Leftover Cherry Pie

got a goddamn brilliant
bestselling nonlinear novel
burning a hole in my hot little pocket
but I’m too enraged and engorged
to pull it out
no one would believe me
“you’re old, sit down”
“it’s probably a self-indulgent memoir in disguise”
“you shop too much”
“you’re gravity’s whore”
so I wallow in the four of cups
stone cold sober
feeling superior to writers with agents
and Paris infused selfies
“LOOK AT ME DRINKING CHAMPAGNE ON THE EIFFEL TOWER, BITCH!”
oh sweet constipated jesus
the purity of obscurity!
baby let me tell ya
it is more delicious
than leftover
cherry pie

Phil Spector Says

I’m the first to pull 
a gun on John Lennon
I tried to build my wall 
of sound around him
brought him into 
my echo chamber studio
gave him the right amount 
of balance & reverb
but John was too far gone 
on his lost weekend
amateur drinking 
with the Hollywood Vampires
at the Rainbow Bar & Grill 
on the Sunset Strip
I showed up at the studio  
wearing a surgeon’s gown
not quite right on 
my perfected five drug 
cocktail of Prozac
Neurontin, Klonopin          
There’s a total of five
so I’m missing two 
but I’m ready to get John
on tape but Lennon 
could not deliver
and that bullet did not 
graze John’s ear
Don’t buy that scam
I was sending 
a warning shot
I love the echo
It’s like garlic
You can’t get 
too much

Ghosts “Я” Us

before you buckle up
do not
forget 
where that iron ore
originated:

somewhere 
lush
tropical
pristinely
alive

inna

masterpiece of
thriving
teeming
communal
insectual
variety.

hive-minded monarchy
in harmony with
disingenuous 
instantaneous 
intravenous 
novelty
that’s us,
tools n sluts
rubbernecking
the accident of our existence

maybe
take notes from ants
practicing 
evolution in reverse

what’ve we
mastered?
state-of-the-art
drive-thru
service

fentanyl salad sandwich
with a
side order of demise.

To the Operating Room

They’ve taken me to the operating room
For prostate surgery.
I had with me a book of poems
By Uzbek poetesses
That had stirred my passion
With the desire to reach them
And penetrate them.
They were:
Cashanova Dildojoda
Pildora Kojyonuda
Atiza Tosthonova
And Boboqulona Rajadona
Who didn’t notice a thing
When they gave me the anesthesia.
Just as they laid me down on the bed
I was conversing with them:
-The novena of the cunts
Is a very good thing
And that little bouquet I put
Adorns the vulva a lot.
I fell asleep
When I saw them carry a dead man 
Out of the operating room
With prostate cancer
Praying to God:
-Father of my soul
Do not let me die.
After the operation
When I woke up in the room
My penis’s throat
Made me stick my tongue out halfway.
-I’m thirsty! I pleaded.
My beloved wife giving me
Drinking water in a plastic bottle
Taken from a vending machine.
Then I shouted:
-Where’s my book of Uzbek poetesses?
Seeing a she doctor who had operated
On me approaching
With a book in her hand
Saying very happily:
-Here, sir, is your book of poems.
The operation went perfectly, flawlessly.
With you it was different
Because we operated on you
With your penis stiff.
I replied:
-Doctor, when I fell asleep under the anesthesia
I saw the Uzbek poetesses coming
Grabbing my penis
Without knowing where they were taking me.
They took me along paths, along trails
And in a wooded area where no one could see us
They started to suck my dick
Like terrible beasts.
The doctor went outside
Laughing uproariously
When she closed the door.

The Creaking Walls

nightmarish whispers through the concrete
echo into the dark, deep midnight, as the bourbon
river stops, for good; needles broken and thrown away 

in far away dumpsters for other wingless angels to find,
one last effort to balance the crimes, to restore an inexplicable balance.

turtledoves die together, falling from the skies with a single cry, 
flaming meteors penetrating the stratosphere, 

wounds can never be healed with an apology,
cheap pre-prepared speeches do not cut the chase, 
“forgiveness”; what’s the fucking point?

tequila’s poured, strong and pure, seeking for a long drinking bout before
succumbing to the whims of a coward new world; 
horny demons escape the infernal pits, fallen angels meet
in the dens of dark alleys—there I too was, an observer
between immortal sinners, and it felt perfectly alright.

far better nights than the ones of today, sober and clean nights 
of nothing to do, nowhere to be, away from broken drinkers
and whores, nevermore the rough nights of alley fights, bourbon drinking,
and needle sharing; everything to destroy the vessel, yet no storm
would sink the damn indestructible ship that yearns for death. 

empty hearts and cold livers, bruised thoughts that render the nights
sleepless, breathlessly running through the alleyways of yesterday
in vain search for the meaning that was thrown into a garbage can

so long, long ago that it doesn’t even make sense… nonsensical
words, and lines, and words, and thoughts, wherefore
does the cat walk on the rail, the mouse hides under the bush, 
the cockroaches mate by a worn-out mattress and we’re still here
and there,

in the shooting galleries and the mansions, 
still searching, still shooting,

drinking and fucking, 
loathing the moments, despising the hours,
annihilating the world from within, 
shooting nightingales down and making stews out of sparrows
for we’ve grown tired of the same old songs and we need no birds to
sing—where to find them, though, when we’ve killed them all
but the heartless pigeon hustling its way toward undeserved immortality?

sagittarius

I was just starting to see
this young woman
(I was a young man)
she had bought an astrology book
something like
the sex lives of men
based on their astrology sign
(how a whole book
could be gotten out of that
I dont know
but nevertheless)
she looked me up
got a kind of surprised weird look
on her face

I said what does it say?

she said it says sagittariuses
make good lovers
but watch out
theyll go for your ass

which was true
at least the last part
tho most men would have—
she had a nice one

Outside the Tiny Bookshop, This Methhead Is Feeding Her Dog Noodles

She tells me his name is Bullshit. 
I watch them walk away 
through a construction zone 
toward the park. 

I know I’ll never see them again. 

Inside, there’s an employee arranging 
a tiny table of Bukowski books. 
When he catches me staring, he confesses
he doesn’t even like Bukowski. 

His name’s Calvin and he misses 
West Virginia. He wanted to get away 
from the drugs but they usually find you 
in the end. All I can say is, “You’re not wrong.”

Nightmare Sally

Nightmare Sally sallies forth, 
in her fist the neck of a whisky fifth. 
She’s come to drag you back 
into the castle, 
deep down into that oubliette 
you never seem to forget. 
She humps you up onto her back. 
Drifts over the moat. 
Draws the bridge to all that jazz 
that zips you up. 
Swipes you into the castle keep. 
Hands you over to a nun 
in the habit of all or none. 
Sally’s job done, 
Sister X be the one 
cram you in a basket, 
wheel you down into the dark 
till you become cool as ice. 

Sister X begs to help you out, 
fix you up 
an early release 
into a darker hole of colder ice. 
“Fuck it in a bucket,” 
the nun clarions 
down into the pit; 
her words, 
from a thousand yards above, 
like bb-big hail,
pelt your scalp. 
“Go, go, oh my Lord, 
go, go, fuck that duck!
Kick that bucket over, 
and off the slate suck it!” 

You wind up in a microwave, 
freezer leftover thawed 
faster than a speeding bullet. 
Once heated hot as hell, 
spatula-ed onto a plate hotter yet, 
you are bloody quick 
served up to the Lord, 
his hunger tonight keen as a guillotine. 

Never ask Sister X 
why she goes only by the letter. 
Better the unknown let her be. 
Anytime ask Sally 
to kick the guts and the liver, 
way out past your mouth. 
Now you live inside the Lord, 
you get a fifth every hour. 
Each fifth raised in a barn of kazoos. 
You also get to snooze on a rotisserie, 
forever roasted slowly to a T. 
Don’t go there, 
never go anywhere with Nightmare Sally.

From The Storybook 

She prostituted while the husband
bled his lungs through his nostrils
at the paint factory fourteen hours a day
and for ten of those fourteen she fucked
then napped
then cooked

She had her baby girl 
white as paper with raven hair
later when there was no heat
nor hot water
they wrapped the child 
tucked her between them
burned their table and chairs in the fireplace
and watched their polar ends pull together 
like yanking two continents to fit the jigsaw

The child became a woman at thirteen
longed for addiction and found it
in the bottle
that bottle
became the suckling for decades 
even through the child’s own pregnancies
two of which plopped dead in the toilet
the third born blue – survived 
sickly and ugly
grew breasts at ten
gave birth to her own at thirteen

Found solace in a needle
and was content leaving her baby
with its alcoholic grandmother
as better the grandmother than her own
wretched hand 

Later grandma
found dead – drowned in the bathtub
the grandchild then five
sent to foster care 
to grow at the mercy of foster pervs
and at sixteen sought her own ruin
at the turnpike truck stop 
in the parking lot
of the twenty-four hour diner
under the help wanted sign
tending to the boys as they cruised by
hungry and raring