Welcome to the chaotic and often strange life of a Quasi, Clumsy Spiritual Warrior, Dan Abernathy. This Renaissance man is known as an outlaw poet, artist and purveyor of words, a junkyard philosopher, and a vagabond searching for a pure hedonistic meaning for his of life. His voice, be it in his words or in his art, is a collection of oddities, fascinations, desires and obsessions – a road map of sorts, tracking the life of a man that can’t and won’t fit in.


“His poems are a bit like a well fingered bowl of mixed treats in a dark bar - filled with some salty Charles Bukowski, some chewy Hunter S. Thompson, and a little zap-a-hooty sweetness ala Dr. Seuss (tossed in just for the kiddies...er, ah, not that I'd recommend this one for any mother's son." - David Vaughan, an artist, writer from the Pacific Northwest coast.


Abernathy makes available 98% of all his perspectives, be they fluid and random thoughts, or meandering and incomplete rants to the masses. They other 2% he keeps to himself, archived and a gift for the scholars and naysayers to decipher.

When not roaming the world, Abernathy hangs his hat in Pinedale, Wyoming. He has published two books of poetry, Looking For Security While Wearing a Loincloth and I Don’t Shave on Sundays, a Chap Book My Mind Has Forgotten To Age, and has been published internationally in numerous poetry publications and chronicles.

This Selection of Poems are from my Chap Book

My Mind Has Forgotten to Age


My Mind Has Forgotten to Age

My mind has forgotten to age

as I have lived my life

within the continuation of avoidance

towards living in default.

Default is what was easy,

but never what felt alive.

From within my journals I look back,

finding the broken pieces of yesterday.

The sights, thoughts and recollections,

now allocated to was.

Turning each page,

I seek a sanctuary of where I’ve been,

longing to find the place to rest

the glove of being

while who I am walks on.

There is no room

where my family rests,

miscalculation and migration

have filled the family plots.

I think about my finial moment,

feeling misplaced and somewhat lost,

as I do not know

where my tombstone goes.


Grandfathers Cane

Great grandfather’s cane

hangs on the fireplace mantle,

not in the middle for  a memorial

but on the side.

It hangs in wait 

for age to need it again.

No one knows

that it was once

the wild stallion I rode

with the carefree freedom

of a wild bandito

galloping around the smiles

of his living room.


Three Days


I sit on top of an empty paint can

in a large storage room,

hidden in back of an abandoned building,

waiting for a memory to walk in

and kiss me with passion and want.

Looking down,

I realized I have not eaten

in three days,

slept in two

and the bottles

are all lying on their sides.



I watched a young Irish mother

in Belfast, Ireland

head butted

by her Catholic husband.

She was holding

their new born baby,

taking to loud at the dinner table

for his militant comfort.

She stumbled back,

eyes glistening and fell,

into the safety of a chair.

Everyone else at the table

looked at their potatoes.

I walked past them

towards the stage

to sing karaoke

with a mic that was broken.

No one cared, no one looked up.



The Words

As you look,

you can see,

I am an extrovert.

I am a writer of my heart,

my thoughts

and my way of being.


With a carefree

air of flamboyance

I reveal to you my antics.

What is important,

what should be seen

and not forgotten,

are the words.


Read my words,

as they are inscribed

with the moisture of falling tears

and the blood

of who I really am.

A pathway

towards someone you cannot see.


A Portal to Nowhere

I sit in an old

smoothly worn, uneven chair,

crafted from a type of unknown wood.

Relaxed in the heat of shade

drinking warm Victoria Beer

and warmer Flor de Cana rum.

Across the murky street

I watch a faded red door,

a door with no sign, is open.

A portal to nowhere

but a brief release of what is.

I watch men walk in,

greeted by girls with no smiles.

As one walks in,

one walks out,

combing his sleek black hair.

I wonder

why they never comb their hair

when they walk in.



This Selection of Poems are from my Book

I Don’t Shave on Sundays

A Gift

Each word I write

is a self inflected wound.

A slash

with a sharp knife,

a hiss

with a gleaming sword,

a 45

stuck in my mouth

with little fear of pulling the trigger.

I write,

I reveal,

I speak

so the knives and guns

stay in the closet.

Each word I write

cuts into the person I am

releasing who I am

and I smile

so each word is a gift,

even if those receiving them

think they are insanity.



Looking For Myself

Looking for myself, I went and

knocked on a hidden door.

I was hoping to find me

on the other side.

I have been so lonely for myself

for such a very long time.

I kept knocking.

I could even hear me on the other side.

I tried, but I could not open the door.

It would not budge.

It would not crack,

but I could not walk away.

I have been so lonely for myself,

for such a very long time.




A Thousand Wind Chimes

I want to have a small door that leans into the side of a grass covered hill by an old knurly and twisted tree. When people look, when people see it, they will think it is a portal to an unknown world. I want to duck my head and step out this door and see a thousand tiny wind chimes moving gently with the breeze. When I duck my head and step back through the portal I wish to keep hearing the sounds of a thousand tiny wind chimes still in performance in my mind.


Hunter S. Thompson

I never knew Hunter S. Thompson,

But my girlfriend did.

When she lived in Aspen

they got high together.

She tells me he was pathetically funny,

hugely intelligent, amazingly crazy

and had more books in his kitchen

then she had ever seen before.

I wish that I had known her

when she knew Hunter S. Thompson.

Then I would have been able write something

about knowing this gonzo writer myself.

Knowing her,

is as close to knowing Hunter S Thompson

as I will ever get.

He is gone now,

for reasons that only Hunter S Thompson

will ever know.


Love Died

I went to a funeral

and everyone was laughing,

their faces masked

with sneering and snide remarks.

Somehow I felt their laughter

was for me,

about me.

Looking into the florescent illuminated casket

I saw love

and it had died.

As I cried

and the tears splashed

off the chrome handles.

Love opened its eyes

and laughed in my face.



What is Wanted

Smeared with the drying blood

of what so many people want from me.

I am bound to this pillar that goes now where.

Off in the distance I hear them approaching,

they keep coming as if there is no end to their rampage.

Running in a wave of crazed frenzy,

heaved forth by the craving feast of blood and flesh

of what is wanted from me,

what I do not have to give.


Behind them,

being pushed out of the tall grasses that conceal them,

being driven by snarling demons

as if a fire were their beaters

and fear were their accelerator.

I see the ground move in a gray turbulent wave

 as their beady, glowing eyes pierce the darkness.


Above the dark chattering wave

the sky turns black with thumping heavy wings

as the sky is pockmark with course sandpaper.

The rats and ravens are on a blood lust

attacking the flesh of my soul

for the last ounce of blood

and a life that I do not have to give.

This Selection of Poems are from my Book

Looking For Security While Wearing A Loincloth


Sex, Cats, Dogs and Wonder

When you are having sex,
when you are making love,
when you are fucking
and there is a dog in the room watching,
does it know what you are doing?
I also wonder why cats leave the room
when people fuck.



A Threesome

I saw a sight walking back home yesterday. On a paved street, quite a distance from any pond or water, there were three ducks, two drakes and one hen. I believe they were having a threesome.


Sensual Ink

The slightest glimpse of a tattoo engraved across your lower back

appears when your blouse rises.

When you bend it halos your voluptuous figure.

Small portions of vibrant art released,

showing just enough for the viewer to crave more.

Simple designs of brilliant colors trace the contour of a breast.

Erotic art that entices the eye for more.

Sensual ink, mostly hidden, never missed.



Let Me Tremble

Let me hold,

see and feel

all that is beautiful.
Let me know

people are good

and not only living for themselves.
Let me know,

want and keep

love and compassion.
Let me pass onto others

a few moments of joy.
Let me give my children

a road map to what is pure.
Let me help all that I meet

tremble with life.
Let me live in this way,

and I will tremble with life.



Crows, Ravens and Magpies


I went by a cemetery the other day.

 It was a crisp, cloudy fall day with vibrant,

 but subdued colors everywhere.

The cemetery was full of crows, ravens and magpies.

They were jumping on, and frolicking all around the headstones.

 I thought for a moment about all the crows, ravens and magpies

 I have seen dancing on the bloated carcass of dead animals.

 I had an eerie, uncomfortable feeling come about me.

When I die, I think I'll be cremated and scattered to the winds.

 I don't want crows, ravens and magpies dancing on my head. - dba