A Grander Dream

we need their trees to breathe right––
how is all so uptight?
how is all so upright?
day and night––
I think a solution,
a grander scheme,
a grander dream,
just nearly might
happen in three dimensions––
a horrific suspension
of disbelief.


And the Soft Wind Blows Now Available on Amazon UK (And US)!

Hello, Blog Readers!  My book (And the Soft Wind Blows) is now available for purchase in the UK (and still in the US)!  You can follow this link here: http://lanceumenhofer.com/buy-the-book.html to order it!  ($7.99 US; €5.19 UK)!  Happy July reading!   -Lance


Cirque Du Insane

When will this circus end?
Carnival tents
Clowns laughing, clapping
Carrying on
With their hands
Hankering balloons
Mistaken smiles
Of happy joy-joy
Love boat ride for everybody
Give the children a toy, boy
When will this circus end?


Maybe I do deserve
ass on the grass
face to the sun
eyes to the skies
mind clear and absurd. 
head to the left
shaking a yes
teeth shining brightly
at my betrothed. 
legs as Indians
we sound like comedians 
birds accordions 
hearts always flow. 

Maybe you do deserve
a class act developing
personality enveloping
aching and trembling
heart always sure. 
a man on a fence post 
waiting for letters
handshakes through sweaters
never one to boast,
always throw in a toast. 
baking in the sun
going out on dry runs 
mailbox of feathers
heart always known. 

I guess we all do,
deep-deep down
painting a fence
ready to dance
waiting for someone 
to be called You.


We've got cisterns
full of somethingless waste.
They bring black flowers
to white nights
on Broadway and East Fifth.
I live with them
in rundown mountains,
dying casinos,
roofless bars,
and fallen homes.
If you've seen them sitting
there, smiling, talking, laughing
with their beards and beers,
you've seen them falling
down into
empty streets
with whores, wretches,
junkies, and the like.
Always one step away
from dying too young
with nothing to say.
Always one sip away
from Nothingtown Oblivion--
Can't they find another way?
I watch them
as they whore themselves
so selfishly away
to all women with big smiles,
and countless adulteries
they're back to that same place
with those same eyes
and leading on
to a night
of hollowed out


In solitude
we wait for light to emanate through us like silver leaves falling down
into empty depths full of new hope,
thoughts, curdling always from the blackest of blacks––
blackness night voids

We sit in our dilapidated boats, fishing in the streams,
our lines in the water curling and
circling around,
our minds receptive, casting nets into
nothingness black voids

We realize ourselves in these brittle moments of nonthoughts—
hunting with our neuronconnecting rifles:
the little rabbits, the little fish
in black oceans and black fields––
black nothingnight voids

Something Hardly Cleaned (Nonsensical Shit)

I’ve determined––
I need at least
one disgusting thing
in the place I live

––Something hardly cleaned,
To remind me how old I am––

Right now, it’s my ashtray:

After the butts had piled up
to where, again,
no more would fit,
I emptied it out,
tapping the trash can lip,
and placed it

But now
that it’s rid
of all those
horrible, disgusting
the bottom
lies thick
in wet tobacco
mixed with rain,
looking like sewer scum,

––nonsensical shit––

my stomach curls in.

Firecracker Eyes, Live On

There’s something unsettling
                                                with the state
of the world:

                                                Firecracker eyes,
                                                live on.

They watch
          as their tears
feed cancer:

                                                Raindrops on a
                                                Sunday afternoon.

Their sparks,

                                                Sick feelings,
                                                       Be wise,
                                                My truth.

                                                I comprehend you,
                                                I deliver you.

I shiver from you too.

                                                Sunshine Hotline,
                                                I call,
                                                I do.

Those are some mistakes,
They really are,
It’s true.

Forgive me not,
It’s fine;
It’s you.

                                                I lie cold in your breast,
                                                Find fault in your step,
                                                Feel home in your caress,

I bleed fountains of youth.




I am a lamb in a lion’s world

It’s terrible to walk out onto the
street at night
to see the fringe of society on its
hands and knees,
walking and wading on
through the inevitable tick-tick of time––
and it’s glorious in the winter months
when they all feel cold and out of mind––
a surging of spirit––
in the great, black abyss of night;
all holy in their own right,
all displaced and out of time,
but new days breed useless songs
in new keys and useless times
and all that there is in the world
remains one-solid faultless line.

I’ve got four fingers on the trigger, friends
and they all point to a new sign
when it comes, it comes, friends
but for now
let’s just leave it all behind––
and shake off
all the old, battered soles
find tears amid broken glass––
reshape it––
to something created
in the sweat and blood
of men who hold nothing as their truths––
a mirror for the recluse,
a dying thread
of a hero’s fallen use.

And they all say:
sing Cassius’ tune
And they all say:
sing Cassius’ tune.

for whatever’s left,
a remnant of death,
a faultline restructured
behind time’s lonely destruction;
for the preacher without a pulpit
finds fault behind the stars––
for whatever silences them,
silences us just the same.

And they all say:
sing Cassius’ tune
And they all say:
sing Cassius’ tune.

––until the words become true––
––until your heart bleeds blue––
––until everything you love in the world––
––loves you too––

are you manic in bed?
are you manic at home
with doors closed?
are you manic in lines
of hungry cowards,
waiting for sandwiches,
breathing insincerity,
and crafting bones
of displeasure?

are you manic
in times of woe?
are you manic
when you’re alone?
are you manic
at concert shows?
during television shows?
between the soft clock ticks
in the intermediary
between heart beats?

––love like you eat––
––like you need it to breathe––
––live like you’ve found––
––all that there is in the world––

are you manic
when it turns?
are you manic
when it hurts?
are you manic
at every inch of suffering
laid out in front of you
like a red carpet
leading to the Pit?

so much asking––
could this all be it?
could this be all that time ticks?
all that life brings?

us, driving in our cars,
listening to our own,
fighting traffic and acne,
minding freeways and authorities,
driving with our knees,
hands held high in technology,
we’ve got all we need
in our pockets.
we haven’t anything
we need
in our heads.

Jesus, preach me
for I am the lamb of the sewers surmounting,
breathing toxic waste,
exhaling toxic rage,
interjecting times of pleasure
during the lone-moon sky’s failing.

Jesus, preach me
for I am eternally me
in all my glory,
I am the ideal
of life in Utopia,
I am the god,
of me,
and what you see of me.


I am a lion in a lion’s world

their heads rattle on in the evening glass,
in their evening gowns,
shooting their evening smack,
pricking fingers,
pricking toes,
pricking promises of to know,
though they feel it in their bones,
they feel it in their pores,

what is all this?
milling around

they do not sing songs they know nothing
they do not sing songs they know nothing

lies and deliverance
beheld we fell
behind the sordid skulls of
the utmost
held high
in terror-fires
cast below
to the oceans
of the unknown.

we sing to thee
on this mountain
of debauchery––
we kneel to thee
upon your throne
of uncertainty––
we hail to thee
under gray skies
of flattery––
we dance with thee
in your banquet halls
of mind-numbing feasts––

Jesus, preach to me
for I am the Semen on the Mount
I am all the lies and none of the deliverance
I am the last of the marauders
I am the flash in the sewers
I am the intermediary
between love lost and light utmost.

Jesus, preach to me
for we feel the tension surmounting
we feel the cusps of tears lamenting
all in our floundering
how we fight off the cementing––

I am the hero of the new age
look at my life,
here and now,
for all the world to see,
plastering pictures
on the internet,
plastering toes
in leather shoes,
tight jeans,
angsty knees,
curling inwards,
heading outwards,
fight me on the streets,
find me between the sheets––

now heaven is nowhere but up.
now heaven is nowhere but up.
now heaven is nowhere but up.
now heaven is nowhere but up.

kill your lions with your lambs.
kill your lambs with your hands.

I am the Semen on the Mount.
I am;
I am;
I am.


Ward Notes (Three Poems)

Out of Hollywood

Out here––
Out of Hollywood
Free from actresses
And Nobel laureate scholars
With pink ties

In here––
With plaster walls and
Stainless steel showers––
Light green,
Forgetting everything

Where sun shines,
Dandelions bloom––
Nothing is safe
But everything free

My mind,
My soul,
Righteous and free.

Television Blues

Television blues
While we drone on
Inside our heads
New dreams wearing
Our hearts down dead
The waves coming, running,
Not wanting even our selves––

Blood races thin
As they flow steadily therein

Another dose,
Another fill,
––us within.


This bed––
This death bed––
Perfect and clean.