DEAD SNAKES

POEM 1: Bottled Sitting amidst sparkling tombs at midnight I am holding a green bottle in my battered hands All the crimson wine in my bell...

Chubby Little Angel slide further along the path mayhem envelopes without a notice mayhem ensues as we slip deeper into den...

Café Solo A visitors’ book lies unopened and unsigned. I look at my face in a glass of black coffee fringed by a caramel corona. The gla...

The Hip Lexicon of Contemporary Television by Peter Magliocco Maglioccolsvgs@aol.com She's a T.V. personality ensconced, ...

DEAD CHICKENS The dead chickens spoke to me. They said I should turn on the fryer and put them in. I don’t know why they chose me. I...

A PLANT FOR GHOSTS TO EAT     In the north lands of the Anishinaabeg, pony tail, Indian pipe, balsam and spruce, the clean scent of Christma...

FAT MIND, COOKING UP A RECIPE Fat Mind:   Get this. Goons:   Yes boss? Fat Mind:   We’ll set Clubfoot up as King. Goons:   That idiot?...

I like his poetry, but I have to admit his paintings are fantastic!

His poem called Howl is very impressive.

Time Magazine called him the laureate of American lowlife.