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 – “Back Seat Driver”


Back Seat Driver

I think sometimes. Well, more like
I don’t think, seldomly.
And those times are
few and far between
hiding harmonies
and blabbering busts.
Too late to choose to opt out.
A verdant vehicle for conception
and crashing
out of control somewhere
near my destination, but far
off. Trying to relate to different
folks, to different post-traumatic
every-bodies, to side-steppers,
to give them a reason
for joining in on the hunt
for the wave that’s coming
for the violent fairy tale
for the way cross’ that unbridgeable gap.

You wake up in the morning
expecting to speak to someone,
who knows you?

People can hear these words,
these master accidents.
Thoughts slide away,
while what you say stings ears
and holds like glue.
People can see this long hair,
this eloquent freak flag.
We won’t run away, we will
wait for some collective hallucination
to pull us through.

Confide within confidence
and original optimism.
Watching your tightest thoughts
deflate into flabby regrets.
No anchor in time or
space to move about

Highs and Lows differ
between those
with rags
and those
with crowns.
Real loss is only felt when
the ego is loved less.
Your public outrage
does not translate
to your private belief.
These text novels and
laptop realities alter
the ways we think.
And it’s like walking home
down an alley off of the street,
feeling the stories tower above,
thinking about them toppling down.

I personally would rather
rise to the occasion.
Abandon persuasion.
Keep my mind and
my knees shaking.
Let um lose all respect
as long as
I do what
I know is right.
Take the gavel to
the Judge.
Take the surrealism to
the idealism.
Stupid strength
fades out quick.
Be a smart driver,
destiny can take
a back seat.



Ranch Poem – “Talking”



Talking tends to provide me with work
Talking causes you and me some hurt
Talking slows down this endless thinking
Talking keeps you afloat when your mind is sinking
Talking doesn’t work so well when things get heavy
Talking can get her good and ready
Talking provides us with the easiest way to be a hypocrite
Talking covers up truth tears and righteous rips
Talking feels like a speaker attached to the heart
Talking is not an art
Talking sometimes acts as a life vest
Talking evokes some of your very best
Talking opens us up
Talking will break down these barricades with a bit of luck
Talking helps our presence to be felt and heard
Talking makes audible any absurd words
Talking never goes anywhere without singing too
Talking won’t substitute seeing you
Talking defines me instantly, momentarily, and unfortunately
Talking costs some their lives and sets many others free


Ranch Rants – “This Place”


This Place

There’s all this time lost in the fog
and you can die laughing, crying, or singing a song.
If you lived near a waterfall, could you hear it for long?

The strong and weak hearts-neither understand.
And the lights get brighter in this wild land,
but the simplest sight still stands.

Benzo dreams linger on
Breathing deep keeps us online
Believe in the pictures we draw
Birthmarks are lakes of wine

She would torture her soul with endless thinking,
chase that rabbit round’ the track without blinking.
And they say the evenings are for heavy drinking.

How much of life is work, when you don’t get paid?
We need to convince others not to lie to get laid.
Why stay bitter to those who’ve never had a Touch of Grey?

Benzo dreams linger on
Breathing deep keeps us online
Believe in the pictures you draw
Birthmarks are lakes of wine

Throw some electrolytes into this dark cosmos.
I’ve lost the thing I deserve the most,
so empty out your fanny pack and propose a toast.

Love rattles like a ride uphill on a bike while very drunk.
The harmonica howls, drums entrance, and the bass goes kurplunk.
Go gift your neighbor, brother, or stranger out of a funk.

Benzo dreams linger on
Breathing deep keeps us online
Believe in the pictures we draw
Birthmarks are lakes of wine

We all fall, rise, and hold our own dose of grace.
Color, shape, texture, nor expression make a face.
A big designed mankind cartoon, lots of possibilities in this place.


Ranch Poem – “Melt”


Sometimes I feel like they’re just trying to eat me.
These with their hearts scattered.
“I need you” today
“I don’t need you” this way.

Knock my head, pain my liver to make it sleepy.
Compassionate dreams heal–for some it can’t matter.
I’ll forgive you someday,
How can we believe a thing we say?

Who knows what instrument fits right in this mix?
It’s an undeniable process we venture upon.
But we focus on our breathing,
try and melt this forward thinking.

It is safe to dance with family pics,
but perilous tongue to tongue on this lawn.
Upgrade your love, but not so often,
roll into others arms with caution.


Ranch Poem – “Be There”


Be There

Some of us on this breathing sphere
see things slip and sink.
Some of us on this wet rock
see things climb and expand.

In a polite town is where I reside.
I move and get down to the beats inside,
and live to dream about a worldwide Shakedown-
where hearts and eyes gleam and honest reality is found.

Some of us on this breathing sphere
hope for shortcuts and sedation.
Some of us on this wet rock
hope for equality and pretty peace.

It beats me how they can continue to fall down
this circling Ferris wheel of anxious frowns.
Roads are often dark and wide, lights bright,
for the old and inexperienced alike.

Some of us on this breathing sphere
are playing with reverence to our mistakes.
Some of us on this wet rock
are setting off explosions in our minds.

My hand rests upon my finally shutting eyes.
At this stubborn sudden moment I realize
I’ve got the shakes and a permahigh.
I see now how far out Saturn lies.

Some of us on this breathing sphere,
want to be gone.
Some of us on this wet rock,
want to be there.


Ranch Poem – “Between Arlington and Austin”


Between Arlington and Austin

A traveling stranger
taught me to move
my feet to keep
from falling into that circle
of anxiety–insane,
I would peer into his
strange eyes–shrinking,
widening, capturing, gleaming
like some purple
magenta square stone
long lost at home.

Now, as my mother sings
and firefly rain
falls all around my
hopeful excitement;
I wonder fully and
give half-assed affection
to those dispersed women
slowed by misunderstandings,
men mulligans,
and mazes.

And the road can be cold,
and the road can be hot,
but the road has my trust.
Be sure to miss the God rush,
catch the Incident,
bring out your Dead,
know shades of Grey,
spread Rothbury,
miss the Moon, hug Hubble,
embrace Barry’s change,
learn from Yasgur’s
and read Songs of the Doomed.

Already, I miss that last
bite, sip, or whiff
of my life’s morning
sun. Bright and golden
are the good times
we hold so close
that memory is our skin
is our thinning hair
is our racing heart
is our jeweled teeth
is the cracks
of crusty lip that we
bite, tear, chew
and digest unto our
bodies again and again.


Ranch Poem – “Lords of Light”


Lords of Light

In a flash, love was made by two white elephants,
with wild bouts of Chantix induced anti-nicotine tendencies and lucidity.
Exactly how long is your effect’s duration, Pill Generation?
Long enough for breakfast in bed-to burst the Yolk of Heaven
and rage against the dying of the light,
until that other pupil remains wider than its ordinary brother.

Things are well kept and controlled here my Brahman brother.
Nothing repeats itself in this hollow space besides the elephants
and freedom references and fluorescent light.
And as I so deemed I dreamed, missing my lucidity.
No one mentioned that there are apples covering the ground in heaven,
left partially consumed-but not yet browning-for a generation.

It’s more like the High Fructose and make believe generation.
These thoughts i treat like Ishmael and others like his little brother.
Rhythms of silence can make a moment heaven.
The solitudes of the flesh are the skin of elephants.
Sin is a state of being known by those devoid of necessary lucidity.
Sons of the Lords of Darkness replaced by the Sons of the Lords of Light.