Rhymes with Crass


You brittle sword blades that play at being soft,
with your fucking allure and goddamn velvet looks.
All supple and inviting,
green and enticing,
even though I know you’re full of bugs.
I’ll lay down,
Sucker for your edges on my skin.
That’s Spring,
time for lying shoots,
stubborn goofs.


Dogs love grass.
Friends until the end.

Crazy dog on a leash nipping the beak of an Alpaca,
a little bundle of terror–so damn happy.
She’s out on four paws in the noonday shade,
fucking with a goat-kid we saved from the grave.
Throws herself carefree in the still biting grass,
rolls until she can finally hit that perfect spot in need of a scratch.
No shame in her game as those jowls go flapping,
smiling like the devil inside,
bounds off into the hills,
roaming free now,
ignoring all but her truest calling.
Glinting light off one scarred eye,
covers up the mysteries of whats come to pass,
it’s always in the past,
and we’ll know not why.


Ticking clock composite for what the future watches,
saw the spacial structuring as it was burnt and smelted.
Never know which way is up,
as gravity devolves and we drink deep from empty cups.
Supposing that the gene’s were there,
no one can know that structure favored some real logic
though they did it with spine thrust care.
Neutron bursts and radiation all colorful and full,
offspring of a larger source,
all with random misfires to cross the finish line
not programmed delinquency,
ad hoc moments of instant shock

A Tiger in a River

Chalk dusted finger tips with an adrenaline jolt, zip-lined neuroses adjudicated by the moment. Lost in torn pants with a carabiner thread, socially anxious and awkward but alone and without the dread. Gripping on with rubber soles to shaky rock faces that feel so full. Flashback moment to a Tinsel strewn river, if I could take it back I wouldn’t pause though time chases me forward and I don’t know how to abscond from it’s endless quiver. I’m still fletched after return though I know somewhere I missed a target, if wishes were fishes I would have at least saw it. Easier to murmur the words to myself, ride the curve up where it’s simpler to stare down at the gulch. I know that it’s basic to stay on a track, ask not the questions that are staring right back.

Creature comforts exchanged for a soul, I suppose that’s one lesson I never learned right when I was out in the cold. It’s wicked out there, in the beauty and grease. Amidst all the foragers of life, love and what to wear while we bleat. If the greatest of tokens was untouchable sadness with no way to atone, then here on a hillside covered in muck, I’d whisper to the shadows that flicker “thanks for giving a fuck.” Without their whistled movements to cast contrast to light, the trees would feel lifeless, faded out, make for a lackluster sight.

Shadow Boogie, Starlight Feast

Baby, give me gasping galaxies of infernal heat to warm the vacuum where once I lay. Cut dusted fragments of the stars from my body and my mind–it think find its soul which till remembers the last whisper and caress out there where we made our nests in nebulae, powdered our faces in fractal fission and wept at the insane beauty that stretched to the unknowable ends. Give me whetstone tones of tenderness to grind on down these rough edges, I know you will. Fine tune my harmony to match the orchestra, I know you will. Love me gentle and love me brutal, I’ll do same. But, on the nights I go to bathe in the shimmer and glimmer of dead Giants birthing monstrous infinities while listening to shadows hum their lonesome shaded songs….on those nights, I am forever free.

Mid-Psychosis: Found Musings Deep In (2018)

If there was a way to show that the entanglement in my mind was not a reflection of anything other than a deep loathsome impatience with my distorted logic and irrational spontaneity that would somehow absolve you of your pain, frustration – somehow dispel the notion that I am the lesser portion of a loving man who is incapable of expressing consistently a pure message of true love in their actions – if there were then I would take it.

Since there’s not, I am torn between cowardice and veracity in my sentiment, though precluded by that peculiar mental twist all addicts have at one point or another, that the dichotomous personalites of nurturing sweetness and indifference with callous disrespect are both real and actual versions of me.

Instead, the quagmire expands, I feel the split become as a divisive creature vibrant and devilish in its behaviors. A lunatic butterfly erupting with shades of misanthropic flailing across the personalities and care of the beautiful shapes all around. Whiplashing with infantile purification of all that is and was ever to be good.

Regrets on Repeat During a Rabid Quarantine Contemplation

1000th Album from Out of Line Records
Album cover from German band Signal Aout 42

Give me back the good ole’ days,
when I didn’t know I had been a dick,
before my eyes got opened wide
when I didn’t know I was supposed to think that I was slick.
’cause now there’s nowhere left to run,
the drugs aren’t making new connections,
copper wire all stripped bare and caked in black,
who knew that feeling guilty wouldn’t be so fun.
When disassociation was best friend,
wide-eyed ignorance was true enough
shame comes boiling on
like napalm from
the surface of a once forgiving sun.
So self-important in critique
that I’m burying the good parts inside the shit
convinced that its still black and white
and regardless of the truth,
I deserve to be punished.
for the right, the wrong, the sick,
that stupid mindless babble
even my well-intentioned songs.
Keep it all so serious now,
that panic seems always at the door,
instead of basking in the freedom from
that monster inside that damaged so much the world.
Enjoy the chance to roll again,
spin through ridiculously insane normalcy,
let feet hit a brand new road and leave behind insecurities, all fallacies–

—start the insurrection.

This Morning

Morning music blaring songs of joy,
naked in the shower washing out all that insane,
Fixated on a drum beat,
with a violin capping the rhythm,
saying stay alive and ride the ride.
Grins splitting face,
and duality of sides come sliding in
whole in reunion today,
where happiness finds it’s home,
but doesn’t demand a place.
Shock to the system,
when loving it all ratchets up,
tightens down the sorrow,
lightens the guilt,
and recovers a stumbling pace.
This morning, it’s all possible.
This morning, the world tastes of hope.
This morning, it’s time.
This morning, it’s time.

Thump a' Bump

Hippocampus marmalade

With dulcimer thumping aftershave,

Deviated personality

Turned treble beats of innocent.

Shaded eyes to halt the burn,

Standing in the mental wreckage

Let’s not get lost in anything but the now,

it’s here and the past is gone,

choose a path and walk the road,

no more forcing a needle,

just be excitedly grateful,

truly joyful,

hold that happy,

and smile,

no matter how.