The End, Baby


After they found her

They said she was such a nice girl

So helpful, so kind, pure

But I knew better

She would shoot up behind the gym

And sell a bit after

Wear no panties

Cakey, unwashed hair

Nails bit off in hasty grief

She’s watched “Sid & Nancy” a hundred times

She would go all the way

Would caress you but you could not

touch her

After she would be the

first to tell

She gave me the finger one afternoon

After I asked her how

her day was going

Sharp as a dull and dirty knife

In search of all attention somewhat dangerous

All her moments were madness

One can find a million reasons

To exit stage left

When you are lonely, marginalized

After and all the way till

the end



copyright 2017






Christmas Eve.  A fatal swerve to avoid hitting a raccoon with

my car.  What an inglorious start to my eternity.  Five weeks in

purgatory’s cafe with the Donner Party.


Oh yes, they are all here: Reeds, Breens, Eddys, Donners and

various others who had the misfortune to fall in with them.

Barefoot and poorly clothed with pale wet skin. Paint your face

girl!   They have been here all these years.   The nameless powers

that be will not let any of them leave till their stomachs are

bursting full with Big Macs and Twizzlers and cheap warm beer.

And…... well, let us be frank, it has been one hundred and seventy

years.  I do not see any of them going elsewhere in the near

future.  I have a “gut” feeling that they actually like it here

amongs the chicken bones and rotting green.


Never drive in anger.  Seriously.  Distracting.  He wanted the

younger one.  The one with the skinny hips and the “no talk back”

mode.  All fresh with dew.  No problem, I said.  After all, it’s a

great big world!.  Hope, like fuck, is a four letter word.  I morphed

my loves and interests into a traveling case and moved on out the

door.  Alone.  Then the damn raccoon committed suicide right

under my Wrangler tires and took me with him.


My exit visa signed and stamped, I am leaving here at dawn.  On

my way to eternal bliss, that being a comfy forest chair besides a

fire with many books and a few cats.  Turns out one actually does

have a karma bank account and all those donations to PETA and

the local cat shelter have cancelled out my “law of parties”

complicity in the trash panda death.  And they have been tolerant

of my “every time my Jeep crashes a raccoon gets his wings” joke.


And him?  I will not waste my time, even though I now have plenty

of it, thinking of him.  He would like these skinny Donner party

girls.  But he will never meet them.  I am quite sure he is going

straight to Hell.  With the raccoon.




on Spilling Cocoa:




My poem "NAMASTE"

on Wanton Fuckery Poetry: