Thursday, December 27, 2012

Untitled. Poem About "My Place" & the Newtown Shootings.

The day before the Newtown shooting, I wanted to write a poem about my favorite place to escape to when life was getting away from me, or just to be alone, or whatever. I was also listening to my favorite band play a concert in NY over SiriusXM radio. And well, it's kind of hard to write a poem about a calm place when you're listening to a live punk rock concert. I thought I would write it the next day. And well, obviously, I didn't. I was itching to write it today, for whatever reason. It's set the day of the shooting but all else is very, very real and accurate.

Yesterday I listened to my favorite band
sing “All I Want For Christmas Is An AK-47.”
Today I watched in horror as 20 children
were gunned down with an assault rifle.

I read an article last week that stated,
“Atheists don’t deal well with death.”
I threw up in the in the shower today.
I guess crying and puking in the shower
is an okay way to deal with death.

I wanted to write about
my favorite get-away place yesterday.
Today I just want to be there.

It’s at its best in winter.
Then it’s quite, unless you count
the wind running through the trees;
I don’t, I like that sound.
Down a hill along a gravel road,
a little walkway across the water
to a wooden dock. I can sit
out there for hours.
Just me.
I can look out on the lake, and only see a
fisherman or two. No one
to deal with or worry about.
Calm, things make more sense.

I wish I was there today.

I wish I could make sense of today.

Jazz Club

For dVerse Poets prompt tonight!! Hope I did it right :-/ !! Was discussing jazz with a friend last night, then came the news that Fontella Bass (Jazz singer from St. Louis) passed. So this poem seems appropriate. I first wrote a poem in this style back in college, about drugs & being high all the time. I think my professor was more concerned for me that I realized at the time. He encouraged me to write a poem in this style, but NOT about drugs. He was a jazz lover, I think (hope) he would have liked this poem.

Jazz Club

bold and brassy
the trumpeter’s tune
is blown into the night
mixing with
shimmering cymbals
wood clashing
                         onto metal
flirting with saucy saxophones
            sensually flowing
l o n g and piercing
through the air
and accompanying bass
repeatedly pumping
                                 out         the       rhythm
complimenting cool
beats of the drum
hit the backbeat
                          and go

I sit back
in the crooked
wooden chair
watching my brother bop
                                         his head
in the music

I am buzzed
too many beers
blue smoke
around my fingers
as I pump my

Tuesday, November 27, 2012


I actually DO listen to music that is not of the punk variety!! (Right now, actually, I'm listening to Nickel Creek!) So, I used to have a  job that sent me traveling around Missouri, often on twisty curvy roads. One of my most frequent travel partners was a my Best Of Bob Dylan album! I absolutely hate driving on Any roads at night. But one night, the moon was so intriguing that I forgot about everything but that moon, and Bob Dylan.


Speeding down a two-way highway
the sun is setting,
and I’m staring at the pinks and oranges on the horizon
slowly starting to fade in my rearview mirror.
Bob Dylan asks me How does it feel to be on your own?
I see the rising moon in front of me.
I start to describe it to myself as being rust-colored,
but I think, That’s incredibly cliché.
It’s the color of a watered down scotch,
abandoned for the night on a table on the back porch.
The moon keeps me company
as I glide over hills and around curves.
It’s sloshing along beside me,
behind power lines on whichever side of the road it chooses.
I see an abandoned grain factory down the road.
I slow as I pass it,
admiring it’s worn out beauty.
Three dilapidating grain silos stand guard
in front of the long forgotten about building.
I toy with the idea of exploring the factory
but Bob Dylan increases his tempo,
reminding me to Please her, please him, buy gifts.
My foot sinks deeper to the floor with my gas peddle.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Fuckin' A!

So I read a question the other day and I thought, "This would be a good subject for a poem."  So in a weird way (My Way, Damn It!!), I responded to this question.  I expect at least one person to take my advice on'll thank me for sure!! 

Oh, and the title comes from what my first response was after reading though the first draft!!  Ahahaha!!

...And for a list of good punk albums, just ask!!

Fuckin’ A

Yesterday someone posed the question,
How are you respondingto violence
with peace?

I have a shirt that states,

To most, my music
is nowhere near peaceful.
It’s filled with fast guitars busting out
power chord after power chord,
seemingly unending thumping bass lines,
and drummers whose arms never stop flailing.

Yet I still believe
that if more people
could take out their aggressions
in the middle of a mosh pit,
slamming into other bodies,
pumping their fists in the air,
and not giving even a single fuck
to what someone else is thinking
that they would feel more at peace.

So my answer is
that the key to ending violence
is letting your aggression Out!
Not trying to cover it
by just sitting cross-legged
letting out “Ohm” after “Ohm.”
Aggression will just keep coming back
as soon as you leave that state.
Trust me, I know!
Don’t try to cover it up
by smiling and giggling
and joking about injustices
that truly just make you
want to puke.
Your aggression will just keep growing.

So my solution to violence
is punk music.
Seems odd, right? But
next time anger builds up
inside of you,
go to your local record store,
grab the nearest (good!) punk album,
put it on, sit back,
and let the music in.
Your head will start to bop
and move from side-to-side,
then your arms will start flailing about;
and before you know realize it
you’re trying to slam dance
with your stationary furniture!
By the middle of the 3rd song
(or 7th if you’re listing
to the :30 to a minute-song variety),
you will have forgotten
that your anger even existed!

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Why yes...

Yes, I did just write a poem about the NHL Lockout!

In honor of the Lockout Finally being OVER, I'm submitting this poem to dVerse poets Open Link Night!! If you know me in real life, or you follow me on Twitter, you know how much I LOVE hockey!!

Okay, now back to dancing around my house to the Dropkick Murphys new album out today!! (DKM are also Huge hockey fans!!)

Let me know what you think!! :-)

Photo: Steve Yazerman with the Stanley Cup!! From the Official Detroit Red Wings FB Page!!


Low hum, adrenaline-filled energy runs
from ice to spectators to ceiling.
The arena is dark,
but bright team-colored lights
reflect off the ice.

Spotlights off, arena lights up.

Puck drops to ice.

Blades hit ice:
up, down, up, down...
Little flecks of ice fly up,
look like little snowflakes,
sparkle in the light.

Sllllide, Stop!
Snowflakes all fly upwards
then fade back down,
turning into nothing
but little droplets of water.

Pull back.
Grunts, slaps, thunks!
Puck glides from stick to board
to stick to net!
Emotions rise, glove fall off...

Dark, shadows, nothing,
no sounds, no energy, no lights.
Cold.  Pristine ice.

Saturday, September 15, 2012



Head first, facedown on a pillow
Bam! Bam! Bam!
My hands locked tightly onto the sides of the bench
my eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Fuck!!  This hurts!
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Okay, okay, this isn’t so bad...
A continuous, steady rhythm
seems to ease some of the pain.
Huh...It actually feels kinda nice.

The artist finally sits back,
(nine years removed,
I can’t even remember his face)
he wipes off my back.
“K, then, you’re done.
Go take a look.”

I stand in front of the mirror,
arch my head over my shoulder,
find the ink,
and smile.

Courtesy of  dVerse Pub yet again!  Prompt being first times.  Anyone who follows my Twitter and/or instagram knows that I am one of those people who's a little bit addicted to getting tattooed.  I have a lot more now!  My five-hour sessions of needle-to-back can barely compare of the puniness of my 1st tattoo clocking at at maybe 30 minutes of needle-to-skin!  But who can forget their first??

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Short...But Not So Sweet

From my anti-war poetry phase!

Last Night I Dreamed

I was standing in the middle of an airfield
surrounded by countless coffins draped in American flags;
but couldn’t cry, it didn’t seem appropriate.
I wandered slowly between the coffins
running my fingers along as many of them as I could,
all the while thinking of the bodies
and the lost lives of the men and women inside.
I started thinking that I could have passed one of them
on the streets and given them a dirty look,
just because I was having a bad day,
and not knowing that they were on their way to die for me.
I wanted to pry open one of the coffins,
climb in, and become close to the soldier within.
I tried to open the nearest coffin, but it would not budge.
So I climbed on top of it instead, fell asleep,
and woke up safely in my bed.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

An Attempt at Some Balance!

So, yeah, I write a lot of dark, depression, anger, & rage fueled pieces.  Sometimes it's fun, and a relief to the brain, to just write something silly & a little bit out there.  Here's a short little scene that popped into my head while drinking coffee & doing my laundry this morning!!

My washing machine sounds like it's gonna bust through the wall any moment now, and just start taking out other appliances while tearing through the house! As long as it's singing, "We're not gonna take it, no we're not gonna take it, we're not gonna take it Anymore!!" while doing so, I won't try to stop it!!  Freedom For All [Washing Machines]!!


Yet again, gaining on the 2nd anniversary of her death, I was reminded of my friend Leigh, at a least expected time. Matt was Leigh's brother. He was a year behind me in school (Leigh was a senior when I was a Freshman in High School), I didn't really know him very well, but his death still haunts me too. We all graduated from Springfield Catholic High School. And, yet again, I wrote another poem trying to deal with her death.  Here it is.

I used to believe in fate,
that given enough time
things would turn out right.

I thought that I had lost my innocence
a long time ago.
In high school, drunk and in bed
with a guy I didn’t even know.

Eight year later,
alone in my tiny apartment, in a tiny town,
with nowhere to run, I read the sentence
that there was no turning back from,
“RIP Leigh and Matt Nye.”
I stared in disbelief, hyperventilating.
No, no,, no...
I texted Nick, the messenger,
“When did Leigh graduate Catholic?”
But he and I both knew
that I was seeking an unneeded confirmation.

All of my dreams seem to fall by the side
like a discarded thought or the day's fading light.
The Dropkick Murphys sung to me,
like they had done so many times in the past,
while I cried myself to sleep for days to come.

Heartfelt I’m sorrys
and heads hung in solidarity from coworkers
got me though before I could escape and go home.

At the funeral
as an ex-Catholic turned Atheist
I felt odd, yet comforted in a small church
that was beyond packed full
with friends and family of the deceased.

Going through the motions,
while silently remembering in my own way
put me back together
more than I though I could be at  that point.

Driving back up north,
nearly two years ago today,
I was at peace,
I though I had said my good-bye.

But here I am again,
sitting in my corner,
because I was reminded of Leigh.
So now, yet again,
I am listening to hardcore
and trying to come to terms
with why two people, siblings,
were taken so early.

And as I put pen to paper,
yet again, I wonder,
Will this bring closure
at last?

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Protest Poems!!

My muse of the day:

1st:  I wrote this in college, during the Myanmar Buddhist Monk protest.  Was the 1st thing I thought of when I read Stu McPherson's post!


Bhikkus clothed in red robes and sandals
march peacefully through the streets,
like blood flowing through veins,
from sunup to sundown with overturned
alms bowls:  their only source for food
reversed in remonstration.
They chant an old Buddhist mantra:
Let everyone be free from harm.
Let everyone be free from anger.
Let everyone be free from hardship.

I stand in the middle of the Square
in my hometown. People are walking
all around, but hardly anyone looks at me.
I take an American flag out of my backpack,
unfurl it, light my lighter,
and slowly move the flame towards the flag.
The only thing I can hear is Anti-Flag
streaming though my headphones.

People line the streets as the monks continue their march.
The police stand in the background,
guns drawn, waiting to take them down.
When given the order the police open fire into the crowd.
Monks and laymen scatter, but some fall.
Blood flies through the air.  Children, women,
men all scream, cry in horror.

My flag is burning, the fire warms my right hand,
and I smile, satisfied.
I look around at the people staring at me.
All I can hear is
They want to tiptoe, walk around it
Wave the flag and cowardly salute!
I see a young girl in a purple coat
who looks like the six year old version of me,
holding her mother’s hand.
They are both still, mouths open
as I desecrate their flag.
All I feel is the power I have,
like the power I feel when wielding my pistol
and gunning down plastic targets
at the shooting range on the outskirts of town.

The city is silent,
the street empty, bare,
but the remnants of the carnage remain.
Blood stains the street, sidewalk, buildings,
everything.  A sandal lies in the middle of the street,
covered by a splash of blood.
Streaks of red lead to various buildings
as victims bleed for peace.

2nd:  Wrote right around Easter soon after I started practicing Buddhism.

Jesus Looks Down On Me

My parents have a Catholic cross
hanging in their hallway with palm leaves behind it.
Ever time I walk down the hall
I still imagine Jesus looking down on me,
mad because of something I had done;
when I was younger, he was upset
because I hit my brother
or stole a candy cane from the Christmas tree.
Now he’s mad
because I’ve replaced St. Brigid’s Cross
with the statue of the Buddha on my dresser.,
and I spent last Christmas morning meditating
instead of at church.
Yesterday I looked Jesus in the eye
and whispered, Nothing is permanent,
not even you.

3rd:  I've Always wanted to write a poem about these damn billboards!!

Jesus is Everywhere
Jesus Christ is our lord and savior.
It’s right here in this book,
yes, I’m talkin’ about the Bible…
I quickly change the station.

Although I’m only doing 75, okay 85,
a sign slowly creeps up on me:
I’m watching you—God
He’s watching me rock out to the Ramones in my car?
That’s creepy, even for God.
I push down harder on the gas pedal.

I pass a green sign stating
JESUS in bright white letters
and beat my head against the steering wheel.
Some one thought Jesus would like
to have his name plastered to a sign
and stuck in the middle of nowhere?

And only three billboards away,
just in case I missed the message:
CH_ _CH.  What’s missing?
Now this is just too much.
I pull my car to the side of the highway,
grab the duffle bag full of spray paint,
and proceed to scale the billboard.
The first thing I do is fill in the blanks with the obvious:  UR;
then I create my own answer:  Buddha.

I drive off, smirking to myself.

About A Friend...

My Muse

Adam can make himself appear so pitiful
that I just want to give him a hug.
Maybe that’s why every time
we depart each others’ company
I feel the need to call out,
Adam, don’t kill yourself tonight.

He sits in the break room,
his skinny, pale body curled in the LazyBoy,
and stares off into space with his
melancholy eyes and black-stubbled face.
And he laments to anyone who’s listening,
My dog is my only friend.

He tells me that one day
he’s going to hang himself in the projection booth after work.
I told him he should do it with Saw IV,
but he disagreed; If I did it with Happy Feet
it would have more of an impact.

He tells me about how he wants to write poems,
using a pen name, about suicide and killing bunnies,
and plaster them all over town.
I imagine he’ll write them after his nightly ritual
of masturbate, weep, and repeat.

I told him that I’m going to write a poem about daisies,
because daisies make everybody happy, just for him.
He looked me matter-of-factly in the eye
and said that he will slit his wrists and bleed
all over my uplifting poem.

One day the tornado sirens went off,
and I finally saw Adam smile!
He wanted to climb the stairs to the roof,
strap himself up there with some chains;
and when the tornado got close enough,
yell and scream and ejaculate
into all of its magnificent glory.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

New & Still Untitled!

I was (am??) having a crappy, self-confidence void, night.  Which made me think of this one particularly bad relationship I had in college.  So I wrote a poem about it!  ...'Cuz that's what writers do!  It's fresh, raw, & pretty unedited!! 

It didn’t take long
for you to fall for my
charm, and my sweetness
with an edge.
All I had to do was mention
my affinity for smoking pot
before writing class.
You soon figured out that
I’m a ‘Fuck You, I Listen To Harcore
and Eat Nails for Lunch’
kind of girl,
who will compliment you
when you’re feeling down
and hug you when you that doesn’t work.
I love hockey & soccer,
and think football players
can be pansies some days.

I workout as much as my body allows,
but this damn baby face and belly
just won’t go the hell away!!
My demeanor and face say, “Fuck You, I don’t care!”
But my inside says the opposite.

I’d love to step away
and forget our talks and texts,
and our car rides into the nights,
Before you met her.

She was duller than I am,
a little sweeter and a little less tough.
But, “Her body is rockin’.”
(Seriously, flashing the “rock on” symbol
right now??  Lame.)

You warned me that we were nothing
serious, not meant to last.
I’m good in bed, you assured.
But outside...outside just wasn’t a place
where you liked to hold my hand,
my waist, or rub my shoulder.

I should have known it would end like this.
Our pillow-talk was silenced.
You walked hand-in-hand with her,
nodded enthusiastically
when she spoke of Good Charlotte.
I stopped coming over
and you never even tried
to catch my eye again.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

I've Been on a Pro-Union Kick today...

So here is my pro-union poem!!

First Generation

I’ve never stood in a picket line
with a homemade sign clutched in my hand
shouting, demanding
fair treatment for all of us laborers.

I drive a daddy-bought Infinity,
and people who see me think I’m spoiled.

But I am the first generation of my family
since arriving in America
not to have worked long, hard hours in a plant or a mill
to barely support those that I love.

I’ve heard the stories of my family’s struggles,
of the cuts and bruises
gained while fighting for fairness,
for the union that was never knocked out;
and of the rally cries that kept them going.
I can picture my great-grandfather
standing before his troops,
their eyes on him alone,
awaiting his always ready
words of encouragement
that never failed to rouse
a march to triumph over their oppressors.

I always stand a bit taller
when I hear of a Union victory,
and I sing along with rally-call songs:
Which Side Are You On?
I will forever stand with the workers.
Because of my forefathers
I was born with a blue-collar mark
that will never be washed away.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Sometimes I just want to read my favorite poem!

By Gary Snyder
Lay down these words
Before your mind like rocks.
             placed solid, by hands   
In choice of place, set
Before the body of the mind
             in space and time:
Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall
             riprap of things:
Cobble of milky way,
             straying planets,
These poems, people,
             lost ponies with
Dragging saddles—
             and rocky sure-foot trails.   
The worlds like an endless   
Game of Go.
             ants and pebbles
In the thin loam, each rock a word   
             a creek-washed stone
Granite: ingrained
             with torment of fire and weight   
Crystal and sediment linked hot
             all change, in thoughts,   
As well as things.

Poem for my Dad

It's my dad's birthday!  Here's a poem that I wouldn't have written had he not be in my life! It was my attempt to write about why I love music so much.  Turned into a poem about how I grew up. 

Celtic Punk

My lullabies were sung from steel strings,
as I was rocked asleep by a pulsating Fender amp.
Bar booths were as comfortable to sleep on
as a soft bed, or the grass
during a Steppenwolf concert—I was five.

Musicians’ guitar stringed melodies
played from the living room,
from the basement into my
second-story bedroom.  These were
the sounds that led me to sleep.

In a house full of musicians,
loud noises comforted me.
In my car, stuck in traffic
loud music:  guitars, drums,
bass, and bagpipes calm my energy.

New musicians lull me to sleep now
in my one bedroom apartment.
Pulsating speakers still help me sleep,
but they are pumping out Dropkick Murphys,
not my daddy on his rusty-orange Fender. 

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Character Layout!

Sometimes, when I get bored, I write out the innner-workings of a character.  ...I think she miiiiiight have rage issues.  Ahahaha!!

I don’t like pretty things.  I don’t really know why.  I don’t listen to “pretty” music; I don’t care for the “pretty” boys.  Who the fuck thinks that clean-shaven is sexy? 

I like real music, not made from mixing a bunch of unnatural sounds together.  I want to hear songs that say something, that mean something; not songs about “getting that nasty”...whatever in the universe that means.  Or how about this, “meeting some new homeboys/up in the club.”  What does “up in the (Wait, sorry “da” [What!?!  REALLY?!?!?]) club” mean anyways?  Is the club upstairs in some building...that doesn’t sound right.

I like shiny things, they don’t have to be pretty, just shiny.

True Story

I’m not religious.
But the image of a mother
singing in church at the same time
as the SUV carrying her two grown kids
is smashed into head-on,
killing sister and brother instantly
gets to the center of my being every time.

I picture it like it was a movie.
(It’s the only way I can handle it.)

Fade-in to the mother singing in the choir,
in the center of the front row.
Switch to the kids on a two-way highway,
traveling home silent and exhausted
from their weekend at the lake.
Cut to the choir, the hymn getting higher.
Back to the SUV, silence, Leigh swerves, hard,
to avoid the car going the wrong way.
The choir’s hymn plays as the crash is shown.
The SUV tumbles, metal twists, windows smash,
Leigh and Matt are rag dolls, eyes wide and scared.

The car comes to a stop, silence.
In the church, the hymn is ending,
close-up on the mother’s face.
Silence.  Screen goes black.