End of Insanity

dead strays singe under the purple
sun, abandoned cars release toxic fumes infecting the
pure lungs of kids playing in playgrounds covered with empty needles.
beer-guzzling hobos pass out under collapsing bridges and 
wild-haired prophets swill wine out of plastic bottles. nightingales
fall from the sky like enflamed meteors. at the bottom of the
sea dolphins play high-stake poker and gnarling sharks are
being chased away by the bouncer squids. somewhere up in
the moon, in the dark, green side, yellow men with three
arms and two cocks wait for the right
moment to invade. it’s all
happening, right now right here, in the then and here of
tomorroless, and as the whiskey flows, the torrential waves
of insanity grow larger. welcome to
paradise, falsely states the neon sign of the
local dive where strippers come to
unwind and junk dealers to relax.

a posse of fuckups and failures

the place was a hole
it was mean and dirty 
dark and smoky
it smelled like ancient feuds
barf and blood 
a torrid feeling of anti-social menace 
buzzed thru the stagnant haze

Tony One-ton sat at the bar and raged against everything
his ass cheeks swallowed the stool
and Pandora O’Jesus banged home the eight ball
with violence and panache
that permanent glower etched on her face  

and it felt like the walls were weeping
because the city threatened to shut us down
they wanted to put up a new fire station 

those movers and shakers
always take it out on the tired and the broken
when they catch that revitalization fever 

Old Red the bar keep 
spun his stories of wheat harvest in the thirties
and smelly Volkswagen Betty
rolled the dice against Larry the Loudmouth
and I kept the beer coolers full 
and I mopped the tobacco spit and the grime from the floor

and out in the streets
a summer full of important people and important events
flipped us off as it rolled past
because the pageant of time has no stomach 
for a posse of fuckups and failures
not even when they’re snared in one of the gates to hell 

Did you Amber Heard your bed again?

Did you Amber Heard your bed again?
I heard the woman yell to her child upstairs.
She didn’t like to swear.

The kid was balling.
I couldn’t tell if it was from being in trouble
or because he had to be Amber Heard.

Into the bathroom!, I heard her demand.
In that angry mother voice 
that could be used as paint stripper 
in a pinch.

Clunking pipes in the wall.
That sudden rush from a running shower.

If she starts stripping the bed,
I’m out of here, I thought.

The kid already had a father off somewhere.
Probably passing bad cheques and kidney stones
with equal vigour.

The beer was warm as piss.
What the hell was it with this place
and bodily fluids?

I decided right there, that I must have
been a stunt man in a past life.

The kitchen table sitting there in front of me.
Like a line of 27 burning cars waiting 
for me to try jump over them.

Visions

dancing shadows like dead fireflies strut around on
the walls and on the ceiling – liquid colors flood the
floor, a disheartening pool of despair to
swim across come hangover – books fly off
bookshelves, whiskey bottles pour their
content in
ice-cold pitchers of margaritas – cats are purring in front of
snarling mongrels – pigeons fly into heated ovens with potatoes
in their beaks – the shadows change their dance, are doing the
Charleston while blaring music seeps out of
the floor – vodka and gin mix up in singular
bottles of potency – blue stars sparkle, red stars explode – the
madness of impotency, the lunacy of normalcy – tequila’s
knocking at
the paper door, cardboard boxes stored in
the spider-populated attic – scalding red paint drips from
the ceiling – the cum of frustrated volcanoes – garrisons are
being evacuated – nukes are detonated inside graphite bunkers – the end
is never
here, always near – it comes, the judgment day! it’s here, repent! – the endless
cry of madmen that know too much – one day, we’ll learn of
the alien overlords – they’ll laugh – the ones I met during
acid trips loathed bourbon but loved vermouth – some goddamn 
overlords, ignorant bastards – I down all the bourbon in
the world, I try to, anyway, to appease the soon to
come invaders – they tried to
arrest me for being too sane, I drank them under
hovering tables and gave them enough junk to destroy
their descendants – you’re welcome.

Until the Next Time

I want your eyes to roll back
in your pretty little head.
I want to give you
the jelly legs.
I want the back of your knees
to sweat like a sophomore
who has to take a test
for which she hasn’t studied.
I want you to think about me
and blush in church.

I want to break your spirit;
tame you like a horse.
I want your face
to stream with tears.
I want you to think about the last time
all the time
that you are not imagining
the next time.

I want you to know how much
you’ve gotten into me
and that I can’t wait
until the next time
I can get into you
all the way –
break you open like a walnut
and eat you down
to the last crumb.

Saints of the Neons

It matters not 
what bar, any bar,
any town, anywhere.
It is where us serious drinkers
talk shit
and gossip,
backslap
and bullshit
yet 
hold one another tight
when the time 
is necessary.
And if two weekends pass
we wonder
where you’ve been.
We’ve broken up
in front of the beer taps
and busted our faces
at happy hour
defending someone’s honor.
We have seen kids 
grow up
and marriages
grow old,
lives born
and lights 
go out. 

We’ve heard every jukebox tune
a thousand times,
sometimes in one sitting.
We have over-tipped 
to be over-served.
Have woken up
with the hair of the dog
and passed out
when the sun
shows its face.
We have done shots
and been shot down.
Downed pints
and puked
in the garbage cans.

Embarrassed 
and absolved ourselves
over Jaeger bombs
and Bloody Marys.

Here we are equal—
equally lost
equally broke
equally off
and we look almost innocent 
under the neons.

We spend hungover holidays
on barstool thrones,
where liquor bottles
stand like gods
under Christmas lights
providing us gifts
we didn’t know
we needed.

Even though Sunday mornings 
can be brutal 
without a hint 
of redemption,
we crawl back
to the neons 
full of confessions and contrition,
where we never have to order,
the bartender simply has it waiting
with a beerback of forgiveness
and that feels 
better than church
to saints like us. 

On the Roof

I’m simply walking around. Slowly keeping low. I am whistle clean. There is no poop on my deck. I gulp the drink the dude bought. Right away funny feel.

A lounge lizard darts a tongue into my ear. Licks the back of my lizard brain. When I look down, trying to bare my gettings, the floor has been retiled in reptiles. 

Crocodiles dial nine-one-one, need help with their prey; snakes gulp their own tails; turtles snap at once-a-jubilee opportunity; gila monsters stand not on ceremony; horny toads hop into the booth me and my lizard brain occupy. 

Next time imagine a time way before your times tables. Retreat at least that far to elude the tongue of a lounge lizard. Retreat in order to escape monster spit up the rear. 

So, to sew her lips, I warble to my double, “Lady, how you slay me, now I lay me down to death, knocked out of me the breath, heart by a red ball hair beat. You slay me, lady, with your blade so high and your piece so cute, surely you they would not electrocute?” 

Next day – or is it Tuesday – wake to arrows broken over the welcome mat to the apartment I’m still remembering might be mine. 

Love Abides

She moves like a bleak marionette.
Flowers wither at her feet.
Her perfume is known as Regret.
It smells like rotting meat.

Yet I love her like the sunrise,
like the sunset and the moon—
then again she loves me too
and says so with her eyes.

Look at us kids, playing house!
The puppet and the mouse.
And for those who dare hurl stones
at us, she will fuck them up.

The Mad Conductor

That time I woke up on the train
The passengers were just piles of gore
I get out & don’t recognize where I am
Empty – I yell out – nothing
The doors locked, then
An announcement
Next train arriving
It doesn’t slow down, it speeds up
Smashes into the corpse filled car
The doors open & bodies spill out
All the trains are due at the same time
I see lights coming from the next train
In the drivers seat, a glimpse of the conductor
His torn into a smile, his clothes rags
Trains approach from every side
All driven by the same mad conductor  

Another Morning

Another morning
of another day.
Another Monday 
or Tuesday
or Anyday;
all the same all the same
with a dose of coffee
and a stream of sunlight;
a dollop of ringing telephone
and a dash of meeting somebody 
in order to exchange something
for something else.

Maybe it will be
a more exciting day at that
and not the same –
a hurricane approaches
or the neighbor is embroiled in a scandal,
another neighbor can’t wait to say.
Those days are better
because they are less the same
but they are still tedious, flawed
and full of people
or else the memory of people

but this is
just another 
morning;
just another day.
A groan and a piss;
a dose of coffee;
The solicitor’s call
goes to voicemail.
The blinds stay shut
and I shut my eyes,
just to feel blind,
then I open them again:
sad the day is the same,
relieved I’m still alone in it.