more than enough to explain

there was nothing
to explain here

the man’s wife told them
everything they
needed to know

Her husband wrote poetry

Yes, that would be enough
to explain why
he cut off his penis
and tried to use it
as a pen
before collapsing
on the desk,
blood pooling
at his feet below

Being a poet was
more than enough
explanation for
what he did

She didn’t need
to tell the paramedics
that her husband
had been looking
for inspiration

“He’s a poet,”
was more than
enough

They understood

The Best Cock Sucker in Town

Lisa was not the best cock sucker in town.
I believe that honor went to Sue,
Sweet Sue the flamboyant gay boy.
I, myself, can not attest to that fact
As I have never availed myself of Sue’s
Haughty artsy claim to fame,
Although several country boys have,
But in public will fervently deny same.
Chico, real name George, Lisa’s brother,
Say’s there’s no contest to the matter.
He’s tried them both and Sue can’t
Tongue his candle the way Lisa can.
Yes sir, Chico swears his sister Lisa
Is, by far, the best cock sucker in town.
So, that said, my initial statement
Is now in doubt and in dispute.
But then, Chico could be biased.

The Sweet Life

Twenty-four seven slow motion
strip tease soirees and the neon
palaces they take place in.
Brooks Brothers bandits with ring
finger tan lines, nose candy nostrils,
late model Beamers in valet parking
lots staffed by parking lot hot jocks,
one conviction shy of a life without
hope of parole. On the take flat feet,
lap dancers with social diseases,
extended families to feed.
Broke down bouncers one steroid
shot from brittle bone mass reduction,
small ball syndrome. Been-there-done-
that-fuck-the t-shirts waitresses and
the bartenders that serve them.
Jukebox junkies, spinning platters
for brains, collapsed veins and blood
blisters the road map for the immediate
past, the near future, up against a hasn’t-
been-cleaned-in-years bathroom wall.
The happy-days-are-here-again, all major
credit cards accepted, hookers and their
maxed out johns one orgasm away from
a not-so-happy overdose death. The bad
debt bail skip collectors and their heavily
armed, concealed weapon permitted
henchmen. The lower depths beneath
the main rooms no one admits exist though
everyone knows, would go there if they
could. The tits-up-in-hell staff that works
there and the music that they play, always
one dirge short of a requiem mass.
Here, where home is, where they hang
the hats, the privileged few, the ones who
come, and the ones who can never go.

Wretch Wants Her Candy

For fucks sake
give me my last hoorah

when my grandmother was dying
her skin shifted to a full shade of urine yellow
she drooled pleading – no – begging
for one last sup
you know……..that thirst
it killed her
we denied her
why?
I cannot remember
I was eleven and thought
she just wanted soda
everything so simple back then
she would have turned full demon
for that drink
if she wasn’t already exhausted
from dying

Wretch, now an adult
wants her candy – her only sustenance

deny me and I will kill you
but it’s killing me
as it killed grandma
she bellowed for it
we should have caved
and smuggled Thunderbird
in a flask
for her…….for me
grandma was dying anyhow
what better way
to phase out
brimming from
the final mother quench

Trying Their Best

The girl on stage is cute:
Nice hair and tits
tats on each shoulder—
not close enough to see.

This will get old, quick.

This one’s killing me.
Older, playful.

Look at the clientele, I ask
what I’m doing here. I’m better.
I’m better. I’m better.

It’s all shit. We’re all dogs.
It’s all the same.

Good songs.
I’d fuck her ‘til I couldn’t go on
It wouldn’t be nice
She wouldn’t like it that way

I like her choice of persona.

The Concerns

‘You only seem happy or content
when you’re stoned or drunk
or both, all your waking hours
are consumed by this and of
course, sex’ she said sharply:
‘That may be’ I said:
‘But I’m a poet’
‘So that gives you a free
licence to be an alcoholic
drug taking bum whose
only concern is with his
own little seedy world’
‘I haven’t signed a
contract’ I answered:
‘Don’t call me, I mean
it this time, don’t call
me again’
the door opened and
slammed shut, the sun
had spent herself and I
opened a bottle of wine.

Smoldering and Drained

as I smoke the cigar
my life dwindles and
burns toward the end
correspondingly
as I drain the whiskey glass
my time on earth swirls
and disappears in like manner
I ask for nothing more
than a distinctive feeling
I apologize unto all existence
if that is entirely too much
you promise everything
but give nothing
to me that is something

bank roll my existence
forego the inevitable
have sex with my mind
masturbate with intention
colder than an igloo
claustrophobic as such
indescribable sensations
masquerading as emotions
desensitized and mesmerized
hypnotized by the facade
painted faces and bloody cunts
long live the weekend
the towel is on the bed

an indecent desire
beckons my sensibilities
dragging my mindset to the
depths of earth’s core
hypnotized by the innate
led astray from moral concept
only to delve deep
within cranial blackness
dwelling on negativity
no escape foreseeable
tedium lingers
darkness spreads
and the song plays on

Plague

I have seen people collapse
like nine-pins hit by a bowling ball
with faces slammed down on the concrete
inflexible, trembling trunks
spewing viral liquid from their mouths

a plane takes off
men in white suits
they scan the foreheads of the passengers
like they’re reading the barcode of a product

I have fuckin’ nothing, I’m here with my mom
the bank won’t let us withdraw our money
but I’m still alive,
not for long
so, I will cough on strong powers

too bad for the disgraced lady behind the counter
she’s just a puppet
who wants to go back to her geppetto

give my fucking chair back to me, woman
I have to break this window,
I don’t want to stay in isolation

yes, blood flows on the tables
here’s to you mrs, an infected hen
don’t you see your son is eating a living mouse
while he’s filming himself with his smartphone?

for the one who sits wearing black suits
he will say to media that
there is no reason to be afraid
no, he is not in the city right now

what are they doing?

there is a new tsunami
made of people
there are not enough masks for everyone
they scream, run away, push each other
who pays could skip the line?

a man asks to a hostess
may I sit here?
you can sit wherever you want,
she says wearing a white suit

the plane is almost empty now

Reunion on Sandy Boulevard

Perched on the edge
of the Howard Johnson
airport shuttle van
in my dark red clogs,

I turn my feet sideways,
place them slow motion
on the side panel,
descend into the parking lot.

Cold torrential downpour,
puddles on gray asphalt,
December air fuggy and close.

We waited two years,
and you look different
than I remember: pallid,
anxious, but familiar as shoes.

In an hour, we will try again
to find everything
we did our best to hide.

Afterwards, we’ll open the window,
exclaim about the unseasonable
warmth. Four days until

I return to my husband,
and you to the flatlands, defeated.
Meanwhile, my heavy soles:
all I have to keep me upright.

You devour a microwaved burrito
from the corner mini-mart,
our small room reeks of toxins.

“You’re in Portland now,”
I say. “There’s no excuse
for bad food or bad sex,”
but I’m sure you won’t remember.

Fentanyl

Snorting our lives on the mirror of time,
forced to look into one mind’s eye
line by line.

Rolled up
treasury notes,
makeshift straws,
a pocket dusted
with lint.

Lost in
a sprinkling of
fresh powder,
only illuminated by
aluminum foil
cremation.

Ammonia pneumonia
seeping down the sinuses,

nasal drippings mixed with tears
are wiped with sleeves that smear,

pock marks and acne scars
are the divots on the surface,

in order for more staring contests,
opposing myself,
ojo y ojo.