3 Piece Suite

In this projection, outward fear, something uncomfortable, an illness, crucial losses, like pained smiles, draping down faces, over animal rugs.

I sieve my thoughts, draining more, tapping on windows, down in the town, losing the grip, on stable heart, death that grew, lasting for months.

To break down the forces, handles of chores, ironing out the stains, bored of war, ghost came again, living a light, sorting the seams, wanton loves.

Stoner Psycho’s


You can’t protect yourself
against the ugly shadows, your illness
is growing and growing. You can die
knowing your mistake was smoke.
You can bathe in the gold of intoxication
but you will end up disarmed in jails
where the ill watch each other
at lunchtime under medication.
You think I don’t know your story?
A million or more share it too, like you
are the only one that cannot see
the fucking problem is you.

The Fighting Addictions


wonder, how did I get here,
is this my house and my beautiful wife?
The mists of the mind continue
to poison me and you.
The addicts cause a revolution
that becomes illness in smoke.
I am an addict too, to coffee and cigarettes.
Though can I say my illness is strong
like a bull and you are the matador
running away from my horns.