Ink Pen Blogger

  Look at all these records. Every kind of genre. Fucking beautiful. Old style. New style. The past and future. A blast into the present. A sound of pure happiness. The vinyl revolution. 

I'm not the kind of poet that writes silly poems about the rain or the weather. But that's a lie.

I Cut Myself Shaving OUCH!! Blood red. Small cut. Shaving razor. Shaving cream. Mustache, Goatee. Not anymore. Now Available!   Read it now visit the: Hound Dog Bookstore  

For some reason my latest poem was about a fart.  Who the hell writes poetry about farts?  I'm not some 12 year old writing silly poems about boobs and farts am I?  Hell no, at least I hope not.  I'm 42 years old.  It's time to create some real, honest, and kick ass poetry once again. 

Can poetry hurt you? Can it make you go insane? Can it destroy your soul?

Sometimes I forget what it's like to be small. Sometimes I forget what it's like to hear "No!" "No!" "No!" "Stop it!" "Do you want to go to your room!" all the time. "Just wait until you have kids".  That's what my mom said to me one time when I was getting on her nerves.  Of course I was about 12 or 13 at the time but I think it applies to kids or young adults of all ages.   (Mom you were right) Sometimes kids can be a pain in the ah....um....butt. But for the most part kids are sweet, cute,  and so darn smart. Sometimes you just sit there in complete  awe at how nice, kind, and lovable they can be. Sometimes my daughter reminds me of  what it really means to be an adult. I can't fit into her shoes but she can sure fit into mine. Sometimes she's more of an adult than I am. I need to fit into her shoes more often. I love you so much Lucy Jane Clouse. Thank you for being....you. Lucy:  age 3...

As I open up another bottle of beer  I  reflect  upon  this life,  yes this life.   Summer-time is here.  And at this moment in  time right now at this  very second it actually feels  like Summer.  Just like it‘s suppose to  feel like.   Summer-time is in full bloom as the night sky,  the stars,  and the Earth spin in space.   Drinking beer. George Killian’s beer.   A very good beer.   A great tasting beer with  an  excellent  vibrant red color  that is full of perfect bliss.   Yes, I know my senses are being clouded by  the short  lived effects of alcohol.  Yes, I know.   Yes, I know this  feeling will end.   Yes, I know my senses are in control now.   So when I come down from  this pleasant feeling  I will continue to live.   I will continue to find my-self  and I will continue to serve something call...

Empty glass of wine waiting to be filled. The bills are all paid at the moment. Just got paid the other day. Off of work and drinking beer and wine late at night. Went to the Farmer's Market earlier today and  picked up some good stuff. Right now it's a little past ten o' clock and drinking  some wine from good old California. Earlier me and my girlfriend were thinking of  things to do such as skinny dipping and other stuff. We both thought it was a good idea. Now we just need to find a nice quiet place  to try it or in other words to do it. Is this poem getting a little too personal? Maybe just a little bit but yet I still continue to  write it down even if it reveals more than you  would like to know. I'm going to get another glass of wine.