Für Elise

When I wanted to I couldn’t 
I hung a rope inna closet like the Kung Fu guy
I turned onna oven but the element just got too damn hot
scorched my neck
Syvia P had more guts than me

When I had to, when I needed to
wasn’t no high enuf bridge
wasn’t no deep enough hole
wasn’t no snake-bit carny tent

Before my sis got took
she used to practice Für Elise
onna Casio ToneBank
I shoulda done it back then, maybe 
I wouldn’t a lost her forever
that way-

to some de Sade wannabe
driving a white deadbeat van
to the DMZ
to the UAE

say I had a wish, into a fucking tree

There’s a War on, You Know

There are armies all around 
and they are searching 
for you. 
They wish to kill you 
and your family, 
after first raping your wife, 
your children. 
Everyone will be tortured, of course. 
They will slaughter your pets for food,
burn your books, 
shit on great works of art. 
They don’t give a fuck. 
There are soldiers in the shadows 
and in plain sight. 
Each one has it in for you, personally, 
though you could be anyone. 
They want your mind, 
if they can get it. 
Obedience and true belief 
can buy you time. 
You might get used to it 
and fall in love with the terror. 
Feel free to do nothing, of course. 
That is your right. 
Feel free to watch television 
and cook hamburgers in your yard. 
The armies are often slow 
and might not even get to you 
before cancer or heart attack. 
Grab a beer or master a weapon. 
It’s up to you. 
Talk it over with your loved ones.
Make the bargains your soul can bear.

I Could Not Exist

I could not exist even though the night 
was peering through the window.
The sky was glass, and if it broke,
those tender organs blooming in the dark
would not exist. The snow covered the buildings,
and I was on the verge of effervescent dreams,
which illuminated every pore of the sky.
But I kept repeating …
I could not exist, could not exist …

Zerotica

Zeros hit my cock
ring and I bulge
feel all faint too
sweaty my heart skips

Pixelated tips and piss
ran dry on Wall
Street burning for hits 
I’m rope tied up

Someone echoes dark light
licks lips flips switch
moaning into no thing 
locks key endless repeat

Mechanical buzzing
whirring ding light up
going in out gasp
bank big no asphyxia

What I Saw In the Rabbit Pen

In Torregalindo, Burgos
With a half-ruined castle
There lived an honest family
With two daughters
Both young and of marriageable age
Who looked after the chickens
The pigs and the rabbits
As was necessary.
They sold the animals
Not long after they were born
To the people of the village and other places
Cheaper than in the shops.
One day, a friend of my brother-in-law
Who was courting the youngest daughter
Encouraged me to go visit them
Because he wanted to buy a rabbit
Since her mother was asking for one
As a whim being newly pregnant.
We went to their beautiful village house
We greeted her parents and daughters
And the youngest took us to the rabbit hutch
And just as we were about to pick up the most prized rabbit
She bent down and showed us her privates
For she wasn’t wearing panties.
My friend, since she was his girlfriend
didn’t even flinch
Didn’t say a word.
But I was stunned
Because I’d never seen such a thing.
Since the few times I’d had sex
I did it in the dark, not knowing if it was white or black
Or what the creature looked like.
But the worst part was—what cruelty!
When the young woman grabbed the rabbit by the neck
So it couldn’t breathe or scream
Not before hanging it by its hind legs
On a crossbar in the hutch.
And, alive as it was
With a kitchen knife she gouged out its eyes
Because she says that way the rabbit bleeds better
And stays more tender for cookig.
-Take this rabbit, the tenderest one in the hutch
the girlfriend told him. 
You’ll pay me when I come to your house
To say hello to my future mother-in-law.
And when they go to sleep
I’ll make you a delicious dinner with mine’s.
When we left the village
He very happy, and me  very hurt
Because of the death his girlfriend had inflicted on the rabbit
As we walked towards the next village
Moradillo de Roa, five kilometers away
I kept telling him:
-Be careful, friend, when you have sex with her
Because when you’re in the sweetest part of orgasm
Begging for her sweetest kisses
She’ll gouge your eyes out
While you’re biting her lips, shouting:
-I don’t want a rabbit for the wedding anymore!

Another Fucking Poem about Drinking at Vesuvio

for Hugh Blanton

The North Beach poets sit at the bar 
and drink at all hours
in their funny hats and coats,
as if there were nothing else in the world
that ever needed doing.

The Anarchist girl sits alone at a table 
drinking dark beer and reading a book
about the rise of techno fascism.

And me, I’m forever on the run 
from death and her henchmen, 
with a glass of wine at my favorite 
table in the back corner of the balcony.

I tear my little poems from the jagged 
teeth of the dark the best I can,

as the pretty girls in Kerouac Alley
sit at little round tables smoking
cigarettes and drinking beer.

I gaze down upon them 
and pretend I am in Paris.

I’ve never been to Paris
and It’s looking like I might 
not ever make it, 
even though I’d like to.

Some people do things like go to Paris
and others muddle through life
one moment to the next

and I figure that’s just the way
it is and there’s no sense in getting
upset.

There’s still some poetry to be mined here
despite what the years have taken.

I lean back and bask in the feel of it,
thinking of all those suckers in Paris
who will never get the chance.

Walking Girl

Transients in the yellow pickup 
barrel down the rickety road along the bay 
hoot like desperate cowboys
the bay is a desolate cemetery at sundown 
she enjoys their hollers and whistles
as she walks over the dead thing
that could have been a seagull 
but is mangled now beyond recognition 
she shares a familiar sentiment 
with the dead thing and its ravaged feathers 
forming a trail to nowhere 
that she follows obediently
at dusk 
while those boys hoot away
her shorts
clipped enough to bare 
her ass cheeks 
as she strolls along the devils run 
at dusk 
for no real reason 
if just to hear them call her name

Four O’clock in Quebec

It’s four o’clock in Quebec
Which means nothing in 
Any place in Oklahoma.
I’ve been to Oklahoma.
Never been to Quebec.
Oklahoma is said to be
Full of steers and queers.
I thought that was Texas.
Quebec ain’t got no steers.
Or was that Montreal?
Hell, I don’t know.  I never 
Go lookin’ for either one.
Steers or queers, that is.
Yeah, that don’t mean shit.
Just like this freaky poem.
Yup, it might be four o’clock
In Quebec.  What do I know.

Blind Black Jackie

blind black jackie,
christmas diamond, christmas star
I’m drinking and sloshing molasses moonshine, 
and there is no time left here
to go to hell or dream of me
both are the same, both remain quiet
for musings of my love 
In the voids, in the people you discard.

but if you were like me,
maybe you could be more free, 
as is divinity.
divinity is my pleasure,
divinity is my place of greed.

Am I divine? Or do my eyes deceive me?
Poisonously poised and awake to shine 
with pretty fragile hearts
gashing in the idle heavens. 
taking all of my lovers but seven.

all that you gave to me,  
now withering away in an estate sale, 
with sunshine blisters growing on your face, 
waiting for the day you become old and unfuckable. 
but i’ll stay here, full of fuck, full of rot,
in the snow deadlier as tomorrow 

so visible, so alone
destroy me as i destroy you. 
and i’m not a fucking HACK-HAG
I’m not old just yet
I’m not old enough for this
I’m only twenty one 

and I bet she’s so grateful to belong to you,
with that ring on her dead molten finger. 
Is she as pretty as the day you met her?
oh bitchless, I fall again
FORGET HER

the piss of the blues

just when we know we can’t take it anymore
just when we know that we need something
when we’re desperate for something to help us get by
something that isn’t a god 
something that isn’t a superhero 
something that isn’t a sales pitch or a political slogan

just when we despair because that kind of something doesn’t exist
a decrepit and obscure old poet limps down an alley
to watch the final sunrise of his life
and the rats scurry out of his way
and the feral cats of the night pause to stare at him
and the smell of rotten garbage hangs in the air

and the poet unzips and pours out his final piss into a filthy oil slick  
and he coughs and he spits and he pukes and he pukes

and we all pause wherever we are as if we heard something  
something like creation bending a note on a battered blues harp