Author Archive

odd ramblings in the middle of the night

tuesday, 02.07.20..12

bragadocio a dosie doh and here we go.  spent a week partying my ass off and i’m exhausted…  i’m running on fumes.  Saturday night, i found out while watching CNN and the Nevada Caucus results that i was married to the new female commentator in a parallel universe.  more of the TV saying one thing and my mind hearing something completely different.

only sold 3 copies of my new book, “Space Christals” and i’m not sure how to proceed in promoting it.  i’m thinking of leaving some copies lying around in coffee shops and maybe even outside the library here in town.  don’t know what good it will do.  everybody seems to be so busy smartphoning that no one has time to try to figure out my poetry.

i’m quitting the Space Program
i’m not even in the Space Program
you can tell by the way i like to breathe atmosphere
and we all go home with smiles on our faces

what’s really tragic is that you’re reading this
maybe nobody is reading this
maybe i’m not writing this
maybe i’m just imagining i’m writing this

my head is a big ball of mush right now

wait a  minute…  now i remember!  i’m supposed to be engaging the reader!  but actually i have no time for that… there’s nonsense to discuss, one thing that there seems to be a steady supply of.

speaking of nonsense, this is an election year and i’ve been watching a lot of CNN…  i think i’m addicted.  the debates are better than any reality shows out there for entertainment.  i’m glad there are still 4 candidates.  can’t wait for the next shoe to drop.  the top two spend more time explaining themselves than talking about the issues.  i probably won’t even vote… i’ve moved 3 times in 7 months…  once across the country.   yeah, so i probably won’t vote.  i’d vote Green anyway so probably not gonna do them much good this year.

now i’ll close with a poem from my new book:


Riding the main road into Zion,
Of the Pope
Taking off his miter
And jacking off to a picture
Of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas
Doing it on a divan,

Sweat dripping from my mustache,
It tastes like your sex

And I’m thinking of you,
Far away in Zion,
Lying in bed
With a dyke named Hal
Eating Malomars and smoking Pall Malls,
Malomar crumbs on your saggy, brown belly.

I’ll be in Zion in 12 and a half hours
If I push the Dodge the rest of the ride
And don’t get stopped for speeding.

Can I have coffee with you in the morning?
Will you let me tell you dirty stories
While I make you scream?

Tell Hal to put your key under the mat
When she leaves.

I have a trunk full of Malomars.


the fugitive

some guy firebombed the courthouse in my hometown and was running around which prompted me to write this piece of nonsense.

The Fugitive

On their first meeting,
the Fugitive comes to the
Adversary’s front door
But the Fugitive isn’t there.

On their second meeting,
the Adversary comes to the
Fugitive’s front porch
And leaves the Adversary his Staff.

The Fugitive and the Adversary never meet.


the purple pill of madness

a poem from the first section of “Space Christals”

the purple pill of madness

in a thousand years
in some ecstatic frenzy
i may go mad beyond recovery
and wander off across the milky way
to sit upon a speck of dust
and ponder a coke booger
i once drew
from my left nostril

you may not be so fortunate
when you see the light of error
retrieval is for dog stars

see me madly laughing
at everything you hold dear
you will have plenty
to laugh about plenty

to think you could have
once looked a melting gaze
upon your adversary

now your latitude is platitudes
and your beattitudes are flatulence

you took the purple pill of madness
it’s too beautiful
i know
it’s true
i took it too

you will have everything you desire
and more than you desire
and nothing you desire
will come as a surprise

but it needn’t be this way
you can dream your cares away
to your heart’s desire

come and sit by the fire
madness is a fine state of loving
the creative will is yours

(Standing In Line) At The Pay Confessional

(Standing In Line) At The Pay Confessional


(Standing in line) at the pay confessional
in my photo opportunity suit,
a cabaret of poetry in one hand,
just currency for some canceled Czech,
I get to the magic number dispenser lotto machine
but it’s empty!

A mime in drag with a roll of ticker tapes
sidles up to the promontory of the receiving unit
with the Host.

Will I get to taste Sal(i)vation or have to settle
for Sal(i)sbury Steak instead. Damned mystery meat
plagues my dentifricial overtures!

I take a numberless number, it’s best not to look.
I will be called to the hot seat when my time is /UP/!
Scenic variations drift through my view-strator as I… i.. i.

(stand) in line waiting at the pay confessional.


I had a dream that I went to McDonald’s and they tried to serve me a live 3-headed dog and then chased me around trying to force me to eat it.  I wrote this poem about the experience:


Cork built him some arches
for all the boeuf junkies
who even now

Line up at his golden gates
for what sure tastes like


I can see the double rainbow
at the foot of Orion’s Belt.


should have it


Whatever you do don’t

Cerberus with his transplanted heads
and I’m sure he tastes nothing
at all like baby carrots!

Though I didn’t take a nibble.
He was so cute all I wanted
to do list:

1) take him home with me!
2) feed him baby carrots!
3) pet him like a lover!


ten cent poem

Space Christals

ten cent poem

reflection in a looking glass
for our softer parts
listen to the mute wisdom
of us entangled

feeling each other’s heat
like the dying embers
of a fire on the beach

twisting together, entwined,
searching our softer parts
with all that we have in us

and collapsing in our own sweat.

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

his name is b.

"Space Christals" by P.A.Donohue

a poem about a schizophrenic i would meet at the psychiatric center

his name is b.

i meet him by the ashcan, his name is b.
he’s a poet like i someday dream to be
i’ve known him at the center where i get
my anti-insanity inoculations every two weeks

he shows me his latest poem, it’s called:

“I am not a Schizophrenic any more”

i love his fantastic psychedelic handwriting
he says he might write some poetry about horses
all i know about horses
is not to bet on them like my dad did

b. is a great guy
he has so many friends
he sometimes forgets my name
if he doesn’t see me for a couple months
but he remembers my name this time

he never forgets my face
he always smiles at me when he sees me
he likes to smoke out by the ashcan
and suffers the happy idiot a glimpse

a couple short poems

Space Christals by P.A.Donohue

"Space Christals" by P.A.Donohue

a couple of short poems from the volume “Space Christals”

underneath an orange sky

the pocket krakatoas are working overtime
filling the air with sulfuric hilarity
on board the mother planet i call home
tanning carrots underneath an orange sky

shed a tear

shed a tear for Jed McGrady
he thought he found himself a lady
he bought himself a brand new suit
they buried him in it with his boots



Behind the Monolith

Behind The Monolith

Behind the Monolith is
a hand-scribbled note

On the back of a drugstore receipt.
“I could still see you”

when your face shattered
at the news of the departure…

Lying in a heap of other notes,
some just as incongruous with the

Continuous hum of the MonOLith.

Here’s one:
Map of Berlin 2006″

written on a cocktail napkin
in lipstick.

Means nothing to me.

So I search through the scraps
that lie at my feet for what seems like-

And then I find it.

Written in my hand on
a used bus ticket from the future

“It isn’t so”

The Bread is Risen

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

the second poem from my volume of poetry “Space Christals”

The Bread Is Risen

The Bread is risen
on the observation deck
of our little station of the Crossroad

Just in time for
the transmigration of the fowl
to their summer palaces.

I’m catching a few H. Ray’s
out on the solar panels
in the heat of the blinding Moon.

Don’t sweat the delivery,
just open wide and receive
your hosts with Earthly delight!

The cran-grape juice is excellent
with the risen Bread and
makes a Steamed Hamster

As happy as a Baby Carrot
to wallow with the swine-flu
in the comfort of an epidemic.

Can’t you taste the Bread is Risen?


commentary :  my nickname in college was “hamster” and i imagine myself as a sacrifice, how would i be served?  steamed hamster and i surmised it tastes like baby carrots.

%d bloggers like this: