Ranch Poem – “Vertigo”



Fuck the quick-fix, the blood
payment. The humping dog can’t
be partial. My body won’t decay,
I’m invincible! If I don’t worry,
then it’s no worry.
What stupidity–
yet to be annihilated or beloved.
Colorless breaths froth and
trickling down my cortex
are keen echoes.

Blue sky. Orange storm imminent.
But oh! What a fibber!
I try to imitate its brightness
and night
trips on its face
right in front
of my knees.
or Chinese green tea?”
And here
I am blowing my brains out!

If Spring was a man
I’d make it prepare
an itinerary. A girl near me
is certain of her “screwed up
head.” East meets West.



Ranch Poem – Lion of God


Lion of God

The filth of life will knot, fry, and
without a mention conceal the
short strands of pure moral faith that
your innocent and forgotten
self read into real existence.

My own narrative, that of the
passive martyr, is an everyday
Charley horse before I venture
to a haven sea. The line, far
off where sky meets ocean holds sure
a firmness of purpose and loss.
I drink less and obsess under
a bright barge. (too large are these least
humored of dreams and desire)

A pile of my hair, pulled out in
anxious twists and pent up bundles,
lay as carpet below my feet.
The listless tradition and axis,
as walking stick to perdition.
Variable to a soft kind
of legitimacy. In quest
for a living definition
of the purring Lion of God.


Ranch Poem – “The World of Self-Reliance”


The World of Self-Reliance

When you look at these
people on the street
some slide on ice
some spread like fire.

You can see it
in their eyes.
The bluish discoloration
under that puffy
wrinkle of the previous
night spent altering
heart rates or
indulging insomnia,
only to wake from some
muck of a bed they made
to try and dress

You can feel it
in their grip.
The tight clench
of a developing country
made-European named-
(always) briefcase bag
filled with compiled
copies of decent writing,
bills piled up to be
put off till they reach 30,
and their third iBook
replacement of 2008.

Most of us walk like
the world is a lonely place,
where atrocities are forgotten
like the names of ex-congressmen.
The world of self-reliance
for the self’s sake.

Some will shift their
footing, keep their core,
and know that we-
a lovely landfill of
fridges and radios
and dildos and teddy bears-
are the heirs of
that revolution
based in the past
slowed by the present and
made for the future.



Ranch Poem – “Take that Breath”


Take that Breath

Take that breath. No, not that one.
Not the survival gasp, not the obligation.
Take that breath. Yes, that one.
Slow down the buzzing molecules
and forget feeling sorry for yourself.
Isn’t it nice? Still as the pond covered
in fog. We may not see the other side,
but it isn’t visible whenever we try.
Risk it all to reach the ruins of goodness,
to exhale the pediments across
and the pogoda’s back up right.
Brutal, yet beautiful life.



Ranch Poem – “Blue Hipster” and “Laughing Dry”


“Blue Hipster”

How can this middle aged hipster be
comfortable wearing his bronze sunglasses
look-at-me-blue pants and reptile
skinned soft souled shoes
sly grinning his way into a shared
cigarette and positivity polite
funny talk with a recently came
of the laughing age dame
when he should probably be sharing
his lack of soul patch or faking
foreign french accents and possibly
using the 7 days to move
back into ready reality?
A large blue jean suit
clad man just exited the
can and he forgot to flush.




“Laughing Dry”

He knew himself
that dawn and
tall glasses would break
for hours without the jump
start he had stored
in clasped oak chests;
alongside his best shots,
talking trite highs,
and open bow-ties.
Together they grew
mind wrapped maps
to locations which would
expand his social breathing
and pissing.
Leaving him coughing
and laughing dry.



Ranch Poem – “The Lost Lights of Cars Reflecting at Night” (Sonnet)


“The Lost Lights of Cars Reflecting at Night” (Sonnet)

The lost lights of cars reflecting at night
off lilac rivers, ripple (something beats
in my liver) and strobe long, wide, and white.
The almost Spring freezes my lips, and heats

of competitors with an ax to grind,
go on pilgrimages to Jessie James’
grave. A beautiful smile crumbles a blind
eye, sets fire to paradise, and douses flames.

Under pansies, beside the jugular,
here I am. What the cat drug in too late,
half ate. Here I am to push love on her
slowly– so this liquorous escapade

retains the slightest drop of humility;
acidic apples spur train robberies.



Ranch Poem – “The Lionhearted”


The Lionhearted

I’m left. Always beaten but constantly winning,
The aches of other souls burn my muscles
And I’ll take it wholeheartedly. North, South
East, and West. I leave myself behind anywhere
I go, a monument of weak might.

I destroy “do not enter” signs.
I bring the subjective truth.
I make the zebra change his stripes.
I make the zebra change back.
I pulsate concern into silent rhythms.
I mimic righteous ones.
I mirror the hypocrite.
I sweep your strikes under the rug.
I furnish my defeat by becoming mute.
My smile weighs negative.
Your smile is the balance point.
I got the green, living blues.
I leave it up to you.
I haven’t shed a tear against me.
I got the right down, but am wrong.

So I reached and found.
So I’ve got it now.
So what, if there’s conflict.
So we have to spill our contents.
So leave the fridge open.
So go back to what was left years behind.
So eliminate quiet frowns.
So we add the L to the OVE.
So I’m not lonely together.
So a snowmelt’s snow isn’t forgotten.
So we sing the fuck out.
So to hell with falsehood.
So this helping hand grasps.
So your flats and sharps both are tuned.
So the ol’ favorites get played.
So this electricity stored, shocks.

I’m left. Ready now, Red Bull and kush
Willing. I won’t wear socks to bed tonight,
I could collapse from this revelation dose.
My head will no longer hang low, though
I must keep it up. The Lionhearted would
Not stay mum. Must have been the fear.



Ranch Poem – “For Allen Ginsberg”


For Allen Ginsberg

Got a handful of heated coins
to feed heaven’s jukebox. Prop that
door wide please for noisy Hank and
fearless Alvah and that wordy
freak of a Wolfe. I’ve met the marks
once left to find: The transcription
Of the natural flow of the mind.

Pneumatic imagination
leaps, half asleep, this sudden real
against. Vast opportunity
of a living flame dimly lit…
work for it! Happy homilies
for the beauty of souls in (here)
America. Cigar soot prints
And wrists of hemp scents. These old forms
Of security are too bent
for my solace but I’m about
to start to name these peaks. I.E.
curve out forever straights. I.E.
make my heaven home I.E…I
make my own sanctity. A.G.