not touch

The past lives to sting

She plays the movie

Through and through

It causes her mind to spin

As she relives every frame

She has blood on her hands

She pours words on paper

Her blood is her motivation

The ink well of a frightened

Overwhelmed little girl

With the soul of an ancient.

She spews clarity and insight

Painting her dreams in red

And forever wondering why

She never feels

Grounded

Clean

Whole

Painless

Completely free,

Even when blameless,

Or ever fully capable

Of loving herself

To her this is life’s mystery

Sharing her daily struggle

One only an eloquent pen

Can capture, her true soul,

With an inkwell, blood red.

The Bone Echo

She has never tasted success.

except as a guest to someone else’s party.

Lots of someone else’s parties. Too many.

And while she loves that -at least, her friends, won-

…at the same time, it wrecks her mind

And lays her good soul to waste.

Over and over again.

The sound of not good enough echoes through her bones.

And in the calmest of her fears, in the pitch black,

lit only by a candle, she paints her dreams in a

Silence that both rattles the soul and calms the nerves,

and screams relentlessly into her brain’s night.

Her dreams are her fears. And sometimes,

It feels like her fears have their own dreams.

If she never feels the rush of a crowd’s love,

at least, she still writes.

Lines I cherish.

She, on the other hand, would ask for more.

Although she would never survive the critics.

Everything, Collected

She locks herself away

in the closet of an apartment

she calls home

Surrounding herself with pictures

loves, in silver steel wire frames

which remind me of cages

She keeps things in

aging grease-stained cupboards

most likely to cause her joy

or be useful, when she needs

She never finds anything

She loses. But go on, she must

Find herself

Among the scattered debris, she

refers to as her prized "collection,"

serving to remind her of who she is

She hasn't read anything good

for years, her eyes too closed

by the pain of disappointments

to open herself to another's world

So immense, she collects her thoughts

in decades, of useless junk, treasures

And pastes all her favorite memories

on a painter's canvass. She salvages her

neighbors' free piles of discarded ideas

With exacto-knife in hand, she wonders

if she will ever make the right cut

To be an artist

Or even continue

Seeing the vibration and connectedness

of everything she experiences

Or perhaps, she has that backwards,

never even realizing her mistake

Until, she opens her door, and finds

everything... has been waiting

for her vibration too

Cakes and Keepsakes

She strews half opened cupboards

of cakes and keepsakes across her fates

like gayly colored ribbons of desecration

Weak and feeble, she selfishly takes

from others, lacking any strength

     for empathy

While sympathetic symphonies

     drone madly against

... a sky painted black by

rolling stones and mind-ciphers

  until its emptiness swallows

     her eyes whole like a toddler's

quest for molded sugar

Too lonely to be giving...

Too much in despair to see...

Too meaningless within her hopes

She is too fallow to have compassion

... to do anything but take, take, take!

... It is not her fault, just her life

Success can be a fickle bingo wheel.

She is empty. without power. for now.

But only now

For sweet is the soul's ability

     for transformation, with only

a little help - some thoughtfulness

and a sprinkling of human kindness

A powerful soul can offer

grace

humility

and yes, love

A fulfilled soul gives

naturally, and

without hesitation

It can do nothing else.

In Her Cosmos

Obtuse oranges and quixotic kiwis

Being eaten by groove-bound orangutans

on a quest to find once former hopes

Beyond doorways painted silver

by well-deserved facial cues

The oddLy lettered sign above reads

“Enter at your own risk”

Never lacking courage

- except on Tuesdays -

She opens the door

...and drinks it all in

All the possibilities

The guilty pleasures

The epic madness

The laughing loudest

Among the loons

She calls friends

Cheshire cats line scenic hallways

to remind her to remain visible

The early bird special

is a hike along a dreamy redwood path

     with fresh cream, ripe strawberries,

and her favorite book of rhymes, and

the three sisters she has had since

they all survived cancer together

She gives her all and does it so well

That part of her has never changed

A broken tree limb outside the window

never even causes a metaphoric twinge

Her thoughts too focused, on

her daily mediations, to notice

Not to lie, every move is more difficult now

but she is not one for complaining, out loud

In a still-born silence, she considers…

Pain is the price of a life lived in excess

Loss is the price of having many loves

She understands, everything is meaningful

and so, her daily focus is simple: connect

With all that her inner child has experienced

- her memories, her passions, her longings -

With every instinct for creativity she can pursue

   artfully, or inartfully, for that is never the point

Smiling, she winks, and applies her face cream

Thicker these days, to help her uncover truths

The orangutans waltz weirdly among passion fruits

She notices, laughs, begins to dance. Eclectic. Proud.

Her Cosmos has a full dance-card tonight.

Good friends. Lives well lived. With. Gratitude.

Wisps of Dao

Translucent

she lives in a bubble

hopefully swimming

among her ever-present panic

Semi-transparent

we see only what she will allow

on Thursdays, 6:30pm

she serenades sweetly singing

chameleons of red hued lovers

with notes so thick

each stands alone

full of lust

and intense zeal

I feel her real

her aim so just

she plays in the zone

hurling melodies quick

originals - not covers -

with heartstrings ringing

like a horn to my brain stem

Luminescent

I ride along her wisps of dao

Sparkling

her playfulness brimming

discounting all my trouble

on her days less manic

Invisible Tears

Salacious girls with pearls,

Wisdom has its own price.

She knows now, all too well.

She cries invisible tears,

From misplaced fears,

And a thousand magnifying glasses.

She meant it not,

Not that it matters,

Not that any of it matters.

She screams in silence.

Make it go away.

Make it go away!

Abracadabra.

But nothing works.

Not even algebra.

The halls are empty at 3 p.m.

And so is her heart.

Ripped out.

Lie by innocent lie.

Gossip girls, with salacious pearls,

And a score to settle.

Poem over.

Strange Little Bird

She dawns a black mask

with goggles for eyes, and

the long beak of a raven.

... Strange Little Bird...

She flys, knowing some

of those who mock her now

will one day follow her, and

those who choose to scorn her

may one day be devoured, or,

may devour her from inside,

feasting upon her fears and

oddly soothing insecurities

- depending solely upon

the strength of her own will.

We can only mask our fears

for so long before we have

to face them, rise or fall,

and bravely choose to stand

up and do it all over again.

Humans being human.

How utterly strange, crows

our little bird, smiling blithely

under her black leather mask.

She understands our pains,

and insincerity, all too well.

I only hope one day she finds

love, and knows the difference.

Short
Verse

She

A haiku

Flamboyant girl child,

Flies so fabulously free,

Not grey, nor gray, she.

Everything Zen

Text me out sweetly, tickle my pen

Bring me to life, with all of your wiles

Twist me, caress me, as everyone smiles

Patterns on paper, everything zen

Jellybean

Love is just a jellybean

which floats upon the tongue

craven by the elder folks

and wasted on the young

so lucky ye who find it are

- despite its nature frail -

to penetrate the gloominess

within our mortal veil

A Touch Sublime

Your participation is not as you thought it would be

Extracting pain from hope, or the reverse

which is even more insane

But the sublime is in everything, and all you

must do is reach out and touch

something, someone, outside yourself, to find it

And yourself

The Child

The grandest ballroom, a thousand mirrors

- the answer lies within the young child -

Curious, not blinded by beautiful reflections

[Like the precocious young child]

Like the precocious young child

grows into her female goddess

so too shall you discover your

power

Sandcastles

Your reason

to hold on can be as simple

as a single insight, the ohm,

- or the one piece of sand left

you have yet to let fall to the ground -

either way, it's not the reason that matters,

it's the thought

Everything, Me

Golden polka dots

line hidden spaces

broken, shattered,

encased in amber

a tree reaching, lightly

suspended, she floats

above her reflection

touching her nothing

and yet, everything

me

Portuguese Sambas

I'm sorry you can't stay longer

embraced in lust, sweet tongues

dancing Portuguese sambas

through

the zen-like portal we create, with our

lips

Authenticity

tears, blood red

stain experience

authentic

Cold Love Thought

If I could hold your bare shoulders

once more among the Rockies view

wandering the flowery yellow glade

beyond this ice-cold mountain lake

at which I first proposed to you

- before you left for heaven -

last summer, and returned,

as this cold love thought

[If I were but a buttercup]

If I were but a buttercup

- I'd drink the cosmic rays

And thirst upon the morning dew

- until the dog-eared days -

Of new Spring love do come to pass

- and bees come 'round to call -

My front porch will be buzzin'

- suited men with parasols -

But when they come a callin'

- I mustn't wilt away -

And hide out in our field of same

- just like I am today.

[Beauty is its own prison.]

Beauty is its own prison.

I am completely

distracted by amphitheaters

of psychedelic dots, perfectly

aligned rows - radiating -

as hummingbirds thirst

upon the flowers of my ugliness

- enhanced by age.

Blue, Kind of

moods begetting

square shadows

wired consciousness

loathsome in blue

Distinctive Vibes

trumpet is singing

long note sleeves

into stratosphere

hallucinatory yes

Vaseline

somwhere in the vaseline

- inspiration, waves serene -

I think of all and all is seen

somewhere in the in between

of chaos sought and friendship

lost, I see your know and hip

the cost, of what is real

and what

is not

for I know the price of admission

The Leaf Bird

Bliss

euphoric and tantalizing

serenely floating on high

like the leaf bird quavering in the wind

once storms of subtle thoughts subside