Tuesday, April 22, 2014


A tune from The Man


And hey, put on groovy glasses
~0-0~ for this

Burke Lee goes on a shamanic journey...



Looking over a journal from seven years ago I see that at age forty--I'm 5'10" at my straining limit--I was squatting 500, benching 300, dumbbell pressing 105 in each hand (I could've done more but that was as high as they had at the gym), leg pressing 1,200, maxing all the (prrfft!) machines, and could hit 18 wide-grip pullups. I weighed 210.

At various times in my life people have complained of me for being too skinny ("You're so skinny!"--as a kid in the back yard I could leap from a swinging rope, catching air, and grab onto a branch), and complained of me for being too fit ("Oh, here comes Superman with his precious bod!"), and complained of me for being too fat ("You really need to lose weight!"). The most I ever weighed was 240, maybe 245. I haven't been under 200 pounds since my mid-twenties when I was 190-195. Most of my adult life I've weighed about 210-220.

It's not the pounds, it's the inches. True. Except I have no idea what those numbers are.

Today I don't know how much I weigh, either, but I think it's about 200. The divorce diet sure works wonders. Plus I often toolbelt-up. You should know that people have called me Gunter. Working for the Confederated Tribes years ago, when the heavy pond liners needed to somehow become on the flatbed truck in order to go away, my coworkers said, "Get Gunter." Right now, at the drop of a hat--whoa, look at the hat, it's danglin'--I can crank out fifty pushups in under a minute and stand up immediately with no appreciable difference in breathing and without having broken a sweat.

Oh yeah, that's how I roll. Hardcore.

In my mid-forties I entered a fully-legit and sanctioned Highland Games match having never touched any of the equipment in my life. I didn't do the best, and I didn't do the worst, but I found out afterwards I was old enough to be the dad of every other dude there.

I can split rounds of wood with a monster maul one-handed with either hand. Not as reliably as with two hands, but nevertheless, it's a fact. And I can do this while reciting one of my poems.

Or even while reciting a whole bunch of them all at the same time.

I do think that's a bad idea though, because then it just sounds like a jumble. 


A Jim Morrison android called the Jimbot escapes from LA and hides up north in the redwoods developing cult followers in this short story less about the Doors and more about dehumanizing economic forces.

"Resurrection of the Lizard" is the first story in VISIONS FROM THE GUTTER, which is available on ebook.

Ebook purchase:



In print, the six VISIONS FROM THE GUTTER stories comprise the first section of AVENUE OF THE GIANTS.

Print book purchase:



Click the link to hear the free story:


Welcome to the Goth Hick world of Northern California's Humbaba County, where levitating Hippies battle the forces of globalization.

Monday, April 21, 2014


I'm a writer who was given a band. I did a book reading, and then Jon Lindberg said, "Look man, I read your book, and I like the way you handled the microphone at the reading, so here's the thing: I have this band--we don't have a name--and I want you to read your stuff for us and be our lead vocalist..."

Click the link to hear it:


for wisdom
sacrificed an eye.
Wotan the One-Eyed God
reigns supreme.
God of fury.
God of trances.
God of poets.
God of warriors.
The One-Eyed God
is the Phallic God.
His ravens
traverse the world,
return to Wotan
ruling on His High Seat,
whisper All Knowledge,
while wolves wait
at his feet.
First Earth,
Inhabited Earth,
Untamed Earth,
these three women
are Wotan's wives.
On an eight-legged steed
the Sly One rides
through air,
over ocean,
on ground.
The Reaver's rage
knows no bounds.
Wearing a wide-brimmed hat
the Bearded One waits,
waits until the Final Battle--
gathering the greatest warriors.
Wednesday is Wotan's Day--
Odin, variously known--
steadfast on the icy peaks,
hard, grim, wild--
All-Father Odin,
Inventor of Runes,
shaman of shamans--
madmen invoke his name!


Time for some CrowMag...

Click the link and have a listen:


In the ultimate poem first and final

letters combine to align in arrangement which reads
not just across left to right or right to left but forth and up and down and back

all making sense
no space omitted
it all interacts

form and content match
and the letters take shapes which in turn comment
missing nothing
senses over senses

and the poem it becomes thought

and the thought becomes matter

and we walk in the poem

and we breathe in the poem

and our hearts beat the poem

and beyond all language

the poem ex  p  l    O              o
                   l    O          O
                                  O      o           O               O
          O     o         o                  o              o

    o     o                  o                    o          o              o                o

  o       .    o  .                d               o             .       .              o                .          .

.          .                     .                                e      .
.     .          .                              .          .                                   s

Today we go to woo the wood
rush the brush
usher a gusher
recreate a sacrifice
this redwood dissolution
dislocation, desolation
rings fertile rot
down to loam
bark screams
back to duff
the compost turf
there on the loam
sprouts bloom
blossom in the sod bosom 
ray and clay rejuvenate
spermatize resplendent
and this 
is how a god gets chopped