Diego Rivera is My Hero
Diego Rivera was very fat
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
Diego Rivera was a man
of the people
who had no defense
against his monstrous
and Frida was tiny and strong
and put up with him
Maybe I need
to be a man like him
to find a woman
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. . .
red velvet voice
stroked me miles
to the lakes of
weathered many a storm since,
she stumbles sweetly
inviting me to
dine in the dark night
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
while going down
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
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
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
there is beauty in blood,
guts and mayhem
even when they swear
joy comes only from
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,
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.
After the Second Date
‘You’re fucking nuts! You know that?’
Fucking crazy!” she screamed at me:
it was 07:30 and I had to make it
into work within the hour:
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re
talking about, but whatever the fuck
it is, forgive me’ I said:
‘You should feel ashamed of yourself’.
‘I do’ I replied:
‘You can’t even remember what you
did and said last night, can you?’
she shrieked at me: it was true:
‘No’ I said:
‘Well, you’re soon find out’ she said
‘and if you’re looking for your shoes
you’ll find them in the freezer
where you put them last night!’
she turned and made for the
bathroom as I stumbled
towards the kitchen.
I’ve memorized every nail hole in these
I’ve eaten my various mélanges of pasta,
Rice, beans, tuna, salad,
A thousand times.
I’ve asked for your help
But have not received it.
I don’t believe in magic, in God.
I like Jesus. He said a lot of good things.
He died for jerks like us.
I like Buddha. He’s pretty good.
But I can’t reconcile the fact
That he abandoned his wife and kids.
Kiss me once, as I die
Hold my hand
As it trembles uncontrollably
With the palsy of
The bugs skitter along the walls,
Along my skin.
I am a prisoner of this flesh,
This omnipresent erection,
This pulsation, exsanguinations of
The machinations of bone, of blood,
The living are crushed
Between my teeth.
I expand, I recoil.
I sit and stare as music blares.
I puke up nightly regrets
From the bed
To the toilet
To the car
To the toilet
To the bed.
If there is a God,
He sits on his throne
And don’t give a fuck.
Raise your hand if you were miscarried.
The baby in the backseat wails,
“It’s a scam, it’s all a scam!”
You’re right, kid.
Pop music, like apple sauce, is insufferable
and you can’t stick a candle in your asshole
and call it a birthday cake.
One day, though, you’ll receive the gift of excess.
I fuck with deaths small and large,
whimper my orgasm about town,
had both glitter and blood in my stool.
Neither the hangovers or venereal diseases
are as bad as they say.
Broke jaw, broke ego, just plain broke,
it’s the piss test or relinquish duty, cocaine brain!
Anyways, never trust moderation or the moderator–
you could live to 105 and never cum
but if you show at your funeral,
they’ll thank you for lifting the mood.