Another form of silence...
building walls
building salvation,
waiting for another season
to melt the ice.
no longer does silence
make sense,
just another form of space
just another way for death
to call us home.


I  don’t want a machine
To correct my grammer
To correct my verse
Or cover my ass

I want to let the lines run free
Run on in this paragraph and in this space that I am allowed to

And let the lucky days
Run with my
Unlucky keys
As I type the next
Uniformed and

He wouldn't tell me his name
standing in my doorway
he didn't speak,

In winter
he didn't reappear.

Rooftops and leaves
clutter this Saturday afternoon

True to form, certain
actors faked their way
through the gates,
but I have their numbers.

Death wont be ringing
my buzzer today.

The wig lady walked by
My car window
In her white uniform
She proudly displays
Through rain
Through mud
And past graveyard puddles
She collects happily.

She has witnessed
untimely construction
And wants no part
Of it.

I first noticed her when I
Was driving to class
10 years ago,
and I still see her walking,
with her tired bones,
and her lively wig
hanging on her head,
like a tired nail.

She walks by

Same soil
Same path

She probably
Fucked all the cops
In this city
Back in 1972.

too many rings
and not enough fingers
to place them on

drowning in fear
lonely boys
remain silent

preferring to slip away
into the falling waters
then give their
shiny souls away.



​All writings by Jim Szudy 

Some angels laugh

at the solar system

the rest smile in 


taken by devil constellations. 


"stories grow

in the dark"

Salinger described 

the shadows...


a rebel stands next to a 

spent coward

who screams among the 


I think they are one in the same. 


an old man across the street 

from me

tried to shovel

the weight of


a snowplow came by 

and reminded


there is always a machine 

behind it all.


the garage

door is open

the cats are letin



street lamps

light up souls 

dark as a strange alley.


Bars speak


women and men too.



love is murder…love is broken glass…love is a moving target…love is nothing…can there be anything  greater than nothing?

“The one that got away…”
A classic phrase that always seems to be waiting around a darkened corner - always soliciting and lingering in the shadows, just for you.

A dirty phrase like this can assist in making complacent temples out of crushed egos, dead dreams, and catastrophic aspirations.

So “art replaces love” eh?

Grim reality soon sets its hooks into your spine; paralysis all
around, your mind flickers in the flames, shattered glass cuts into your eyes, and soon, you are engulfed by demon angels that will not let go of you.

Images of lost direction are captured on the eternal films we all posses and develop sooner or later.  Some private images we wear out in public, whether we intend to or not.  The reels become undone and the films roll to the temples we build under bridges, over seaways, and at the beginning of our deaths.

While sitting at a desolate bar in Oklahoma, I stared at my empty shot  glass and opened my hungover wallet and laughed - I had no money left.

I was sitting next to four empty bar stools, and glared toward the dirt filled window that overlooked a torn down farmhouse as I wondered to myself why I left the temple - why I left at all. Why she left.

Well, I guess the more you know, the less you understand.

When did the wave recede? I never noticed it rolling back until it was gone. I was never good at swimming anyways, and by the time I was ready to try, the water was gone. There were no sandy beaches, no pond or lake to walk around, only the temple, my temple - still remained.

So I went there, again, and once inside, I walked around the softground, feeling the broken glass crunch and twist under my feet. I felt at home, I felt nothing, and after all…what can be greater than


Today is the anniversary
Of the day when I
Lost my car,
Ah winter, it was
A lost cause…

My car was jet black
maybe, I cant remember,
Im just listening
To heavy water

And it sounds
Like angels
Shitting in a tub

That’s nothing new.
And the pipes just froze.


Peasant hands
Needle through
Healthy cigarettes
and empty
Cans of hope

An episode of
Our generation
Was on a wide screen

Flawless and

I only wish
They had
My shoe size.

Scarves follow
The wind

to industrial snow
and visiting windows

that inch their way
To Napolean doorsteps

And  Russian shows.

How about a college
For a funny job?

I laughed all
The way to bank

I had nothing in
My savings, nothing in
My monologue to read.

My heroes are buried in strings
In tombs
In e sharp minor,

Not on the gridiron
Not on the fences
Or certain newspapers

They are all a secret
A time to tell
A quote that will
Leave the breeze
And ignite a war.

My heroes
Punch with pens
And have children
With other

It doesn’t matter to me
That we stomp on the same

I own what they like,
And this is just another

Mrs Death made a joke;
I laughed and applauded
At Her attempt to fuck me


Tucked away
A past and present
Met at a stoplight
Outside of
a broken down window.

Two souls
were cut from the same stone
and ashes fell

from the ink on your neck.

Mail returned,

The gold was
A chance meeting
in a company classroom
yet to be learned…


At sunset
The water stills
Itself for another day

At sunrise
The water awakens
And readies itself

The newspaper arrives….


In a frenzy
Around friends
I bet heavily on

The odds are always in his favor.


Sleep, dancing in the minds of many, running on collapsed flowers,

mother wants me to say thank you, grandfathers are still smoking, its

all I have left you see, and the highways falls, I will never be able

to make it home on time, sleep, throwing knives at walls, fights over

a sick bed, sleep, jobs in a market, distrust of  machines, sleep



Judas you sold
Your Savior
For pieces silver

He was worth
More than a million
Bars of  gold
and you settled for

So much less.

He would’ve made
a great American.