Ranch Poem – “set you high, or bring you down”


“set you high, or bring you down”

sometimes I sit around and wear out my eyes
figuratively exposing this blinding life
for what it will and what it should lead to.
b-sides of this awesome group of bards
reaching out with angst, reaching out far

but this strange feeling in my core
will be tapped forevermore, when I concentrate
and reclaim my grasp from a later date
this people will become sensitive to sensitivity
and the irony will play out, to you, you, and me

if only a trip was safe
if only brain loss and traffic didn’t exist
then so many lives would never erase
themselves and leave us with the rest of this

so, my lovers and friends alike
teach yourself over again, and decide what’s the right
place to settle down, and doctrine to follow around.
hear wisdom from an old man’s voice
but understand that it holds all his life’s choice
and can set you high, or bring you down



Ranch Poem – “It’s a Car Wreck”


“It’s a Car Wreck”

A fiddling tune pushes us through Sun City,
your auburn eyes making the sunlight pretty.
Two nights in a country inn, staying ’til tomorrow.
Dressing, undressing, and resting our sorrows.

And as we sleep, our feet entwine.
Mountainous dreams that we’ll climb.
A vagabond may be broke but never blind,
we gotta take it down down down through our mind.

Flags wave goodbye.
Mile markers are just lies.
And yes, we will be looking good.
In your memory dress
and my opportunity boots.

A road that spans forever,
a worn out town.
Been wondering lately,
if up is really down.

We’ve dodged fires and floods.
Shunned murder and disease.
Escaped the forces of change.
Traveling, living with ease.

People know we must have lost it,
and that working cell phones is what we need.
But there’s no substitute for vagueness.
Blending in with big willow trees.

A road that goes on forever.
A worn out town.
Been wondering lately
if up is really down.

Constantly available.
GPS heartbeats.
Facebook livelihood.
Credit check love letters.
Dusty passports.
Entropic everything everywhere.
It’s a car wreck.


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 Heartwood”


“The Heartwood”

The damp leaves of autumn cling to our soles
some are torn apart, trying to keep hold
I see this distance between
our deepest desires are these diametric wholes

Memories crash like waves on me incessantly
I’m trying to revive their matrices
I’ve seen my past clearer than ever
friends passed on and I’m dreaming about eternity

Seven billion worlds, wondering what to choose
Fate is but a fruit tree, hollow and used
I don’t know any end for suffering
I’m bruised, unseen by others and unfelt by you

Feel like you’re missing something that’s right there
Your night falls your mind stalls eclipsed by fear
We are sensitive satellites
Composing twin universes more dark than clear

These blue veins branch our like hidden rivers
thawing beneath a life reconsidered
My focal length is forever forward
No pinwheel of death diagnosis will wither

Shortest way between us is a curved tree
It’s our successful search for symmetry
Just touch that dimension inside
Meet me in The Heartwood, have faith in awakening



Ranch Poem – “The Lunar Cycle”


The Lunar Cycle

I gotta be rid of her, I’ve decided.
this woman, in her bring-me-down blouse.
the subtraction to my addition.
another tarnished by a wild condition.
like most of us, behind these barricaded doors.

So I caught an outbound rail
after posting bail from the livelihood jail,
listening to the distant closeness
of the talk passed from one to one,
or one to a brink wall.

jammed wall to wall, as these places are,
I’m sure I’m alone by far,
and wide-eyed
from the aura of everything and
everyone’s power and value.
I thought that if they would just work on
carrying it well,
maybe there would be no
recession after a swell.

a loaded southern drawl reverberated
violently off of my double breasted persona image constrictor
and believe it or not,
it became impossible to think swifter.

me and all the hopheads and investors
didn’t want to know exactly what
this Deputy Dog voice meant to say.
though, at any given moment
I’m sure one of us will
snap. snap. snap. snap.

That is really what I need,
what I’ve been waiting ideally for:
an unadulterated breeze of alone.
a time slowing, frozen moment
to stiffen me up against
this unifying meaning of the mob.

a neon hot ricochet of the future tense
lies behind any door.
Will you approach cautiously,
fearing anything you weren’t told before?

Fuck it, get free from foreshadowing,
so this history life of ours won’t be such a
goddamn bore.

All I mean to do is grab everyone I know,
carry in their groceries, realize their
stress, clean up every mess and
say to their childhood selves,
“ Think it over.”

cause no one in their right mind
wants to become dead while living.
I’m boarding a living, breathing,
freethinking freight-train,
and I hate feeling sorry for
every-person left to the
comforts of cotton-modesty.
going to the dogs or getting rich,
going to the dogs by getting rich,
and embodying the everyday lunar cycle.


Ranch Poem – “The New Cold War”


“The New Cold War”

Been missing countless toasts with friends,
skipped a thousand ciphers, it aint easy.
Paddling the big river in a solo kayak,
past the alluring rapids and unconscious beaches.
Is every daybreak your life or death knocking?
Well yall, I’ll tell ya I’m clocking light years
rocking, popping and locking everything I am.
Chasing cheers, re-writing jeers,
forgetting beers, staying in the clear.
I’m country, I’m urban, I’m EDM,
I’m jazz, I’m punk, I’m reggae,
I’m tired and amped, I’m wise and clueless,
I’m exiled and home, I’m traditional and revolutionary.
Be easy on me, take me with a grain,
we’re all just waiting on a slow train.

Some of you are fighting potential,
maneuvering around this future destination
escaping yourselves yet to be made,
as if its going to be fucked or shitty or bad.
Its going to turn out as you will it to be.
Believe it blindly if you must,
but don’t for a second put down the oar.

This week, my geographical location is keeping me
from my best friend’s wedding, a neighbor’s funeral,
and my aunt being placed on life support.
It’s a discouraging existence…lots of potholes,
lots of losses at the buzzer, lots of re-injuries,
lots of insomnia, lots of wet socks,
lots of “No’s” and “Fuck you’s” and “Sorry’s”.
And its only the beginning.
And its been this way since the beginning.
If it’s not Malaysian planes disappearing,
it’s trains derailing.
If it’s not typhoon hurricanes on the attack,
it’s Mayor’s governing high on crack.
If it’s not the “new cold war”
it’s a whole lot more
waiting to shake our cores.


Ranch Poem – “The Fourth Day”


The Fourth Day

In one day a man could lose a fight.
In one day a man could die.
In one day a man could make love to a woman.
In one day a man could pick up his sword.
In one day a man could grow up.

In two days a man could pick a fight.
In two days a man could be so empty, dying wouldn’t help.
In two days a man could make love to another.
In two days a man could pick up his pen.
In two days a man could grow old.

In three days a man could hold his own.
In three days a man could alleviate his pain.
In three days a man could never love another woman.
In three days a man could follow his heart.
In three days a man could grow wise.



Ranch Poem – “A Land Shadow”


A Land Shadow (Iambic Pentameter) 

I’ll bear no arms against my right,
for I am slain daily by what
is left. A stranded timber for
a fire, a shadow over me.

And little do you know about
the right, or what is left defect
within decaying life. While some
of us are dogs, some cats are kind.

A lively living, living such
a lie. Suppose I knew, the moon,
a pinhole, was just punched out
from my quarter shot at the sky.