3 poems i read last night @ the mystic journey, a bookstore in venice


Listen to the wind
the mockingbird speaks
my kind of language
flecks of white under black wings

my own wings help me
to see this great city
as I soar
over the rich man’s domain

I crap like a pigeon
in their swimming pools
on their tennis courts

I peck at their mailboxes
the wooden flesh is weak
no match for my beak

I eat rattlesnakes for dinner
the poison is in my zip code
nine-oh-to, see the cauldron


with its cold free radical consommé
on a late great fashionable plate
go see, if it’s not too late
and hear, if a damn can still be given

have a close encounter
with an exacting mind
speak with tiny braille nipples
to the blind.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *


I have gotten into some bad habits.
For one thing, I like to bite our dog.
Sometimes I bite her on the ears.
My wife, Laura, doesn’t like it
When I make Lucy yelp in pain.
Somehow, I feel that biting
Is a language a dog understands.
But why on earth
Should I hurt the poor thing?
It’s not right,
And I need to quit it right away.
The toughest thing, they always say,
Is to quit cold turkey.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Howl busted the yawn wide open, broke it down
into the screaming hysterical hip hop city streets,
ran naked over the Golden Gate Bridge at dusk
and plunged into the icy cool stream of consciousness
of America worldwide.

Go Daddy! Big Daddy, go Sky Father
of the tiny pieces of paper with wings
Yo! Pop Daddy of the wide round mouth,
big and tall books, and large magazines.

Yo!  Give it up for the Grandmaster,
the luminous name of the poet Allen G.,
the man, the one who laid it down
and laid it all out, yeah, the man, Ginsberg,
he who sang with a big voice, a huge brain,
and a giant heart, who sang for sex and pain,
for madness and truth, for life and the death
that spikes that crazy immortal paradoxical elixir,

yeah, who else could sing and rave,
rage and shake his fist at the tight-ass Five Stars
who overcompensate with Greek god missiles
for what they can’t give to their women at night,
yeah, Mr. A.G., that’s who (look it up in Who’s Who,
page 4 – 1 – 1), he who knew what time it was,
yeah, he who knew when to dis’ the establishment,
when to throw a bucket of splash
on the wicked witchy parliamentarians,

yeah, Allen G., that’s who, who else had the funk
to freak the system, to speak up and speak out
for peace, to open the eyes of the masses
and not pander to the pandemonium,
nobody else said it like him, with wisdom, serenity,
stone cold chutzpah, and a harmonium.

— H A L ☮ ♥



Climate Change is real . . . can there be any doubt?

Frontline, a terrific show on PBS, will leave not a shadow of a doubt in your mind.  In fact, the only scientific minds speaking out against Climate Change have been 100% bought & paid for by Big Oil.


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