The Abandoned Station






Larry's Wad

Topical Runoff


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It's James Dickey-inspired poetry. Not quite as miserable as Sylvia Plath. Not much else to say, really. It's kinda like the stuff on the 'surfing blindly' pages at the front of this website. If you like poetry... then you're in the minority, sadly.


Here at command central

Here at command central we have the hottest models doing the purest drugs and Greco-roman architecture as far as the eye can see.

Pouring over the page with a keen eye and a sharp mind, grabbing out points, hosing them down, then shaking them dry. Better than new and finally sanitized.

Cowboys on the edge of the military industrial complex. Fending off wild copyright infringements and bands of bloodthirsty peacenik savages.

Ill and sick at the same time. Redundancy is a classic symptom a popular indicator. Make the plays on the bases and dance around them to piss off the ump.

It was too much to deal with and too fast to do anything about. The life went across his face like a blur, leaving a sharp sting on both cheeks.

I was listening once. I was so sure that I could control what was happening or at least steer the world onto the proper course. But then the year passes and the joints strain and everything gets louder at the exact time you need to stop and think and suddenly you find yourself pinned under the wheel of a Cadillac. At least itís a half-decent American car, you think, as pints of blood pour out of the gaping hole in your chest.


Iím sorry doctor I lied lied lied

It seemed easy humming and hawing and no Iíve never done any of those things

Donít itch donít ache not split sides or runny noses bloodís not too thick too think but just right

Take it in the ear on the tongue on the chest and the back breathing deeply

I yawn when you turn away

This scheduled molestation

Is little more than a small inconvenience

No doesnít hurt when I do this or that or the other thing

Thirteen or fourteen times a week sir maíam officer always keeping my eyes on the road or the ball or whatever bright and shining

I donít feel special when you touch me and itís costing more with every visit

Youíre too aware of my failings precious physician person so please bare with me as I gather my tall tales and clothes and back slowly out of the room


Up the pity creek

Up the pity creek and spelunking in caves of doubt

Inside the dying acorns of possible


On a Lenin highway high point

A rush of sky into the picture of the storm

Giving back breaths to a chipped stone lung


With salutations and hats flying above our heads

Good times have come again and all it cost was a pound of prime flesh

Plenty more where that came from


Step into the dentist chair

Another donation to the chairman and the brood

Comes around earlier every year

A shift in the winds of the real and the sands of time


I bet you had plans for your skin and bones

A box in the ground

Not a handful of ash to stoke the fires


Perimeter Blues

A buzzing covers me

Like a voice through a sandstorm

It comes like the holy see

Majestic on first glance but easily worn


A frayed and cindered hierarchy

Put down on paper like drunken streaks

Government sanctioned anarchy

Bouncing off my naked cheeks


The best fence are made of words

Guns from origami folds

I sift through definitions condemned absurd

Chiseled by elders long since sold


Five babblers standing upright

Clutching bullet points with fear

Eyes searching but still sealed tight

Curtail profit projections for next year


Stifled by expectant rhymes

I donít do this very often

Desperate measures come from desperate times

So I only wait while our hearts all soften


Curtains for Kabul

A dry wind blew across the cracked wall

Itís not moths that have taken down the carpets

Itís not the clicks of the exhausted triggers

A handful of dirt in the mouth of the father

Canít read the face covered in cloth on the side of road

Still a road and not a grave for the mother


Sometimes the birds make the difference

To find fear in nuts and bolts


Whoever touches the buried metal

Wins the final prize

The eyes go big

The skin grows small

The soul bursts forth while angels find the courage to sing and cry in harmony


Everything you produced will turn to dust just as you were taught but they didnít tell you it will be first destroyed spit upon vilified ostracized dragged through the streets held up in flames stretched across political altars cut apart with cameras and microphones wept upon by friends relatives and handfuls of sympathetic strangers before turning to dust


Summer bubbles on the surface but the seasons are a tired charade

Cold death warm death rain death

the clear picture sliding out of the frame


A warm sun is the only smile of the day

But it dries the earth in seconds burns the life out of the ground

Dripping blood into crimson stain breathing flesh into cracked skin


I tell you I never believed in a burning village deserved and a house become crater whether they be flat screen TV picture books or grandfather tales from the village over the eternal hill never happened no how no way


Until I crouched in dust brush hands over torn clothes and yes I see I smell I hear I taste I feel there were people here not long ago everything from children to seniors there were beating hearts once standing in my shoes


The townís name canít fit on my tongue

It is filled with too many others

When I confess it will come out at once

Spilling across the floor like chess pieces

All pawns



if art is free, how are the rich going to appreciate it more than the rabble?