the ants are crawling my brain…

the ants are crawling my brain

I have killed them

like so many addictions, that have carried me through

to the next day.

Without this irritation, there are no corpses to crush

no insects, calling my name.

Being totally solved, is not my game

What is?

the knowledge, that I am forgetting

like a cookie, eaten by ants

they crawl into my eyes, I despise, their tiny feet

smashed and deformed,

like a psychotic symphony

a serial killer analogy, to the lives that don’t matter

and only irritate me.

Who will my mentors be?

My Masters, are rejected, even me.

To choose a friend, that makes me feel good

is the insect I keep alive, that I feed rotten fruit to


will it feed on me, when I die?

Strange, the importance of company

how most people won’t make me feel that way

just an ant, without a colony, looking for another brain to irritate.

I need to get away, from me, the ants are dead

dismembered heads, legs, and acid

cover my work-bench

where I have smashed them with notepads.

It’s not an act of cruelty

stomping them, one-at-a-time

it’s the only way I can get them out of my head.

Club Body

the line-up is shorter

as people get picked, for careers, marriage, death, disease, and let’s hope—not dismemberment

I want to stay a member of Club Body.

Not to be picked, is a failing, or at least teams might say

“You can’t hold-out forever, for perfect love, or a task that will choose you.”

To be picked, is to be acceptable, to be accepted (not for you).

You must acknowledge

what chooses you

Is it acceptable? What if it’s not?

You are waiting by the road, and a killer offers you a ride

Do you take it, because he drives a brand-new Firebird?

Keep walking…

If you allow teams to choose you, they will use you

they will celebrate your service

with a 5-year mug, as you drink your life away

the alternative, is no recognition at all

waiting, for wonderful

In time, when you don’t belong, you will be a vagrant

policed, for standing out-of-place

but if you choose what is not your choice

you can never go back.

A voice

speaks to you

as the crowd screams your name


listen to the inner one

you won’t get fame

It will be

a gradual feeling

you are doing

what’s right

All the nights,

that might’ve been, won’t matter

the women

the tug, pulling at your heart-strings,

pulling you away, from the Crowd

beating loud

the muscle that moves your blood

Club Body.

Most of us are getting by…

Most of us are getting by

like the book-keeper who works for the State

angry that nobody cleans the plates, abandoned

and alone.

She lives for her girls, going to college

to start their own lives

while she waits

in the rain,

with her service dog

to overcome the pain.

Abandoned, bitter, women

suck the life that is left in the bones

while men, just drink

there is a kind of stoicism there

that doesn’t care

It doesn’t make sense to women

Men embrace it, even when they’re married

they don’t wish for the lifestyle—the promotion

they just get-on with it—

it’s a toughness that takes pleasure in simple delights

opening apartment windows in the winter, when it’s rainy outside

watching the predator cat, killing its prey (beautiful—doing what it was designed to do)

feeling the summer rain, hitting the dry dirt

making dew drops.

Women want fairness—they wish to maintain their standards

This poem is about

the men

who find where they belong, and stay there.

He works in the pro shop

with beard, and beer, and one last chance—each time he tees off.

It isn’t a life, left behind

But one lived, the best way he can

He watches hockey in the evenings


nobody knows

he turns on the radio,

to Classical.

There is much

not known

about this man


it is not important

that the world should know it.

There is nothing so good

as lying-in bed

in my underwear.

I’ve never been lazy

but one day

my ambition turned into dreams

when I asked for help, and none came.

Ostrolope Bird

an accident of nature, this bird can’t be described in Latin

or by ornithologists

it waits for Armageddon, like Osiris

it laughs, and flies away from trouble, with a 3,000-foot view

it doesn’t do what the other birds want it to, sitting in perfect rows on power lines, rehearsing nature’s songs

it watches humans too

the Ostrolope is wiser than owls, and more onery than crows

a prophetic bird

it isn’t angry, or trying to poop in the compost yard

it unloads on assholes in suits

the Ostrolope was a miserable man until he learned how to fly


does he feel this way?

the walls are closing in, the paint is off-color

the whole world will be reborn in fire, not because the sun exploded

(that would be marvelous)

but because humans can’t live with each other

they kill their babies before they are born, and scream for their rights to do so

they think they have advanced as a society

but they are no different than the Aztecs

sacrificing their children to selfish gods

it is best to let them kill each other, like the slimy fish they are

educated in schools, to hate each other

poisoned by their own pollution

the Ostrolope looks at nature’s signals

at society’s scars

and loves to fly above their protests

it reads books under the stars, and longs to be far away

waiting for mushrooms clouds

the young and old, will be dying, one day

while it sings its mournful mating call

marriage is gone, like grainy VHS tape

because sex without love is cheap entertainment


embraces the stranger, and kills the friend

in the end,

there will be such beautiful silence

nature will start again

I hope life doesn’t find a way

I pray

for the dead darkness

without stars.

If She Would Love Me

Happiness happens when you least expect it

like that beautiful woman who smiles at you in the sun.

She was 22, with perfect body. When she lifted her weights

she made these sounds, mating sounds.

She had tattoos, and regular traffic down there

like a subway system

but I didn’t care.

The other women were too difficult to woo

the ones I might marry

they didn’t answer my messages, or accept my friend requests

It seemed like nature had other plans

I have always gone with the flow

but lately my river is backed-up like a dam

and nature wants me more than ever

It’s the Hollywood slogan, “Saying ‘no’ is the sexiest word.”

Perhaps, good-looking men are too good for marriage

and their destiny is to populate the world with unplanned pregnancies

Am I evil for saying this?

These are the thoughts of an idealist

before being devoured by cats

A letter written to love’s losers

to a raped world

a sonnet, spoken to myself

If not for God, who else?

there is plenty, on the dining table of lust

I’ll take two helpings of purple dream delight

it’s sweet, and I’ll sleep better, after

My only sin, is writing these words

if you are reading them, I have led you astray

into my estranged mind, that wants someone to love

I have always seen what isn’t there

her golden hair, falling

to her easel shoulders

Her dress covers her with modesty, and doesn’t hide her beauty

She smiles like the crescent moon

Her legs, follow grace

The darkness of this world hasn’t penetrated her

She can still laugh, without fear

I imagine what our conversations might be

each date, a dream

I could love her

I could love my life,

if she would love me.

Moving Mountains

If you have belief, you have all you need

and if you let them steal that from you

the more the miserable.

What is the distance of your faith?

How far are you willing to go?

To the extent of which you believe, is the extent to which you are limited.

Without limits, is the only way I want to live

the goal is not to attain great things

but to have the power to move mountains.

Those with no belief, live in reality

and they can only move objects with their muscles

what they can’t see with their eyes

is invisible

Everything that exists

was created from nonexistence.

Magic, is taking nothing, and making it something

you can’t be a non-believer and practice faith.

So, how do we start?

Simple. Keep a secret, and tell yourself it will come true.

Most people can’t.

They complain, “It’s not happening.”

What you believe, might only make sense to you

People need others to believe, for them to keep the faith

but these are all nonbelievers

It takes faith, to do what nobody else is willing to do

If you get this far,

nothing can stop you.

No temptation is worth the sacrifice of faith

humble yourself—and pray

God have mercy on my dreams

they keep me awake, while everyone is asleep.

I Visit Death, But I Don’t Stay for Drinks

Those who stop, start again

they stop, and start, and quit, and despair, or find some fantasy that makes them not care

the builders, keep building, like the tower of babel

confused by speech, they work with their hands.

Nobody can make you quit, but yourself.

If you tell your dream to people, they will try to kill it

they are hunters of the dream, because they don’t have one to chase.

It’s easier to break things, like broken bottles under a bridge

their words are like your neighbor

who runs-over your cat

flat, scraped off the driveway with a shovel


but still flat.


The Dream is Dead.

Now, I sit in my room and write.

Recently, I broke-out of my routine

visiting a bookstore, where I don’t normally go

it was a warehouse without soul

A routine is a treasure


among the dirt-heaps of humanity.

This principle is true for: women, work, friends

and cities, where I might live.

I need to pick fruit, that keep my juices flowing

I spend time in the company of strangers

so I can appreciate my own.

I visit death

but I don’t stay for drinks.

Chapter 7 Be Careful Who You Chase

“Do you have an idea of where the missing women might be?” Gregson asked.

“Not a clue, and if you’ll excuse me, I do have some work to do.” The Governor showed Gregson the door. “Can you see yourself out?”

“I can find my way back to the barracks.”

It was nice talking with you, Gregson.”

The PI walked down the spiral staircase. Was it just his paranoia, or was 90% of what the Governor told him, bullshit? Gregson trusted his instincts, more than his brains. That’s probably why he nailed more women than a carpenter, and the odds were significantly in his favor. Had he signed any paperwork recently? He was trying to remember, when a blond in pink yoga pants ran past.

“Beautiful day for a workout,” Gregson said.

“When was the last time you worked out?” she scoffed.

“You must be new here.”

“How did you know?”

“Just a hunch. I’m a private investigator.”

“Are you on a case?”

“Emphasis on the private.”

She looked down at his Johnson. “Well, you seem a little slow to be catching criminals.”

“I can give you a run for your money.”

“Really? How much?”

“100 dollars.”

“Can you afford that?”

“It’s my 10-minute rate.”

She took-off running, and Gregson chased her. His cargo shorts were chaffing, but he kept his eyes on her behind, knowing it would take him over the finish line. With 500 yards to go, she looked back, and he made his move. Then he heard her screaming. “That’s not fair!”

Gregson didn’t stop to listen—he touched the building.

Tear were streaming down her beautiful blue eyes— turning red, like in the horror movies.

“Are you okay?” Gregson asked. He went to touch her. “Don’t touch me! Assault! Assault! Police! Police! That man chased me!”

A security guard ran to the rescue. “How may I assist you, mam?”

“That man’s a pervert! He tried to touch me!”

“She’s just a bit hysterical,” Gregson said. “Let her take a shower and she’ll be fine.”

“That’s not rape protocol!” She shouted.


All Gregson could think of was how great it was going to be to shower alone with his imagination.

Chapter 6 Always Read the Fine Print

“What should I call you?” Gregson asked.

“Call me Governor,” the Governor said. “And how about you?”

“Call me Gregson. I just have a few questions for you.”


The Governor sat on a red leather sofa, and motioned for Gregson to do the same. A suit of armor was staring at them, which gave Gregson the feeling that they were being watched.

“Do women regularly go missing on this island?” Gregson asked.

“If they do, they’re always found.”

“But this is the first time the government hired a private investigator, am I right?”


“And why do they go missing?”

“We keep a structured schedule here, kind of like summer camp for blushing brides.”

“Close to university age?” Gregson asked.


The PI couldn’t contain himself any longer. “What is this place?”

“Do you want the real answer, or the dressed-up one?”

“Give it to me naked,” Gregson said.

“Women these days are not fit for marriage, especially university educated upper-class women. This is a reeducation camp, masquerading as a bachelorette fun party. Every once and a while I have a camera man come out to document some new activity that the girls think will end up on TV. It’s a reality show, but it’s not real. It’s a homemaker’s course on how to be a housewife that I found in my grandmother’s basement a decade ago. We have gotten government funding to do this research, from the most powerful men in the country.”

“Is it working?” Gregson asked.

“It does initially, but it wears-off, as they sip the cool-aid of the mainstream media and listen to their feminist friends when they get back home.”

“Why are men paying for this?”

“Because if they don’t pay for it now, they end up paying for it later,” the Governor said. “We guarantee up to 6 months, feminist free ideology—then the men are shit out of luck. It’s just enough insurance, for them to get married, and then she changes.”

“It seems like this training is in the women’s favor,” Gregson commented.

“It is, and the men have just realized that. Our enrollment numbers are down 50%.”

And the missing women?” Gregson asked again.

“The learning curve is steep here,” the Governor said. “Some of them get overwhelmed, and they can’t handle the isolation.”

“But this island is teaming with women.”

“Exactly. If they spend 6 months with each other in a confined space, they start to act like hens without a rooster.”

“What happens then?” Gregson asked.

“They’ll mount anything that moves. I was ordered to castrate one of the guards by a barking mad General. You don’t disagree with 3 stars.”

“Is that legal?”

“There is a stipulation in the fine print of their contract. It was a big surprise to Jeremy, when he found out. He didn’t let go of his balls easily.”

Gregson made a mental note to always check the fine print.