Hooch Love

Gina liked her bourbon the same way I did:
a brimful waterglass, with a couple of ice cubes hanging on for dear life.
we’d already emptied a bottle of Jim Beam. she brought the blow
out; we snorted a few lines, cracked another bottle.
“are you gonna come by the club tomorrow?” she asked. “work’s more
fun when you’re there.”
“we’ll see,” I said. “depends on if I can finally get the Muse to cooperate. the bitch’s
been avoiding me for a while now.”
“perhaps, I can be your new Muse,” she smirked and her hand went straight for my crotch.
she had no subtlety, no finesse; those were reserved for work.
she swigged down her drink, then shoved her
tongue down my throat. she clenched her fist around my prick, forcing my
blood to migrate south despite the alcohol in my body offering some resistance.
without wasting a second, she climbed on my lap, still sucking on my tongue.
I was hers to do as she pleased and she fucking knew it—she had no qualms about
taking advantage of it.
my hands went straight on her firm buttocks, burrowing under her mini skirt.
she sat deeper onto my crotch, grinding with a purpose, and I sucked on
her tongue. clothes started flying, landing on the dust- and coke-covered floor.
with her, whiskey dick was never a problem; she knew how to get me
all hard and ready.

She Said

She said I was a no good son of a bitch.
I said she was a sorry ass worthless cunt.
She took a swing at me with a bar ashtray.
She missed, fell the fuck down, I laughed,
Which pissed the wench off all the more.
I dumped a glass of beer on her while she
Lay on the floor still screamin’ in her fury.
The bar maid came around and got her up
And helped her stagger outside to her car
Where she either passed out or mercifully
Slipped into a deep liquor induced sleep.
Maybe, I am a no good son of a bitch but
She couldn’t be an authority on the matter.
Didn’t know her, hadn’t ever spoke to her,
First time I ever seen her.  I must have that
‘No good son of a bitch’ tattooed across my 
Forehead.

glowing green

I still wander looking for EXIT signs
down the long hallway
of old Hollywood hotel
wood shiny and rotting from use
smelling of mint roach disinfectant 

I want to haunt and live
the best two hours of my movie this year
as I say at the dawn of every 
still here

I remember the fire I felt
on the long journey here
young and determined and excited 

I remember the fires that started out there
and came home with me
raging in my mind over my shoulder as I 
envisioned leaving 
the great burning city behind 
but I always turned back
to the apocalyptic tune 
wielding my glowing soul grenade launcher
not quite done yet

my fire is now more dream than starlight 
New Kid Arrived; I tell you
you may hear me in the late choked night 
you might dread me on the walls
you will find parts of me in the corners 
overlooked
you will love here, you will lose here, you
will dream even more here, you might die
here, you might need to escape here or
you might just continue and fade out here

for my part
I still envision the fire

Aging Player / Sore Loser

Out of reach, stars spell out
Not a chance as reality bites

your neck like you bit others
Not too much of a mystery

We always stood eye to eye
But you’d never truly open yours

You’d never miss a cue to scratch
with such clueless precision

And as the moon gets bigger
and brighter you shrink

Sunrise says you look beat;
Did you lose another bet?

I have to squint now
to ignite a flighty flicker of you

You seem ok downgrading
to a piss-poor stitch in time

I can hardly believe it myself
as the soul train passes you by

The Finish Line

It is raining something good,
the streets are soaked with puddles
that grow deeper, larger and darker 
with each clap of thunder.
Lightning flashes
as quickly as the beginning of the storm itself.
Tourists don’t know what to do
except run into tourist shops
to buy overpriced ponchos—
another keepsake from their trip.
Wow! You would not believe 
how hard it rains there!
Look at the ponchos we got,
it says Bourbon Street on it! 

At The Boondock Saint
they are currently playing rockabilly
which, in a twisted way,
seems to rage against the weather,
with its upbeat rhythms of cars 
racing around tracks
or dark roads at night for pink slips,
sounds of squealing rubber around curves. 
I’m just not in the mood
for hot rod songs tonight.
I’m better suited to slow floating 
or fast rising water songs.
Sea shanties and the like.
Songs of the open sea, 
crashing boat beats and notes that float.
The tunes that can make one feel
relaxation or menace,
depending on one’s situation.
So, I order another drink and a shot
and I begin to sing,
drowning myself in liquor—
sheltered from the storm for now,
where I’ll just wait this out
until I get calm waves
or a checkered flag. 

late night litmus test at the grab-a-granny inn

I was wretchedly drunk
so it was difficult
for me to gauge
the woman’s beauty.

the fact she claimed
she found me attractive
should have put her
desirability into doubt.

there were my
wolverine sideburns to consider,
muttonchops descending
my jawline so staggering,
so impressive,
I could have led a
Civil War regiment
by follicle strength alone.

but it’s been well-established
in this society
women don’t react well
to facial hair that
fell out of fashion
two centuries ago.

also, she made her move
after I karaoked
“I Love the Dead”
Alice Cooper’s sinister
ode to the joys
of necrophilia
which might have led her
to believe
I was free and nondiscerning
with my charms.

sitting in the shadows
in the back corner
of the lounge
with our arms draped
around each other
as some jackass on stage
flubbed his way
through “Ice, Ice Baby”
she admitted
I wasn’t her primary choice.

but the first guy
lost out when she
discovered his utter
lack of teeth.
she put her tongue in his mouth
and felt that solitary tooth
jutting crookedly like
a tombstone knocked askew.

she picked up a shot
of Cuervo gold,
raised the glass, said
“it only takes three
or four of these babies
to get me naked,”
and I smacked that
shot glass right out
of her fucking hand.

there was no telling
how many she had
before I sat down
beside her.

Around the Next Bend

We never know.

We’re a bunch of Scarlet O’Haras
repeating tomorrow is another day,
making ball gowns out of curtains
and curtains out of ball gowns.

Shut up, Scarlet, you racist bitch.

Tomorrow is another day off
for the unemployed, another day
off from eating for the hungry,
another day off from dreaming
of a better life as ICE is deployed
to tear families apart. You swore
you’d never go hungry again,
Scarlet O’Hara. Wish you were here,
losing your SNAPS and your mind.
Because that’s what starvation does.
But maybe there’s something around
the bend that will surprise you
and fuck up the kings and queens
not to mention the jokers.

Because, after all, we never know. 

My Pisces Boyfriend

brown hair, brown eyes
which I have preferred since
I was two years old and fell for my first Pisces
my first cousin (the one I kissed in Granny’s closet)
he doesn’t pay his taxes
he doesn’t drive
he puts it down on the page
like nobody else
Lou Reed and Kurt Cobain have been dethroned
oh my fucking god
he plays the piano AND the guitar
and his voice
fuck me to Ohio
his voice is straight
from God’s own oven
and he gets it
goddamn he knows
the shit ass score
and I have a history of being a heartless whore but trust me on this
try to believe me
I know it’s hard
but I tell you
I will love this motherfucker
all the way to the grave
even though he’s playing Coachella
and I’m so much nada in Texas
okay you caught me
yes I am tripping
I’m a Gen X crone
crushing on a Gen Z rock star straight outta Brooklyn
but in some parallel universe
I just know
we are having better sex
than John and Yoko
on their best day

Soviet Sports Halls and Young Men with Erections 

     It’s a big day for anyone 
who cares about serious literature. 
I’m so devastated 
I baked a cake for the party. 
When you say It’s not heaven
It’s New Haven  
I think of Soviet sports halls 
and young men with erections, 
satellites detecting threats 
in negative space. 

     Let’s get a discourse going 
the combat shock 
of slutty waists and jangly teeth.  
Exercise is a natural cocaine. 
The disparaged propagandist is here. 
The disgraced financier.
Send nudes. Send drones. 
The boss drives a pink Tesla. 
He puffs his chest like Idi Amin.  
What other way 

     is there to say it. Ask that Rilke(y) poet 
from Vermont 
she’s always pissing at the moon. 
Ladies and gentlemen 
of the future, I fail to know 
the world 
for what it is. 
Your biceps are strange bedfellows.  
I’m in the ratline like 
something worse than naked. 

Last Call

The cold and distant Moon, an observer.
The Moon offers neither forgiveness nor condemnation,
Never one to suggest advice.
It’s just the Moon after all.
Just an observer, a witness, for what comes next.
Lest you forget, the Moon controls the tides, 
Influences some people’s moods 
And reflects the Sun. 
Disrespect the Moon at your peril.
The bar’s patrons stagger and stumble.
Last call is last call after all.
And while the Moon remains cold and distant,
The Reaper’s night is just getting started.
Let’s keep this party going, his smile bone-white.
Where to next, He whispers.
His Scythe points the way. 
The Moon lights the path.