The grub is a fraud, let’s be honest and clear,
A beetle in diapers that gardeners fear.
He’s C-shaped and creamy, a squishy delight,
With a big orange head and a monster-sized bite.
He lives in the dirt, just a subterranean guest,
Turning your lawn into one giant mess.
He wakes in the summer, a tiny white speck,
By autumn he’s thick with a bull-sized neck.
When winter arrives with its icy-cold breath,
He tunnels down deep to avoid certain death,
Then returns in the spring for a root-heavy lunch,
Giving your fescue a satisfying crunch.
He treats your backyard like a five-star buffet,
Till the grass turns to brown and the green fades away.
But his life isn't always a feast in the shade,
The skunk digs a hole for a protein-packed snack,
And the robin descends for a mid-morning thwack.
If he avoids the beaks and the sharp, furry claw,
The Milky Spore bacteria might lock up his jaw.
Or nematodes find him—a microscopic crew—
To turn his insides into biological stew.
But if he survives every chemical spray,
He grows a hard shell and just flies far away.
dark in missouri
large underground city
a subtropolis
I have never been
not fond of caves or the dark
but it still exists
In the depths of silence, thoughts flow like underground rivers,
where the moonlight stops to rest its weary wings,
and time seems an illusion, a grain of sand lost in the hourglass of eternity,
here, in the heart of silence, the thoughtful man crafts his own universe.
There is no rest for the thinker, only endless journeys,
among the shadows of memories and unfulfilled dreams that smolder quietly,
in a silent dance, in the depths of the mind, where silence sings,
and each moment becomes a new beginning, an unwritten poem.
Those who watch from afar do not know that in stillness life pulses,
that in each breath lie entire worlds, unspoken and infinite,
and in the depths of apparent nothingness, constellations of thoughts ignite,
where the thoughtful man finds his greatest activity.
In the shadow of silence, where only the echo of thoughts can penetrate,
lie the secrets of the universe, understood only by those who know how to listen,
and in this dance of silence, the esoteric magic of creation is born,
for only silence can reveal what noise conceals.
I live in an underground house
we built it eighteen years ago in a hill sloping south
from the road, our home is invisible
tree line of renegade shrubs hides us
our roof is four foot off the ground in the back
all of our windows and doors are in the front
the back is a solid wall of concrete
we live in the ground like moles and snakes
when the electricity goes out, it is a cave in here
darker than any place we had ever seen
best to take a nap when this happens
Hey buddy, let me tell you what's goin' down.
Listen closely, you'll hear the sound
of my kitchen, underground.
What I'm cookin' is so hot, as it were,
you might call it nuclear.
I'll make some for him, some for her.
I churn out the grub, hot and fast.
My cooking's like a firehose blast.
As much as I make, it won't last.
I put some dough on a sheets-a
where a jalapeno and mushroom meets-a
you've got yourself a red-hot pizza.
Hey man, I'm cookin' - don't you worry.
No time to waste. I'm in a hurry,
I'll need peppers for this veggie curry.
Time for burritos and enchiladas -
pull up and eat, this ain't the Ramada.
I've invited the Spanish armada.
For blazing chow, you are itchin'?
Grab a knife and chop. Come on, pitch in.
It's the first underground nuclear kitchen.
gossip in the velvet declares my surrender
to strip club excess, where fantasies unfold
a g-string serenata that stains the linger
a slow-mo ride through motels of the bold
the DJ's drumbeat dares me to surrender
to tangled trysts and transactions unclear
a haze of haze, a burden to calamity
the echoes of excess, lingering near
i lose myself in slots of satin thigh
where flickering lights ignite an inner fire
a champagne toast to incense my disease
a random selection to drive me to the mire
inflatable unicorns and hydraulic rifts
dances of desire, offering cuts to strife
backroom tales and fresh neglect of reason
adult playground bunny, passions steal the scene
Numb…jammed like rows of canned sardines,
bodies avoiding faces labeled as print,
ticket stubs, and coats on a 7 pm bullet train
bound for home along dim lights on railways :
shadows gaze blankly from tight decks
cold frozen as still life masking their alienation
through buried heaves under woolen scarves…
And how passengers’ skin touching
each other’s loneliness cringe
in the tram ...their expressions hollering loud
through silent wails ,
words hammered like scribbles
from neon paint on cans,
abstract forms zigzaging
on broken halls...
graffiti and urban doodles
imitate this isolation more
black than white ... surreal
imprints speaking
of holy and irreverent whims..
untold.
My own home.
With a backyard garden to roam.
But I’ll save it for the rabbits to eat.
Watering plants would leave me beat.
I could go to the pool.
But I’d rather have an icy shower to keep me cool.
There’s nothing wrong with this place.
Except all the empty space.
No photos on the walls.
Not even a ghost to wander the halls.
In this place where I survive.
Holed up in here, no reason to try.
I would rather live underground.
Where no one is searching, not even a hound.
No crying or even laughter.
The silence is what I’m after.
Underground is for those like me.
Who never learned to climb a tree.
All we do is write on the wall.
“We were here,” and that is all.
not going well
this
i've got a tattoo of a butterfly on my right cheek
it will remain there til monday morning
there's a bouncy castle and a bubble machine
i'm smacking the hell out of the piñata on my daughter's behalf
but nothing doing
talking about industry and carbon emissions with the only other dad
test cricket and the weather
watermelon, pizza, and happy birthday
rainbows, unicorns and pass the parcel
balloons, bracelets and paw patrol plastic plates
but has anyone
heard the version of
Heroin on the
Rock 'n' Roll Animal album?
An old world united.
Attributes not known from the peace we campaigned.
Enforced into an unknown war we currently endeavour.
Utmost bower bird tactics, the uninvited dominantly proceed
From above, streams vibrations throughout every sense of our actualities.
Days follow nights accompanying collective conceptualisations.
Wanting correlative wants with downhearted, optimistic, realism.
Will I again feel wind or sunshine rays on my face?
What extant future awaits if triumphant?
Questions of an unrevealed fate retain minds insecurely occupied.
This dark establishment suffocates this uncertain future.
Artificial lights guide our way, breathing air amassed in dirt.
Youthful generations accept their existence as studious to no other.
Below the surface, we crusade to combat & reclaim.
Patience furthermore perseverance.
Determined, we manoeuvre to arise.
A NEW world united.
you are calling for me
with sweet melodies
from the underworld,
"Oh Persephone come back to me"
imbued with sobs,
negligently i slip into your arms -
how dantesque of me to
conjure an inferno upon me.
Comes and goes in the streets
silent moving voices
graffiti on the walls
extensive empire
vast confiscated castles ~
no time for bumbling
Distinction
without difference
Where shadows
defame
Laughter
without smiles
Embodied
in shame
Each story
redundant
Whose print
stays uninked
As eyes
search for mercy
That last
—missing link
(Las Vegas Boulevard: February, 2023)
It’s said that there are people,
who live Beneath the ground.
Deep within Earth’s middle,
little folks can be found.
Not Leprechauns or Gnomes with tempers;
no Elves or Trolls, are to be seen.
I’m told, they have some ghastly tempers;
when prying eyes won’t leave them be.
They often wander up above
to play with human minds.
mess with them and get rebuffed;
they simply are not kind.
So, let them be, those beings old;
you’re safest if you’re not too bold.
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