Drunk Chicken

The Revue is out, and while I’m represented as a photographer in this issue, I’m prouder of my poem. I think it’s pretty good. I got permission to share it here. This Revue was about food, drink, and entertaining, and included recipes. The goal of the editor was to have a poem for each recipe. Being a helpful sort of guy I looked over the recipes and the title ‘Drunk Chicken’ whispered sweet nothings in my ear.

So I wrote this (reproduced with permission of the publisher):

Drunk Chicken

Drunk chicken
shoots her gun in the house
“You’ll break the eggs!”
Drunk Chicken don’t care.
She’s got more.

Fuckin Rooster gone, long gone
Out in the yard
shouting to the rising sun
“I banged Henrietta last night!”
Drunk Chicken don’t care.
Not so you can tell.

Deep in her nest
Drunk Chicken looks right and left
takes a swig of rum
pulls from the twigs a bullet
strokes it, whispers its name.

She kisses it, as gently as
a drunk chicken can
and puts it away.
Six cylinders
Six ordinary bullets
Rooster don’t deserve the special one.

Two Cops

Two Cops. Donuts, barbs.
One is the protagonist;
the other is dead.



I am a machine
opinions and facts, without
the heart I once had


For my Sweetie

For My Sweetie

birthday tradition
visit to the candy aisle
heart-shaped box half off


I met a guy once

I met a guy once

I met a guy once, a big guy his skin black his teeth white his eyes red his laugh came from deep in his belly, and “who the hell are you?” he asked me.

Burning Words

Burning Words

There are words in my head
“fifty-six” I said just now
out loud, for no apparent reason
They are sounds, nothing more
They bang about up there
ugly tourists

If I smoked
I’d write each word on a cigarette
and burn it
hear it crackle as I inhaled
watch the paper glow and draw back
the numbers most of all must go

Road Haiku

Road Haiku

Mile post fifty
Night monsoon flash and grumble
Mile fifty-one

Bacon Haiku

Bacon Haiku

When you’re feeling blue
Let some bacon in haiku
fix what’s ailin’ you
Not long ago there was a feverish burst of bacon-related haiku activity in the comments here at MR&HBI. Not surprising, really, considering the position we hold in the vanguard of modern literature. As a service to the poetic community I thought I would consolidate the bacon haiku in its very own episode. Let me know if I missed any, or if I made any errors transferring the words. And, just because I posted these, doesn’t mean you can’t add more! In fact, I’m quite certain that the ultimate bacon haiku has yet to be written.
delicious bacon
side order of happiness
greasy crispy bliss
– TG

Greasy piece of lard
Oil drenched yummy goodness
bacon gift from GOD

Salty crunchy good
The dog tackles me everyday
Ouch that’s not bacon dog

Bacon oh Bacon
from the sizzle to the crunch
a cat eating beans
– pL

crisp pink perfection
the pig’s noble sacrifice
as the chicken smiles
– Harlean

m-m-m bacon
m-m-m-m-m bacon
baco frickin n
– Jerry

delicious frying
bacon on the hot griddle
blt coming
– john[liz]

bacon, ham, porkchops
magical meat animal
oh how i love you
– john & liz

if i ever thought
that bacon would cease to be
i would stab my face
– liz

when i eat bacon
i find that i enjoy life
more than e’er before
– liz

this one time in france
i did bad things with bacon
that i won’t forget
– liz

bacon on my knee
feel the oil burning me there
wish i had a plate
– john (dedicated to liz)

like the morning mist
the dew upon the branches
bacon is profound
– liz

why bacon, you ask?
why do we draw breath each day?
why does the sun rise?
– TG

Bacon sizzles hot
A breakfast with John and Liz
Going to eat that?
– The Eightster

you must know, eighster
all’s fair in love and bacon
would you like seconds?
– liz

gleam in greasy eyes
unseen but for its effect
stealth ninja bacon
– TG

back when we were kids
Liz and I would eat bacon
then go to the park
– TG (dedicated to liz)

if i had a choice
my sister would always win
over all bacon
– liz

find us if you can
ultimate bacon haiku
we will be waiting
– TG

Pork belly futures
My plate the fulcrum of Time
Ghosts of Breakfast Past
– John H.

Following Soup Boy
John ain’t got no office job
Can’t pay for bacon
– Squirrely Joe

Look at your breakfast
Chicken did a good job but
Pig was committed
– Squirrely Joe

Bacon o bacon
‘Tis thy crispy porcine
Flesh I miss the most
– dyczko schmeeczko




I’ll get up early
hit the ground running
as they say

work, of course
the everyday stuff
but tomorrow, for once
the chores
the cleaning
feeding myself
a thank-you note
a love letter
the countless minutiae
of life


Goodbye to That Girl

I cranked this out with the last gasp of my laptop battery after a cople of beers. Just a few impressions from our last morning. I could make it better, but I’m just going to let it stand — if I started to edit it I’d probably never publish it at all.

Goodbye to That Girl

A morning of lasts
The last embrace
The last kiss
The last goodbye

for now

Green tea, cup, eyes
Stories, a rush,
words unnecessary
to cover words unsaid.

Everything back in place
folded, stowed
One more cup of tea
sips of time
One more kiss goodbye

red hair a flag at the door
as I walk away.




rainy morn, groggy head
ooo! heart-shaped banana bread
big-ass pot of tea

A Personal Ad

A Personal Ad

Patient man, quiet, scruffy
Sees things, sometimes, that may not be there
Leaves dishes in the sink

Upstairs a mountain meadow
Grass, trees, and flowers, under a high blue sky
And bulldozers, yellow, belching diesel smoke,
Too loud for thought
Too slow to stop
Wandering, ponderous, stupid
metal cows of the apocalypse
But in their muddy wakes the flowers creep
raising heads over rut and ruin
to turn their faces to the sun.

Likes dogs, enjoys cats,
Believes in the dignity of man.

My Heart

My Heart

My heart does not go pitter
My heart does not go pat
Call me old and bitter
I’m OK with that.

The Story Begins

The Story Begins

The sun rises
reflecting in confused
criss-crossing beams
off what little glass remains
in the windows of the city
lighting shady canyons
between silent skyscrapers

Below, motion!
A figure (human?) breaks the surface
Water sparkles in the dawn
It gags, retching seawater
or something like it
Burning lungs take a violent, gasping breath
their first in a hundred years
Sweet air!

The pale creature (human?)
clings, spent, to a makeshift dock
slowly remembering air and light
It does not see
— not yet —
the brooding hulks of the Titans
broken, dead, empty (haunted?)
It does not know
that beneath its feet
lie Cadillacs and Cavaliers, rusting
and a Yellow Cab is home
for a school of silvery fish

By the dock there is a boat
small, sturdy (aluminum?)
oars neatly shipped
a rope coiled at the bow
fishing pole and tackle, undisturbed
the newcomer finds this strange.

You Wrote a Bad Song

There’s a pop song in the heavy rotation over here, called “Bad Day”. I suspect it is popular over on the other side of the pond as well. It is an inoffensive little tune, a bit on the catchy side, and were it not played so often I would have never even noticed it. There’s nothing wrong with catchy little tunes; that describes much of the Beatles’ output, and now they are considered one of the greatest pop bands ever.

So while I don’t hate the song, I woke up with it in my head this morning and soon thereafter some alternate lyrics blossomed in my caffeinated cranium:

You Wrote a Bad Song
(to the tune of Bad Day)

You wrote up a pop song and you knew it was crap,
A helping of saccharine and whole lot of sap,
The artist within you said ‘no way’,
Throw that piece of crap away,
But that’s not how how you earn your paaaaaay…

You wrote a bad song,
You pushed it too far,
But now it’s on the charts
and it’s made you a star

You wrote a bad song
You made some new friends
but now they want to know
when you’ll do it again

Because you’ve known it all along,
You wrote a bad song.

You sit at your keyboard and play with some notes,
But all of the lyrics stick in your throat
Everything that you write that blows
Will be played on the radio,
But that’s now how you want to be knoooooooooown…

You wrote a bad song
You pushed it too far,
But now it’s on the charts
And it’s made you a star.

A million people CAN be wrong,
You wrote a bad song.

Sometimes when you’re thinking late at night,
You wonder what went wrong,
You remember how happy your were the time
The radio first played your song
They played your song…

So where is dispassion when you need it the most?
Why can’t the artist just give up the ghost?
You know if you do it all your way
Play what you really want to play
All your brain-dead fans will saaaaaaaaay…

You wrote a bad song
You pushed it to far
We came to hear candy
And you’re giving us art

Yeah, You wrote a bad song
You pushed it too far
But now it’s on the charts
And it’s made you a star

You wrote a bad song…
You wrote a bad song…
You wrote a bad song…
[Repeat many, many times, fade out]