They follow each other

Sniffing suburban asses.

Chasing clown cars

Across town ---

Past strip malls

Populated with Vietnamese Nail salons---

Not to be confused with

The “Hang Him from a Cross with Nails” salons---

Discontinued discount stores,

Money lenders, check cashiers,

Tacquerias, and occasionally the

Name sake strip joints---

They are searching for the Deal.

The real deal---any deal.

Standing in a circle buying houses

From each other.

Flipping houses, Flipping the Bird.

Not relating to each other

Or to Reality.

But what does reality have to do

With Real Estate?

They only know that there is no today

No tomorrow, no history, no future, only now!

They must have it now!

Where can they get the newest,

Biggest, counter culture, fuel efficient,

Alternative energy SUV?

They applaud conceptual Art.

They just don’t get it.

So they chase their tails---

Or the neighbor’s tail.

They pray for a Savior---

Only to settle for a sailor

Whose only line is:

“Sailors are steamy semen.”

Suburbia is populated with Near the

Middle, middle-class drones---

Suburbia is polluted with drones

From the middle of the middle class.

They are the epitome of the Herd animal.

It’s just I never knew turkeys grouped in herds.

Although I have heard that birds of a feather

Reproduce by flocking.



Come, walk with me -

at my side - not hand in hand.

Though the road to hell is

paved with good intentions,

our path does not stop,

nor linger there.

We go where angels AND demons

fear to tread.

Beyond the living, far past the dead,

Still we walk, side by side,

stride for stride.

A sense of dread-

fear as thick as the clinging fall fog

on Bleaker St, or on Telegraph Avenue in Berkley.

At 3:00 a.m., past the forgotten edifices of

Ruinous philosophies-

if war is hell, where the

hell are we?

Even measured strides

as we walk side by side

the path narrow,

it widens suddenly--

no apparent reason -

reason has no appeal -

let us strive to set aside logic,

exchange it for tragic

comedy - Angels do not dance

on the heads of pins - they just

sit, dangling their legs - exchanging

limericks and puns - lamenting

souls – unleashed- half done.

Pace for pace - side by side

Come, walk with me.

Let us search for the face

Of GOD or perhaps the

Good works of Lucifer.

We were all good once

Or perhaps twice.

Memories beckon - unheeded

Threaten -

woulda - coulda – shoulda,

Never to be again.

Come, walk with me -

Side by side, not hand in hand,

Let us ford this stream of

consciousness - wade through the

depths of our character.

Finally, we, at the conclusion of our journey

realize that just perhaps- - -

we should have chosen the path less traveled.




It’s not just humid it’s downright muggy.

Mom never said “humid” describing the weather,

said using words that weren’t common was just putting on “airs”.

Yeah, hot muggy air.

I’m “retired”.

Bills still need to be paid, dishes washed.

Dogs walked. Yard work worked.

Poems written, submissions submitted.

Reflections reflected on.

Deals made with the devil.


Grown children to worry and fret over.

Too many bills, too little money.

Will the Republicrats get into power?

Will the Demogues stay in power?

Worry, worry, worry.

I’m really good at it you know.

Worry, that is.


At one time it was drilled into us all.

Yes drilled, “THE BOMB” was on everyone’s minds.



We drilled in factories, drilled in office buildings, classrooms.

Plans were made.


Living up north we had to have six months of firewood outside,

a month in the basement, where we were to escape tornadoes,

fallout and the marauding hordes of the apocalypse.

Guns and the Bible were mandatory.

Food and water were highly recommended.

We were schooled in worry.

We had the commies, beatniks, hippies, druggies,

blacks, gays, Vietnam, and the feminists.

Seems like we had it all.



The Raunchy Rapper meets the Reaper

(First name Grim)

His toothy smile a deadly grin.

Rhyming and timing Rapper lands one on the bony chin.

The Reaper

(First name Grim)

Does not notice him.

The Rapper kicks his bony shin.

The Raunchy Rapper brags-n-bags on


Secretly he wants to suck their toes.

Rhyming and timing to hide his fear,

He offers the Reaper

(First name Grim)

A beer.

“Yo, Yo!

You looking for me?”

As he busts a move – to the left and rear.

Says Grim to him –“Hell no bro.

Your career? 

It’s dead.

Thanks for the beer.” 


Terry resides in Vista, Ca with his best friend and wife of forty years and two cats and two dogs, lots of bunny rabbits, hawks, owls, crows, hummers, gophers, and the occasional 'possum and roaming coyotes. He is a member of the Veterans Writing Group of San Diego. Publication creds: Damfino, A Quiet Courage, Mad Swirl, Gyroscope Review and others, his work can also be found in a dozen anthologies and he was the recipient of the "Art Young's "Good Morning" Poetry Prize 2016 [Garbanzo Literary Journal].