Wheel of Conflict

So the wheel is conflict of evolution revolution

involuntarily defending unending cycles of emotion

motion unaware of introspection passing inspection

eroding simultaneous valleys of truth mountains

of lies eradicated dictionaries full of theories

full of contradictions of speculations of testicular

germination within the stamen of auricular

excretion God yes! we have evolved beneath the

wheels of hybrid industrialized mastectomies apart

from separate misquoted peculiarities

summed up by the urine stains on your bed

The Smell of Gunpowder

My old man wasn’t

stupid. He just thought

everything sounded like rain. Anything that didn’t sound

like rain, he thought

smelled like gunpowder. Of

course nobody understood these oddities,

hence the stupid

label. Some people act dumb

when they’re drunk, but are smart when

they’re sober. Other people are smart

when they’re drunk, but dumb as a lump when

they’re sober. Not my old

man though, he was just the same

whether liquored up or

not. My mom just ignored him. I

think maybe she tried to poison him once

and just screwed him up

instead of killing him. Everything she

cooks just sounds like rain so she

really has nothing to complain about.

His condition has provided us with multiple

sources of income, so

we get by quite comfortably. My

old man talks to me sometimes.

He says he loves the sound

of rain, and the

smell of gunpowder. Then

he gives me a hug and all I

hear is a chainsaw.

Flowers & Graffitti

Apple Cider

This was published a while back in Nomad Magazine

We Are Not Without

Before I forget, it is not without.

Because without would mean; that all

reason and insight, sin and morals

are not, have not and will never. No

matter the absent’s form or function

the feeling of without is yet within.

And if we are left to grope in minimilistic

shadows, or to muddle through tomes

of paradoxical musings, or even to barrel

brashly through the streets of the

Vatican with whores in our beds and

heroin in our veins, we are not yet without.

Sky

Reverbnation Page

http://www.reverbnation.com/#!/stickdogwalker

Listen to your favorite Stick Dog Walker jams here!!

Anthrax In the Garden

Bore me to death with your lyrical prose.

Murder ain’t the answer when you

question my opinion. Upside down the

battle cry we march around the temple.

Bearing bombs of frankincense with anthrax

in the garden. Digging holes with broken

spades. Lift-off left without a hitch while

Barney Miller scratched his eczematous

scalp. A little girl let me die with leather pants

and blackened lips. Eat the Bette Davis stew,

with onion rings, brokeback pie and paranoia

salad; with a copper spoon and a pocket

knife. Everlast the liquid state, the melting sun

in boiling glass, the six-string catatonic scale,

the crimson bleeding flower.

Let It Rain

Jenny rode shotgun in a paper

plane

outstretched arms

eyes wide shot down

let it

rain out of time

wash away the sands of

superficial flight

emotive stare hand of fear

smell of nihilistic fever soaking

bed sheets

let it

rain out of time

gargoyle with a broken wing

stone unfolds

water bathes

lifts the paper airplane

streams wider than streets

made of clouds through

the sky

eyes wide Jenny

let it rain

Invasion

A Walk In the Dark

Chrome

Of the way

we live

for the same piece

of never

hate

take the frog

out of the rain

and let Johnny strike

up the band

face failure

scared of the yellow

line

we are Africa

defamed

rid of voice

angel

tyrant or slave we are

I

we are

I

voice succumb to grain

ISO sixty

four

redefine coarse as

facet of fine

art

the piece

filthy lies

crossed tees belong

to me.

Friends

Penguin

Fearless Confusion

City cuts the stars from the sky, the stars

from our lives. City lets you believe. Water warms

the tummy, fertilizes the seed. Water starves the city,

starves our debauchery. City bears the bloom;

angry, cold, burgundy petals and virulent eyes.

City walks upon the water before a multitude of

fearless

confusion.

City scorches willow trees and brambles. City stares

into disease. Winter fears and summer etches

mortality into the glass swing sets where we

sacrificed morality to sin. Summer carelessly leaps from

stone to stone across the creek, aborts the fetus in its womb,

carrying on without remorse. City steals the

living, hides the dead.

City cuts the stars from its flesh. Summer drips from the

wound onto the floor and water heals.

Sailing on Frequencies

Global oceans, graves. Compressed bi-polar sweetness. Welts from surging tempers, religious fits and remorse. Of course we have to sail upon each others frequencies. Perform with skulls. Confess to the barbed-wire tails of jack asses. Rebuild, remorse. We the pagans. Scum of the foragers. Isolate contempt, cradle hate in savage emotive seas. This panting scalded patience serves as our deliverer, servant. Equality?

Rochester NY