Abort 

A big bang births a universe. A universe births a woman. A woman births a uterus. A uterus births a body. A body births a thought. A thought births communication. A communication births a language. A language births a letter. 

A letter births a word. A word births a sentence. A sentence births a stanza.  

A stanza births a first draft. A first draft births a second. A second births a third. A third births obsessive compulsion. Obsessive compulsion births a poem. 

A poem births a pen. A pen births a typewriter. A typewriter births a computer. A computer births a document. A document births a submission.  A submission births a publication. A publication births a book. A book births into a collection. A collection births a career. A career births retirement. A retirement births death. A death births abortion.

Airborne

Wrath & desire are easy to catch
if the wind catches the air just right.

Emotions run rapid in intense situations
where fear is more prevalent than the plague.

Shit, just a scent of sex can capture
a man in the depths of his thoughts.

We’re wired to fornicate and spread
seed to replenish the population.

Truth be told, this sudden blood rush
remains independent from procreation.

Biology still has its tricks & triggers
& yet, all I want is the flesh.

Soaking wet like a never-ending storm
which brings comfort with its warmth.

Man wants and wants despite the urge
to be a respectable person in society.

I’ve found myself light-headed
in situations where I need to be clear.

The only cure for man’s rage
is self-mutilation, perhaps.

Those Daze

One of those days when I can’t decide 
how many humps in an m, the number 
of an’s in banana, how Achilles 
could ever overtake the tortoise, Death 
and I go walking. Arm-in-arm, he with 
his disarming smile, filling my ear with 
foreboding and despair. Would I like to, 
would I care to, step around into the shade 
to share a drop of something cool and 
not-so-sweet? After quaffing, after quenching, 
after swapping tales of lying and of wenching, 
he a bony forefinger raises: 
“Now’s the time to discuss,” he hisses, 
“succumbing to after-life-lust.” My jaw 
drops. Lightning fractures the air.  
Death with a rusty can my mouth waters. 
The mind a garden of rot and food for no thought.

Diego Rivera is My Hero 

Diego Rivera was very fat 
hugely overweight 
all day long up and down 
the scaffolding, holding brushes 
over his head 
it didn’t matter 
he ate the world 
Diego Rivera didn’t  
go on a diet or quit smoking 
yet the women flocked to him 
his ponderous belly 
his cigarette breath and 
infidelity only made him 
more attractive 
Diego Rivera was a man 
of the people 
who had no defense  
against his monstrous 
appetites 
and Frida was tiny and strong 
and put up with him 
Maybe I need 
to be a man like him 
to find a woman 
like her. 

In the First Place

Who would have thought I’d become famous 
so late in life—and for my poetry no less. 
It’s quite exciting, but at the same time 
it doesn’t have as much meaning as it would 
have If I’d become famous when I was a young man 
and could easily do it four or five times per day, 
drink a good deal of liquor without getting sick, 
and still had a desire to travel the world. 

“Well. . . better late than never!” a good friend said 
to me, “when you consider there are millions of poets 
who never get any attention at all, many of whom 
commit suicide because they feel that what they have 
to offer is completely ignored.”

Hearing this, I did admit that I appreciated finally 
getting paid for what I do best, because up until I was 
discovered I’d only made around 40 dollars in 50 plus 
years of writing the stuff. . . but then, I never wrote 
to make a lot of money in the first place. . .

Amelia

her 2am
red velvet voice
stroked me miles
to the lakes of
my ancestors,

weathered many a storm since,
she stumbles sweetly
vulnerable
inviting me to
dine in the dark night
windswept land
of poets

Poppyseeds

When it all started (me and you), you
brought me bags of bagels, and
the poppyseeds would fall off of them in
the toaster, on the counter, on the plate

The bagels weren’t very well-made and yet
I ate them, joyfully enough at first
thinking of you, and then,
ruefully at last, thinking again

Finally it came out:
I was just poor, I was just hungry
I never really liked those stale bagels
I fell in love for something to do

And you put your faith in new love
(never smart!) and if my naive faith in
undiscerning saviors, if it was cute for
a minute, now, my toaster is on fire

And I’m all alone in this (wooden) house
forgetting how you smother an electric
blaze, I always knew it would end like
this, they’ll all blame me, saying:

I always knew he’d drink again, and
Oh, I know, so sad

High On More Things Than One

If you pull off your clothes
you’re fun to me
I have enough friends y’know?
I don’t need a deep conversation
while high close to dawn time

I want to be put out
over your body
like a candle that
actually prefers melting
without the flame burning

it’s a kindness
coming down
while going down
on you

we can mix drugs
and good fun
even if we suffer
from existential despair

all we have to do
is talk less and connect more

when I wake up
be decent enough
to have already be gone

we both know
morning faces
deserve to confront
the mirror on their own

at night I’ll switch off the lights
of the housewhile you’re sound asleep
and go through the rooms
with a flashlight
searching for the ghost of me
from when I used to be not unhappy
don’t you know
sometimes it’s the man
that scares off the ghost
and not the other way around

the madness within

my broken soul doesn’t 
get to shine any light
anymore

while the darkness 
can be bleak

my imagination still 
has some life to it

relax and understand
the point of this exercise 
is to enjoy the madness 
within

there is beauty in blood,
guts and mayhem

even when they swear
joy comes only from
picket fences

Shit On My Shoes

The mc compares the poetry reading
to a rodeo
but I’ve seen more action

on a merry-go-round.
The sound-guy smirks in the shadow
of his hipster cowboy hat

and holds his stiff
lasso of wire.
One by one the poets stand up

and trot out on their potty-trained ponies
do a couple of high-step circles,
rubber-spur their gray-blanket mares around the clown barrels,

swinging their tails at the flies,
dropping piles
of pumpernickel rolls

on the hardwood stage 
and burping green and yellow cud
all over the mike. 

The audience just looks on
like cattle standing
in the rain.