Monday, February 23, 2015



it was the year I ran away from home
leaving my rotten days of boredom behind
to stare into the facade of the carnival
the year the clown interviewed me
smiling and smelling like wine
with a perverted look in his eye
the year I walked into the sideshow alley
mingling with the lady of nicotine
howling with the alley cats
the year I found the shooting gallery
where the clowns shot heroin
before eating cotton candy
the year I saw disturbed remnants of laughter
with their superficial appearance
unable to find the holographic truth
the year I failed juggling
but passed kissing the elephant girl
with her fragrance of mustard and fries
the day the hot dog-faced boy
locked me in the monkey cage
barking with an illegal smile on his face
the year I won the doll prize
kissing the bearded lady
where nobody wins
the year I learned games were not honest
but the carnies gave candy apples
to the kids
the year I woke in some alcove
under the roller coaster
wrapped in feathers and caramel
the year I walked towards the sombre sunrise
towards a fortune of boredom
leaving a carnival fa├žade

wp/Feb 2015

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Bathing in Wallpaper

                                                     image by Elene Usdin

                                                       Bathing In Wallpaper

opening her eyes
she peeked at the wall
not knowing what it was
its image as clear as the air
bathing in wallpaper

flawless and crisp
like nothing was there
unsure of where it came from
or why it consumed her
bathing in wallpaper

seeing herself in the reflection
a retrospective film disguised
as memories come rushing
despair and sadness shine
bathing in wallpaper

the wall smashed into pieces
scattering across the floor
not believing what she saw
numb from the unmanageable medication
bathing in wallpaper

Tuesday, August 26, 2014


                   Asylum Rhapsody

as he stands
in his room
of his inferno,
his mind spins inward.
stands with him
and wanders without sound,
bruising his eardrums
with deafening rhythms
of  solitude and suffering.

colors form
    upon his eyes,
dazzling with sensations
    in his heart.
moving patterns
race around
    the wilderness
of his head,
     confused recollections
from their trenches.
away they fly
scampering in the cloud
twisting through
the wrought-iron bars,
caressing the fragments
from the convulsive arrangement
        that protect him.
so when
        the crazy spindles break
he unfastens rage
from his paint,
but it sticks on
         with free will,
dancing in the confusion
and frolicking
on the fatalities
of his synaptic battles.

so he goes back to the window alone
       and paints
the starry night.

               this is realistic version (digital) of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"

Friday, April 11, 2014



they lift bats
pound their gloves
chew gum
wipe sweat off their foreheads
proud in their uniforms
overwhelming like ballerinas

they smile and fist pump
when scoring a run or making a play
shake their heads with a wrong call
Barnstorming Boys of summer
moving from town to town
sliding with the hot summer sun

the joy that came across their faces
when slamming the ball
over the fence
the grace how they catch the ball
run the bases
with dirty uniforms

I came early to love baseball
even as a ten year old
I knew how to swing a bat
catch and throw the ball
somehow learning by watching
Satchel and his Barnstorming boys of summer

Thursday, March 27, 2014


                                                              painting by WP

the deed of painting
is how I process experience
a way of moving things
that live inside me outward
a way of purging

my canvas becomes a surface
onto which this experience
is layered scratched poured
rubbed and glazed
a way of purging

these experiences come from
traces of dreams and memories
imagined communication
with the dead and divine
a way of purging

paintings derived from what I see
in myself an others
showing an exploration of human nature
holding onto dead things in the dark
a way of purging

Sunday, March 23, 2014


                                                           photo by Tracey Emin

I laid under my bed for a week
making jazz and poetry

Sunday, March 9, 2014

ROOM 1403


                                                photo Lee Plaza Bonnie Bleeccher

                 ROOM 1403

in that drunken room
where the pulled down curtains
would hide his gloom
as the flamingos danced

drinking with loneliness
where his psyche was senseless
and the whiskey made him wise
he sang with the angels

he always sat in his big chair
getting ready for the next one
always surprised with the laughter
from he room next door

he never turned on the TV
so he stared at the light bulb
remembering his younger days
with no concept of failure

he never spoke
as he talked with his poems
forgetting his assured success
would never make him rich

he had such great fun in that room
dancing with the flamingos
singing with the angels
staring  at the light bulb

and writing that last poem