Thursday, August 29, 2013

M'leece angel....

Dear readers:

This is my artistic soulful snow-angel and botanical lyricist Mileece I'Anson...she channels the sound of the earth via all things organic and vernal..I've had the privilege of knowing this creature for the last five years (a la David Sereda's the Voice) and was honored to crash at her pad last autumn when I performed my poems at Dirty Laundry LIT...Today she is featured in (my favorite) publication the New York times....Mileece, I am so proud of is me giving you a hug!!!! 

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Once again, Miley Cyrus and Lady Gaga showed up to one of my poetry readings and started taking their clothes off every time I read (Lady Gaga came dressed in an outfit made from an old TROLL book order form and Miley just pretty much got naked right away even though everyone thought she looked like Annie Lennox with that Robocop-tampon haircut) and once again, I ended the night reading excerpted hi-lighted junior high stanza's from THE BABYSITTERS CLUB and Miley and Gaga mistook it for Emily Dickinson and swore it was the most profound thing they simply had ever heard... after a great pain a formal feeling comes...sigh....

Somewhere I have never traveled, gladly and beyond....

...the writer en route to his sylvan writing by Valena Jackson...

Monday, August 26, 2013

...sounds ike something my dear high school english teacher Larry Reents woud say....

..was cruising down past the seven figure mansions of antiquity dotting the cusp of Grandview drive last night with my dear high school English teacher when he turned to me and oh-so poetically posited, "Look David, Those are the houses where all the writers' who don't use run-on sentences live."

Saturday, August 03, 2013



He wants not to be so bitter at the world all the time

He wants to know that he is clean

He wants to stop working such exorbitant hours every semester

Wants to read a book a week

He wants to get his shit together

He wants a pair of shoes that doesn’t have holes in them

Until he remembers the famed photograph of

Jonathan Larson holding up his pair of sodden

Converse sneakers limp by the top heel

As if the holy spirit

In ornithological dove form

Had just been shot dead with a pellet gun


He wants not to drink so much on the weekend


He wants to fuck her brains out

He wants the canvas of the screen to be the

Sunrise he looks into first thing in the afternoon

When he rises (because he works third shift

And sleeps on a futon he found near the dumpster)

He wants security

He wants to finish the book he started eight years ago

He wants to be able to pay off his debts

He wants to go down to his father’s grave

And tuck his chin into his neck

As his face falls into a

Triangle of wet prisms


He wants to really be there for his mother



But more than anything else

he wants to wake up one morning

In the hard frost of early February

And find her body asleep

Next to his body

Her chin and lips

Exhaling invisible ripples

Paddling across the dashboard of his chest


He wants to take a moment

And just look at the way

Her forehead and her cheekbones

Form a gentle meadow of peace


The warmth of her body

 The serene pasture of her eyelids


The amen of the prayer that is to come.

Thursday, August 01, 2013


Thinks that the only apt punishment for Riley Cooper is that he should be coerced into playing the role of Jim in the Philadelphia community theatre's musical adaption of Samuel Clemens Huck Finn. Then should give a lecture on racism for inner city youth. The should give away his untoward million dollar a year salary to public schools. Then should be publically lynched, brain dead inane-inbred hick. Where is Chuck D when you need him...