I am not a Succotash man.
There is only so much my pallet can stand.
Each portion belongs to its own.
The hype of variety way overblown.
People tell me to change it up
To toss it around inside the mixing cup
To chew and enjoy all as one
Finding pleasure with a garbled chum
For me, I see too much strife
With the heavy-handed spices of life
Swallowing mysteries too hot to handle
Vicariously living in a lurid scandal.
There is only one meal chosen for me.
It’s the one I long for constantly.
A divine dish made from the Chef above
The meal I speak of is you, my love.
gallant gangsters glorified Germanic gargoyles
graceful gentlemen garnishing gossiping gazelles
glimpsing garbled, gaudy, garish glistening gracefulness
goblin’s Gothic genealogy generating gauzy galactic giants
Giggling galloping godmother germinating gingerbread gags
Gaunt, gooey galoots guiding gabby geese to Graceland’s gates
The peace. The calm.
Everything is clear.
Life is good
Oh no its coming
There is nothing I can do to stop it
The voices are getting quiet
The music is muffled
My shows all sound garbled
The ringing is getting louder
The static is screeching
Please make it stop
"Mom can I go to my friend's house?"
"Auntie can I have some ice cream"
"Huh?! What did you say?"
"Sister are you hungry?"
"Huh?! What did you say?"
"Why are y'all whispering?"
"We're not? We're actually screaming at you?"
I can't hear a thing
I can see their mouths moving.
It's clear they are looking for answers
But I don't know the questions
The ringing is getting louder
The music is muffled
No peace. No calm
I am crying and can't hear it
This can't be life
What am I to do?
It won't stop
The doctor says no device will help.
Is this my life?
The ringing? The static?
The distant conversation
What am I to do?
I'm tired
No more fight left
It won't stop
Must you wound me?
Deviled dogs of Satan's lot
holding me upon raging seas
mouths garbled with sinful froth.
And must you pull my cloak?
Grubby nailed hands grasping
clambering upon my limbs.
Must you torment me?
Foul horned beasts sneer
with glee to fell a wall
that shall not fall.
The ovens sigh, the knives confess,
we season sin with gentleness.
Each soul, when carved, reveals a taste—
the butcher’s art, the baker’s waste.
The world’s our larder, stocked with schemes,
its saints are sweeter than they seem;
the sinners, tough—but well-marbled,
faith rendered down, ambition garbled.
O mercy, what a menu night!
The moon a lid, the stars alight—
each heart a roast of mortal heat,
each dream a spice too rare to eat.
So lift the cleaver, kiss the flame,
for hunger never dies of shame;
and whisper, as the bones release,
It isn’t m-rder—only peace.
:: 02.04.2026 ::
I've made up my mind.
I'm going to clean out the attic today.
Leaving nothing but cobwebs behind...
Photos of people without names
Car seats -chrome tables - baby rattles
Dented pots and pans
Rubber snakes.
A guitar that never made it past 5th grade.
Silent notes whisper in broken glass tones.
Melodies forever stuck in the clay.
It's all just excess anyway.
Things of past importance.
Scattered into cardboard boxes of chaos.
Of those never remembered and the long forgotten.
To the curb nostalgia will go.
The garbage truck offers a garbled eulogy.
To a couple of strutting crows in the gallery
There is a need for quietness today,
I listen to my neighbor's toilet flush,
it takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill,
I hold seconds inside my mind
between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening,
the trash compactor chews on
when switched off.
I hear conversations
filtering through the air conditioner,
words both distinct and garbled.
Yesterdays hurried meal
speaks still, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
sound moves upon carpet slippers,
yet steps are heightened
by being audible
in a lower registry of depth.
It is I who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable moments,
a distance between
and marked by blank labels -
every note,
an eavesdropping deliverance.
The year I became seasick
I lived in a bungalow on the edge
of a wilderness moor.
The sky and land
grappled together
for supremacy of my soul,
Inner dogs whined,
my eyes were portholes
where cats watched
the turbulent dance
of garbled mind waves.
I had to leave a wife,
but knew I could not swim,
couldn't drown, nor float.
I stumbled across high wind-woven gorse,
ghosts crying through my hair.
in the end,
the crashing sound of breakers
smashing against cliffs
made me vomit, I staggered
choking still
into a pathless night.
A cloud garden had to
wither and bloom,
toes had to learn to grip
ever shifting sands.
Time whittles,
it sharpens the bones of your throat
until you can consume
the stale and the fresh,
while riding a moon crazed
rocking-horse.
Life is built in layers:
layers of cells
layers of learning
of garbled words
and bruised steps
wingless flight.
Layers of temporary players
in and out of lives
the mania and bliss of it all.
Layers of depression and prayer
layers of rings like a tree
thick rings of gain thin for loss
drought and rain.
Layers of grief and joy
forgiveness and acceptance
doubt and faith.
Layers of blackness and light
layers of waning flesh and vigorous spirit
layers of hell and heaven
Death rests in layers.
To be blocked, it’s black and white or grey as a rock.
You can exist and be present, like floating particles in the air,
no mudslinging expressed but someone will make it their nosy affair.
Then a block, no valid reason for them to act like an angry cock!
A childish act of them trying to grasp a little control,
But they’ll end up acting like the biggest troll.
Past behavior often predicts their present one,
it’s only a matter of time before they’ll run.
I will never use my control to cowardly block,
instead, I'll enjoy reading real poetry around the clock.
Not AI generated with flowery alliterated words,
Or full of garbled rhymes that are just plain absurd.
Oh painful pain lingering
throbbing unjoyously
flaunt that false grin again
bring me terror of the unstable mind
where rabid horses trample garden gates
where pampered vines bleed broth and sap
no food no flavors just herbal failures
not yet extracted
the untended tend to decay
“thank you no” do I ever say
I talk I think I never pray
gracious gratitude fails twice
to patronize with sincerity
I then bend as if to bow
in garbled words of paradise lost
I mumble hollow truths
to appease omniscient listeners
who know nothing but ideal fears
admire and adore their perfect faults
escape/avoid/evade the drought
desiccated hope like dust is blown
out of your mouth and into my mind
dreams become fossils
molehills colossal
glib glassy green-eyed gruesome ghoulish goblins grabbing gloriously
glitzy glimmers of gourmet garnish. Giants give garbled ghosts gruff
growls. Gargantuous groups of glamorous gargoyles give greeters
goopy green gravy. Garbanzos grab globs of giant gamblling goulash.
Glum grieving giraffes generate gibberish in German. Granulated grocers gripe about grimy glittering goblets. Gainful games google greening, guessing about grimy graveyards of gruffly grotesque ghouls. Glam Grandma Gigi gazed at gradual greasy grasshopper’s greedy game-changing griddles and granolas. Grazing garbled granite gleaned Greta Garbo’s grateful giblet. Gus’s glorious greasy gangly go-go galoshes garnishing Gilly's’s gristled grizzled gemstone gleaning gallons of gracious gangly gallows.
Don’t do the rhyme if you ain’t got the time.
Nothing is worse than a half-finished verse.
If you want to complete her, you’ll need a good meter.
(‘Tis said that the bard brought the girls to the yard.)
Don’t use words in a poem if you don’t really know ‘em.
Great gasp! Bloody heck! Have you heard of spellcheck?
Your free verse is free… of all grammar, I see.
Watch those apostrophes to avoid apostasy.
Bad punctuation brings the downfall of nations.
Long lines are killable, so be watching the syllables.
If the subject is tumors, at least use some humor.
If it’s garbled and confused, don’t shoot the muse.
If poetry’s hard, well, don’t blame the bard.
If you’re not having fun, this career’s not the one.
You’re not making money? I’m not either, honey.
And listen here, Missy, that’s pithy, not pissy.
I’d have more retorts, but I’d best keep it short.
You are a total leech
sucking what is good for you;
Plagued with pitiful speech
always mumbled and garbled;
Never had a far enough reach,
you embarrass yourself;
Thieves always hide what’s true,
little did you see I am made of bleach.
Out of his mind
lost all control
Whither his soul
Mad as can be
completely insane
Whereto his brain
Garbled speech
making no sense
Illogic dispensed
Here he comes now
staring off into space
Kindly greet him with grace…
He’s a card-carrying member
of our crazy rat race
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