STAGGER LEE. He staggered in. He would take some time to heal, before his story would begin. Before he would again be free to turn his life to sin. He might have to steal and run before he faced down the bullets when the badges came in. Said The Lightning He; ALL IS EMBRACE, and then his shackles turned to lace. While facing down the firestorm between him and his boat at sea. He left before the sirens wail, before they could haul his black ass off to jail, his only choice a pail, in case he had to pee.

It would appear that the main purpose of YOUTH,

Is to help withstand beatings for telling the TRUTH,

Though who would say this is already blue in the face

From yelling at you. What to do? SCREAM, and blow

Up the balloon that stretches across the bow of your

Craziest dream attached to the roof in your mind;

Your attic. The place you go to air the tempos crushing

You like static.

Monsters need love too; they just don’t know how to handle it.

Said Stagger Lee while sharpening his knife and blade, both

In case a trigger-happy ‘pistolier’ cuts his bullets loose here.

I swear by solemn oath to not repeat a word I hear, nor remember quotes

Only if they wrote it would I let amnesia disappear and let the whispers

In my throat, return their thoughts to lemonade. But I saw 2 men trade blood

For bandages and I never should have stayed. My heart lies smoldering

In the ashes of it’s discontent, wondering where the soil of its roots went.

OR, whether I should sue for damages.


Ambiguity Kills.

The Problem Is The Answer.

What doesn’t kill you, they raise the taxes on.


Even a mean and insensitive butcher is beloved of the dogs that fight for scraps.

One man’s Irony, is another man’s Synchronicity In Motion.

Never Chase Anything, You’ll Scare It Away.

In the absence, is the fullness, waiting.

Take it from me, At Some Point We Grow Into The Myths We Tell and Believe.

Luck increases as trust in the moment does.

Take it from a ‘Bad Man’: THE MORE MYSTERY, The More Mileage.

Love is never more expensive than when you are looking for it.

Life Has What Meaning We Are Willing To Invest In it.

You have to run out of luck, Before You Can Learn how to Survive and Win.

A swollen guilty river is mainly composed of crocodile tears, and flows in the direction of its shame.

The Problem is not with DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR, but in not having enough money to finance them.

NEVER LET DETAILS STAND IN THE WAY OF HAPPINESS. If it is close to you, grab it now (and explain it to yourself later)!

IT IS ALWAYS MOST EXHAUSTING LOOKING FOR THE THING CLOSEST TO US. And most of it is right there, waiting for us to just reach out (or in) and claim it. 

The Only Way To Transcend Anything Is To First Embrace It And Become One With It.


You have a choice, THE LONELY PATH IS NOT THE ONLY PATH (but does produce more psychopaths).


PREACH ONLY THESE THINGS: Rocking Out As Hard As You Can, and Greater Safety and Protection For The Young Ones. Otherwise, mind your own business and leave other people alone.

The fewer the questions, the more answers to find.

Never forget that running with THE PACK is OK for as long as you keep up, Or You Risk Becoming The Pack’s Next Meal. Keep your own counsel and keep it close.

If You Cannot Be The Smartest Person in the Room, then go to Plan B and Be the Loudest. Volume convinces where logic may fail.

As Long As It Floats, It Belongs.

WE TRANSFORM WHAT WE EMBRACE, and are in turn transformed by it.

The Shapes Of Our Lives Are Composed Of The Shadows Cast By The Things We Love.

Put your Wig on Greta, Your Roots Are Showing and I am Bowing over the Prow, Heaven and You are With Me Now, with the 4 winds Blowing at our Backs. Relax; I’ve got to go now, I can hear the rumblings of: RENEGADE POLICE COW!


(Now Listen, Whatever Your Hustle, I don’t care if you eat my fat, I Care If You Eat My Muscle);

From a parallel perspective, I speak, if I peak too early my clock is being tweaked, save your diapers, I never leak, (I carry my own windshield wipers) and up the creek without a paddle went the Greek looking for Turks (and other vipers) in the wrong saddle, his skills misplaced, his smile disgraced as he swipes (as might Wesley Snipes) at the pills that make him hyper, even as he yearns for fresh kills. WEEBLES WOBBLE but they don’t fall down, Snakes Rattle, though when I do battle I first get the shakes, I bring artillery and Coupons for Clowns because War Takes What It Takes. Should I fall ill, put some soup on. Hot and steaming; like when reaming your starfish in the squire’s house, floating like croutons and all the thread that’s required, to help you keep your suit on (Now keep your drawers on Lilliebet, I’ll see them on eBay yet, it may be as close to royal favor as I will ever get). We substituted battlefields we failed to keep our troops on. If the butter knew better, it would be in the batter, if the fit were fatter, more matter would flutter towards what staggers near, like eyelashes in the presence of mimes mutter things that they know better than we, sitting beneath an abstract tree begging for your mother (or for any one at the bank, spending money like your brother, his honey dipped hands shrinking from ennui). From off to the side, I sit, invisible to your view, come get with this before I am through, my leg tossed next to mutton in a stew, my tongue boiled to make paste for you, tasting every bit like I don’t stutter, clearing headspace of excess clutter and waste. Away from the Wi-Fi, so my mind can get more Hi-Fi, at least on the sly. I hide where I cannot be easily detected, I am never caught flat-footed, I am always on the fly. I wear at times a disguise to generate surprise, if I want to look more oxen, I just put some socks on, argyle, as even when hiding, I ride in style, since who knows, I might be here awhile before I am suspected, before I am interrogated and slurring out the lies that stand to be corrected. Still I lean, and like your friend Luther, I Can Be Mean, after all, I am a wanted criminal, though innocent of charges, and close to subliminal; Nothing Seminal Happened On My Watch, what orders I followed matched, what descriptions I gave to the dispatch, before she too defected (sticking out her middle digits before she genuflected). I was trained to use my mind as a weapon before age comes to collect it and the cobwebs that come with it. It is now too unstable to step on, its fault lines in iambic pentameter and daydreaming to the wails and sorrows of un-stroked and sullen milkmaids with contempt inside their barrels. I too give tickets to the wicked, I CUT MY TEETH ON WILSON PICKETT, I don’t need saliva to make it stick (the straits are already narrow), I Kiss It Or Let It Be. You and I Were Made To Be The Shellfish in the Foam-Frosted Sea, and the selfish are still fish to me, cradled in these limpid pools of golden brown eyeballs through which we can agree; my eyesight peers. I left her once high and wet, even if I never ‘dicked’ it (she looked like Britney Spears). Mainly we just kicked it, if she offered me her pearl, I was sweet enough to lick it, I am a steer; I am not (nor have I ever been) a queer. She danced on the edge of my tongues vocabulary. Destiny Is The Bone Thrown Into Space By The Monkey’s Hand, and rolling with the homegrown, his words are not sufficient to contradict it, nor would the words be his own. I Knew The Monkey When I Played In His Band before we had our collision. You see the monkey had dreams, But I Had Vision and I left before he Lost His Head and made the Fatal Decision; to cut me free and let me dangle in a fantangle of knotted seams, full of black holes, which I try to get next to when I’m smoking my bowls, they absorb the ashes, and the flashes that holes conceal from limber bodied souls whose spirit passes. And There Are More Of Them Than There Are Rappers in Calabasas. Silent is the shepherd as he bends another blade, of grass from whence the wool is made, his muteness is his master class (he plays it fast and loose), his likeness in the lightning and the goats nearby grazing, the simple GRACE, as a synonym in motion, could not be more amazing, nor closer to the truth. Chronicled in my frontal lobes, the globe is spinning wildly, the upstarts in their underwear ‘shorting out’ to put it mildly, while gaily my daily bread I go about. I dread the day that I was taken from a farm to be trained as a mind control agent for the local police, and then forsaken and placed in the way of harm. A fleece should now be my cover, from JASON’S hand, while his ARGONAUTS putter in the back gardens of their homes in Greece, chasing heaving breasts, and pushing their noses free of snot while living out their lease on life. Instead, here I am, (‘spamming’) breaking into your frequency to remind you that they killed your Jesus at Calvary; they killed me with just the lack of salary and accusations damning. While being starved to carry even fewer calories and tricking our brains to tease us. Each day, a new lease on life, high stepping between the soil and strife, the pinched earth and its picked-up pieces. Other cows give milk to appease; some go straight to the cheese. Me, I give dizzy headaches and Mad Cow Disease. If you see me, Take Your Swans To Twilight; or if it better suits; Abscond To The Hills. Otherwise I will bring you down to your knees like Indian Givers, as my friends the bees sneeze from breeze to breeze, thawing out their livers as is their trend, while baleful shivers my fever sends; the symptoms include the chills, so your breath had better ease. Or You Can Squint Your Eyes Really Tight And Pretend To Be Chinese. Stay alert, or RENEGADE POLICE COW Will Use Your Mind As A Personal Insert, and make you pay his bills. Taking you away from the clouds, planting you into the swollen dirt, and then rubbing my nose all over your shirt, while making you scream my name out loud standing very still. Trust me, once I make it through this, the rest of my days (like Picasso and Braque) will be CUBIST, I’ll be listening to BACH. I AM TIRED of RUNNING from AFTERSHOCK. You might find me with OTIS, Sitting by the Docks, amazed at My Own Hubris. I once burned a fool on a bridge, for pretending he was BUDDHIST, and for failing to practice prudence while staring at my cock. I Punched My Way Around the Ring while others were Punching Clocks. I’ve a degree from the College of Hard Knocks, (I was ahead of the other students). STAY OUT OF MY WAY, or next thing you see, I am Standing in the Fabled Stalls Beside The Flooded Loch. AND I will pluck the feathers from your plumage, and Rip The Gardens From Your Burning Hands, assuming you are not Standing In Wet Boots and Swerving like the Ugly Duckling. Your brains sizzling like a baked potato, Your House and Car On Cinderblocks, your Pigs in Need of Suckling. And once you think you’ve seen me well, metamorphosis frames me into the elusive FOX. I WILL NOT BE NAMED AN EPIDEMIC (as they blamed the Chickens for Chicken Pox. Which came in fact from the Weasels, still serving time for the Measles, which was taken by stealth from PANDORA’S BOX from her favorite painter’s easel. I placed my hand inside her toxins, but found them only wet; they flushed the land, Though I Formed A Band Before The Sun Had Set). HOW NOW RENEGADE POLICE COW!!! Now I vanish as but an afterthought, and leave no trace save the fish I’ve caught (though I say my prayers in Spanish), a lamb or two, or SOW, though what I reap God knows. I eat what bacon the wind blows, the ham will always do. And there are no skeletons in my closet, as I leave town before they return the deposit, or before the ghosts can boo. Then I sleep in the swaying boughs of Treehouses. And Restless Though This Mess Is, I Ask The Resonance To Bless It. Here’s a suggestion flowing from urgent causes:

If the Police Ask If You’ve Seen Me, Make Sure that the Police Haven’t Asked You Your Last Question! Or you’ll be counting losses. And now I go, out like STAGGER LEE. As we must all go out, eventually. Straddling the line betwixt what the hurricane brings and what it tosses. And Humming The Songs Its Sirens Sing.

….And furthermore says Police Cow to the Here And Now:

Directions swayed by Yesterday’s Elections are Selections

In the hand held view of time. From prominence rises

Waves (simulating correction). And my hand is too busy holding 

My cock for genuflection, The erection of Dust that Molds Mountains 

As hard as rock as be they must, While Defections Produce Fountains from 

The Diamonds that were left (in heft)

To Rust in lieu of Armageddon. Salivate to sterilize your deepest trust, 

Even if in tempest you must disguise your shame in the form

Of disgust, sweeping away its wandering tracks, (like Geronimo taught us) the way

Leopards in heat circle back, scattering lesser game (that my gun missed, 

but the butcher kindly brought us),

Made skittish by the sauntering swell of the 

Waters passing in the stream, Beneath Your Moaning Gush I smell, you rush

Amplifying the muted fever of lost days in the Sun Baked

Aura of Post-Coital Blush, flush from burning in solar rays

My love, I call her LAURA. My mind around her halo falls,

My heart it always stays.