Ol’ Whitebeard with his
black trash bag
n rock n roll
Pool table crack

SMACK! goes the night

Crows feet
Map me the way
to nirvana
Booze or not
Tight jeans and
fiery neon hues

Play me that tune!

The one that never ends
My glass- cold
My mind- old
Renewed only by the street
my fingers, they’re cut
and cursed
They’ve been played like trumpets in the
laughter of silver fillings
and cries of past naps

Who’s in the toilet?

My bladder is angry
My flesh, madder
It says– mmmmmmm
Next bar
Next bar
Next bar


Poetry anytime, Literature, Art

At the bar, for the bar, and everything beyond



Art, On the road, Poetry anytime

Like a dream [she said]



Literature, Poetry anytime

World, you’ve gone mad

Artist spotlight, Excelente Musica

Musica! musica! musica!

Somewhere along the canal, kicking around with friends, I heard about this event. And although I was reluctant to peel myself away from the glittering evening, I was sure it’d be worth it. My friends were audiophiles. Fellow creatures of the night.

After navigating a series of passageways, we finally entered a red-walled room of pool tables and glowing glass bottles. I had a beer. My trusty camera was strapped around my neck.

These guys started to play:

More of their amazingly amazing music here: YouTube Channel

Art, Poetry anytime

A story behind this one (is there?)


Let me try to remember…
The story behind this one
I think it was another one of those wandering nights.
Cold enough for a jacket
For a shot of whiskey
or two
or two
(or three)
And alas I was still alone
But closer to the warmth I sought
Seriously, though. I’m trying to remember.
The streets were black
The sky was, too.
And these lights seemed extra bright
(as does everything when all else is black)
There were people around
(I swear it wasn’t a dream)
Guy selling flowers, desperate
French, something, something, ça va
Notice me, notice me, I’m alive!
I’m ALIVE times two exhaust pipes
Times a boombox carried by the old homeless
greybeard in the crowd who goes unnoticed
I follow him
I follow him because he seems to be carving a path of his own
through this crowd of popped collars and
polished elbows
He’s trailing his unkempt, unwashed self
With invisible musical notes of thoughts and words
The express delivery of himself
through a series of wires and electronics
Greasy hair and curls unfurled over that …
thing… he’s wearing….
Oh but the music plays
Don’t we all play?
Look at the night, look at the day
It goes and goes and goes
He’s no different
I’m no different
Let’s play
Let’s play
Let’s not fade.