Saturday, March 21, 2015

"that cat's gonna get in it."

"You put that box on the floor, that cat's gonna get in it."
"No it won't."
"Yes it will."
"There's no way for you to know that for certain."
"Yes there is. That cat's gonna get in that box. Look at him lookin' at it."
"It's a 'her.'"
"She's gonna get in that box."
"No she isn't."
"Yes she is."
. . .
"Shut up."
"I told you. Look at her. Aw, she's so cute. Good kitty. You in the box?"
"Shut up."

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


Weigh the amount
Of the town in
Terms of the sound
Of thousands of pounds
Of coffee grounds.

In the soul of souls
In the mind there rolls
The thoughts beyond us,
Pound for pound.

A heavyweight thought
Un-thought by the minds
Of the blind, un-sublime
Ordinary kind.

You know, the folks
With the loose-cut thoughts
Like stupid jokes
With half-baked plots.

With reason seasoned
With unsound found
Around some sound of
Things dug from underground.

The un-weighed town
Full of drunken clowns
Who bring us down
With their braying sound.

Of half-assed, jackass
Tactless, thoughtless
Un-thought thoughts
Spoken always everywhere.

Gossip, rude conjectured
Generalizing, hell-bound
Heartless sermonizing
Needlessly demonizing.

Smaller now: the One-Time
Once Before—thought
Dreamy sequenced
Sleep-noised evening peace-ness.

The last great thinker
Thought this out
Without a doubt but
Didn't bother to write it down.

And now our methods
Are unsound and no one
Is around to point
The wayless way to
Lead us to another day.

Around the Doorway Door
We go but never through
Until we do
We wander babbling jingles
Between our sips of booze.

A dollar caught
With a spiteful thought
We ought not to be taught
By Sir Speaksalot.

Peal! Peal towering clock
To rock our aging thoughts
With things better left alone
And soon forgot!

Weigh the amount
Of the town in
Terms of the sound
Of thousands of pounds
Of coffee grounds.

for "shame!"

Sometimes, on the Internet, I see things about people "shaming" other people about you know, whatever. I've even seen these people referred to as "shamers." This is an unnecessary, watered-down word. There is already a tried and true word for people who harp on others in this way: those people are "assholes."

Sunday, March 15, 2015


The Armada of Deadly Delights
Plows through a brackish sea.
On the lead ship stands a figure,
Alone on deck in the breeze.

Below there's a dusky bordello,
With delights for both ladies and gents.
There's booze and dancing and food galore
From the seven continents.

One hundred luxury barges,
All follow a course for the edge.
But the music's all right and everyone's tight
The champagne is chilled in the fridge.

The Armada is hell bent for leather,
The engines are full speed ahead.
They're sailing off to the edge of the world
All the captains are already dead.

The revelers can't stop the party,
Though they think something might be wrong.
But they drink some more and try to ignore
While they dance to a popular song.

And the men below keep on shoveling coal,
And the engineers bite their nails.
The ships plow on; there will be no dawn
For the ships without any sails.

The edge of the world's getting closer.
The waterfall to the abyss:
And the passengers drink, so they won't stop to think
That maybe something's amiss.

Alone on the deck in the moonlight,
The Grim Reaper is nursing a beer.
If he looks to the West where the angle is best,
He can tell that the end is near.

My site:

Sunday, March 08, 2015


There's a sound beyond
The Doorway Door.
Let's open it
A little more.

What do you think
We'll find out there?
A monster combing
Its auburn hair?

Admiring its snout
And adorable pout
In a mirror, while drinking
A pint of stout?

Or a garden
Blooming under the sun,
With Sprites and Goblins
Having fun?

Or the infinite
Void of outer space?
With moons and stars
All over the place?

We cannot guess.
We'll have to go
Through the Doorway Door
And then we'll know.

The monster admires
Its eyes and roars
At the mirror it bought
At the Dollar Store.

The Goblins are drinking
And arguing sports,
Solo cups, barbecue,
Bermuda shorts.

A spaceship is docking
With Space-Station Nine
Delivering grain
And a shipment of wine.

The space-station caption
Is thinking of home—
Doesn't trust his wife.
She's back there alone.

The Sprites left the party
And went to a bar
(The Goblins were boring)
They went in the car

Belonging to Carol
(She works in HR)
Carol's been sober
For over a year.

Carol the Sprite:
Her husband's away
At the Space Port
She's lonely and tempted to stray

But enough about Carol!
I'm sure she'll be fine
If she sleeps with Diane,
She'll have a good time.

Anyway, none of that
Stuff's going on
The Doorway Door's
An enigma Beyond—

The Space Port Captain
Is under great stress
He's taking it out on his staff
It's a mess!

But this is mundane!
This is a bore!
You'd think we'd do better
In the Doorway Door!

The Sprites get a table
And order their drinks.
Diane looks at Carol,
And what do you think?

This poem isn't going
To be about that!
It should be profound,
More thoughtful and apt!

"I've prescribed you these pills,"
Said the Doc to the Captian
"For mild depression,
Don't worry—"

No poem! No!
This has gone all wrong!
And now you've managed
To go too long.

"Hey what about me?"
Monster wants to know.
"You forgot about me
Twelve stanzas ago."

"You look very nice,"
The poem responds.
"You're hair looks kinda like
Farrah Fawcett."

The monster grins,
Oh what a fright! And it asks:
"Did those two women
Hook up that night?"

"I really don't know!"
Exclaims the poem.
It's time to depart
The Doorway Door.

Oh now I get it!
We got the wrong door.
We were in the
Bore-way Door.

Friday, March 06, 2015


While that brain
Is reading these words,
Everything else will
Begin to blur

The time of day,
Wrong or okay,
Whether to go
Or sit and stay.

Problems with work,
Or dealing with jerks,
From that it's distracted
While this poem's enacted.

The words are winding
Through that brain
In the wrinkled parts
They will remain

This poem is there now,
It won't go.
There's more there now
Than a second ago

Couldn't that brain
Be doing more
Than reading words
From the Doorway Door?

No, it couldn't.
This is what
The brain decided
To scan and store.

The world beneath
That brain still spins,
And maybe that brain
Will read this again.

Or maybe not!
This poem forgot,
That brain will
Think about cats a lot

Or chicken-fried-steak,
Or the planet Mars,
Or the private lives
Of movie stars

Right and wrong,
Or a catchy song,
Hello brain!
Keep reading along.

Or stop! It turned
Or clicked away,
How will it read
What I have to say?

Now I'm alone.
An unread poem
My reader is gone.
This has gone all wrong.

But wait a second,
It must be there.
What else could read these words?
Thin air?

Oh there you are!
The brain has returned.
I'm glad you're still reading.
So what have we learned?

One brain exists.
This much we know.
And a pair of eyes—
Can you read this slow?

And now. I've slowed.
The reader. Down.
This punctuation.
Starts, to; clown,

Around with the speed
In which you read.
They dictate the speed
With which you proceed.

Thank you for stopping
By today.
I hope that brain
Will come again.

I hope these words
Meet or exceed
Your expectations

The Doorway Door
Is beginning to close
Come back again.
(I'll write you some more.)

Wednesday, March 04, 2015


When the banks
Have us all
Obedience collars

And a loaf
Of Faux-Bread™
Will cost
One million dollars

When everyone's broke
Or falling behind,
When everyone's drugged,
Or losing their mind,

When robots with
Are kicking down doors,

Never forget that
I'll always be yours.

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

#42A But We Forget In the Course of a Day

I am a skull beneath the earth,
My lipless grin, my only mirth.

My eyeless eyes, they skyward stare,
Up at the coffin lid, right there.
Just a few inches from my face
As dark and cold as outer space.

But haven't I already
Been like this?
A collection of atoms
Drawn from the abyss?

And won't I be
This way again?
To live and die
In the world of men?

Probably not.
So here I am,
Never to walk
The earth again.

A moldering corpse
With a miniscule grave
That can finally sit still
And has learned to behave.

I'll never go to work again.
I'll never commit a venial sin.
I'll rest and feel the galaxy spin.
I'll lie here grinning my endless grin.

We know we'll all end up this way,
But we forget
In the course of a day.

Our time is brief,
The time is nigh,
In just a few weeks,
In the ground we'll lie.

Graves lined up
In a tidy row,
In the grassy place
Groundskeepers mow

Or kept inside a special urn
But no matter what, we take our turn.

So live today,
And do that thing,
And hope to see
Another Spring.

Billions have gone,
And billions will go.
The passage of Time
Is fast, not slow.

The passage of Time
The decline of mind,
What was ahead
Is now behind.

The collapse of the spine,
Both yours and mine,
The ache of the joints
From the daily grind.

From the passage of Time
No one is saved.
It begins when we're born,
From cradle to grave.

So never give up,
And never say die.
Cause very soon,
In the ground, you'll lie.

So do it today,
(That plan in your head)
Cause you'll wish you had,
The moment you're ____.

I am a skull beneath the earth,
My lipless grin my only mirth.

Monday, March 02, 2015

No. I don't want to opt in.

How to eradicate the ominous "please opt in to the verizon in-store experience" notification:
settings / apps / My Verizon Mobile (app)
uncheck "show notifications"

Sunday, March 01, 2015


The Previous Saltines
The gifts from God
Were found beyond
The Doorway Door

The Previous Saltines
Are dumb as stones
They never speak
Near microphones

The Previous Saltines
From outer space
Exist to save
The human race

The Previous Saltines
The salt of tears
Were shed for us
Ten thousand years

The Previous Saltines
In airtight sleeve
Are here for those
Who so believe

About Me

My photo
I am the author of 5 books: Android Down, Firewood for Cannibals, The Cubicles of Madness, Robot Stories, and most recently, Various Meats and Cheeses. I live and write in Michigan. My website is at