What Every Poem is Trying to Tell You

Over wine the famous old poet 
tells me how all he can think of anymore 
is the fact of his own death.

It dogs him through his waking hours
and keeps him from sleep.

I’m 20 years behind him
and already spend too many hours 
contemplating the looming 
eternity in which I will not exist.

It’s what every poem is trying to tell you.

It’s why we drink and fornicate
and go to church,

why we fall in love with apathetic bartenders
and assign meaning to the alignment of the stars.

It’s why we read Dostoevsky and Camus

and travel to faraway places
with exotic buildings and food,

why we nod to ourselves reassuringly 
when we read that 56 is the new 37

and scour the internet  
for something to make us
bigger and wiser than death,

desperate for any distraction
from the coming dark

and the old poet’s
haunted dreams.

a mustache of cosmic proportions

the mustache
lounging across my upper lip
like a saucy sasquatch
reclining on a beach chair
on the edge of the sea 
of serendipity
is only an accessory
to my grooviness.
it is not an entity
in and of itself as
it is totally subjugated
to my will.
it goes where I tell it to go.

now, there are those
for whom the mustache
dominates the conversation,
becomes the focal point
of a lame existence,
and what a weak group
of limp-wristed hipsters
they must be
to find themselves
so easily over-ruled
by a few thin wisps of hair
perched beneath their nostrils
like weathered tinsel.

over the years,
my mustache has been described 
as “transgressive,” “Sam Elliotian,”
often times, “discombobulated.”
and because of its 
vaunted position,
the mustache receives
more massages than any
other mustache that has
ever existed with
the possible exception
of “Bucky,”
the churlish mustache
which once belonged to
the legendary John Holmes.
but I can write here
with all the humility
a man with the perfect
mustache can muster,
my mustache is larger
and thicker than John
Holmes’ sleazy caterpillar
ever was which is all
that women have ever
really cared about anyway.

I write this now,
an ode to the old
Warsaw Wazoo,
the mustache which 
defended my health
through the entire
CoVid crisis.
I salute you even
as I refuse to
allow you to define
me any further
than as a subject
to one more epic poem.

Half Way to Hades

“What would the prophet say if he
saw you in a place like this?”
“Pour me one.”

Philip K. Dick

She promised him “a fucking
week of Christmas in hell,” 
but could only manage a few days
of cooking voodoo chili so hot 
their dreams were soaked with 
sweat and blood, sheets torn into
strips for open wounds they nursed on
like succulents, passion fruits
from lands so distant they might
no longer exist.  Nights, after hours
of rough sex, they licked the desert
heat from the short hairs on their
necks, sipping liquid fire from 
the broken neck of Mescal Gusano
Azul, drinking Tecate from chests
half full of chips of dry ice, mist
rising from within to form circles
around the holes between clouds
where a full moon burned,
“I’ll be your Maximilian, if you’ll
be my Carlota.” He said, in the collective
voices of all the no-longer-conscious 
men they’d left behind along the road
they’d traveled of dancing dust devils 
and death, “Shit, man, you take a girl
our for an ice cream sundae and end up
half way to Hades.”
All, the way, he thought, and then some.

A Dancing Flame in the Winter

flickering candle breaking the darkness of midnight, 
pencil gliding against the bourbon-stained pages
of ripped notebooks while more bourbon goes
from the lowball down the throat. only music the
silence
of the night, of the deserted suburban snow-covered
street. away from
everywhere and everyone, the neighbors asleep and
the candle dances under the algid breeze penetrating the
open window. plumes of blue smoke come out of
the mouth, disappear into the wilderness of the
suburb; junkies freeze under
bridges, rich people sip 35-year-old scotch in front
of crackling fireplaces, college students survive
on rye bread and children wipe their milk
mustaches right before heading to bed. I drink
some more, let the falling snow and the cold
seep into my bones, encapsulate my soul. another
smoke, yet another fifth of bourbon empty. another
cracked. it’s alright. the candle’s half-dead, few more
hours till passing out, and the notebook absorbs most
of the insane ideas engendered by the bourbon fire in
my gut.

An Above-Average Sized Penis & Crepes (cherry flavored)

“Do you like crepes?”, I ask because I don’t know what else to say

“I don’t know what that is”, she replies and then she wipes her paper napkin against her lips, though she hasn’t eaten anything yet

“I like cherry”, I continue – “they are thin pancakes with fruit and cheese and other shit in them – they are quite tasty”

Her shirt is a bit tighter than she usually wears –

and I cannot stop thinking about her nipples

“I’d motherfucking fuck a crepe if I could” I say – “I recommend cherry – I’d totally stick my dick in it”

She puts down her menu as she smiles at me, with her decision made (the cherry crepes) –

Nothing compares to an old-fashioned diner…

“They have a jukebox”, she exclaims with celebration –

“They do!”, I reply 

“I’m going to play some god damn bastard tunes”, she says

“you play them god damn bastard tunes”, I say with excitement –

Her ass jiggles magnificently as she walks towards the jukebox 

“Bitch, you gots you some nice titties”, I bashfully tell her when she returns to the table

“you’re a handsome lad”, she tells me – “not sure about that between your legs – you be gentle, ya hear – I’ve heard about you?”

“I am a gentleman”, I reply. “Yeah, I am gentle. I’m better hung than the guys you’ve dated before. I go slow”.

She nods her head knowing this is an obvious fact

“Rock Around the Clock” sings through the diner’s speakers and she nearly pisses herself with delight

“I son-of-a-bitch love this fucking song!” she exclaims with much enthusiasm

“Me, too – it’s a fucking classic – fuck”, I say and we both smile

“I bet you’ve got a beautiful pussy”, I tell her hesitantly and with shyness

“I bet you say that to all the ladies”, she replies with a jeering smile –

“I bet your pussy is more beautiful than all other pussies”, I say while looking at her titties

____

“these crepes are motherfucking fantastic” she exclaims –

“Yeah, right?” I reply

“This is an amazing date”, I say –

“I’m really having a good time”

“Me too”, she says as she licks her lips like she is an experienced hooker

My cheeks turn red because I’m an introvert

“Do you enjoy oral sex?”, she asks as she wipes the cherry off of her lips with her paper napkin

“Yes, I do – very much – I appreciate you asking”, I respond, “that is very kind and thoughtful of you to ask”

“And, the crepes are the best – ain’t they – fucking heaven wrapped in a thin motherfucking pancake, no?”

“They are heaven on a pussy stick”, she replies – and we smile together

***

“yeah, that is kind of a lot – it’s sloppy and ridiculous”, she says while describing my penis with a judgmental smirk

“yeah, I know” I reply

“I haven’t been able to make it smaller”, I say – and then I look at the wall, embarrassed

“it’ll do”, she says – and the ceremonies commence

***

“Maybe we could go to the park tomorrow”, I suggest while we’re snuggling close

“I fucking shit like ducks”, she says while puffing on her hemp cig

“I fucking shit like ducks, too”, I replay with a grin – “we should totally go to the park tomorrow”

“Totally” she replies

The motherfucking ducks are gliding across the water as she and I hold hands and walk along the park-lake

“Christ on a bike, it’s beautiful here” she exclaims –

I lean in close to her and highly suspect she is now a permanent part of my life –

“I enjoy using the word ‘cunt’ in a sentence”, she tells me

and I tell her I agree – it’s absolutely lovely and it’s very poetic…

“perhaps you could try to make it smaller – maybe just a little”, she recommends

“I’ve tried, love”, I replay

“It’s okay” she says, and I am immediately reassured

***

We walk along the shopping plaza hand in hand –

her vagina walking along with her and me – it’s between her legs

“are you staring at my tits?” she asks playfully

“Yeah”, I reply as the sweatpants I’m wearing visually display my intimate thoughts

“that’s so sloppy and ridiculous” she says

“Sorry, love – I’ve tried to make it smaller – it don’t work that way”

“Okay – come over later, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay”, I say

***

The evening moon licks the sky like it’s a pussy

Nature – the beautiful cunt that it is – is nodding off properly for the night

I’m within her and she asks if I can make it just a bit smaller

“Sorry, love, I’m not sure what to do about that”

And she kisses me with tongue and with much affection

“Motherfuck”, she says and she says it loudly

“I love you, too”, I say

“Yeah, that is what I was trying to say”, she replies

“Yeah, motherfuck”, I say

“Yeah”, she says

dungeons and dragons and me

I still wake up from dreams
where I’m rolling five
six-sided dice
picking the three highest rolls.

strength
intelligence
wisdom
dexterity
constitution
charisma

a character page
teeming with attributes,
proficiencies, and equipment,
and a plethora of
polyhedral dice
all conspiring to keep me
from having sex.

it is no coincidence 
rolling dice and jerking off
require the same wrist motion.

I’m still haunted by the
nonchalant way I’d slip my
Player’s Handbook from my
school bag during study hall
oblivious to the pretty girls
rolling their eyes at me.

strength
intelligence
wisdom
dexterity
constitution 
charisma

always the lowest dice roll
placed in charisma,
unaware of the importance
of human interaction.

always the highest dice roll
placed in strength
because I possessed none.

life being so simple
when it’s parsed down
to numbers and
levels of experience.

A Righteous Journey Awaits Those Brave Enough to Follow

Tonight is alive as the wine
Flows keenly & these words
Tumble out of my mind onto
White pristine paper & life, 
God-damn it yes, LIFE for
The first time in a long time is
GREAT and somehow I’m
Learning how to do this all
Over again.  When LIFE was
SHITTY it felt easy to grab
The word generator & bang 
Out an angry tirade against
Whatever it was that was
Annoying me & of that there
Was WAY TOO MUCH but
Now, well now, I sit here with
A partial smile across my face
With these words tumbling on
Out & slowly I’m going to get
There but I can tell you this 
Right now I’m going to love
This journey

the silent church

there are pictures in a box
I no longer need to put on my walls
I see them
and the moving pictures 
deep inside

you nude on the beach
by the old castle ruin
after coming together
I chased your warm sandy bottom
into the waves
where I later caught you 
on my camera from shore
floating
in the mirror blue 
your bare back and head turned
looking out into the deep sea 
my Selkie

there’s the one of you exiting the quiet country church
wearing a dress and flushed grin
having just committed sin on the second storey  
below the organ
doggy on your knees on the sharp spongy carpet between the
last pew and balcony rail 
in view of the alter below
and the door to where the priest lived 
but
he did not come

and there’s the one of us together 
newly married 
the last of that 
particular 
summer series 

there are of course none of me alone 
in the apartment you left behind 
none of me cradling your clothes on the floor

but there do exist moving pictures you did not see
like me visiting you in hospital
having waited
through the pain

feeding you, my Turkish Delight
my love from a tube
pumpkin ale from California
adoring the very furrow of your brow
loving 
whatever taste
on your lips 

Shimmer

The ecstasy of space

Robots on acid

Fuck me space-boy, 

FUCK ME!

Bloody virgin on a bed of cosmic dust, we can plan an interplanetary genocide or start a religion

But maybe it’s all the same

in outer-space

The ecstasy of space

Robots on acid

Eating peyote

The perennial singularity

Phallus slammed in a closet door, waterlogged in microwave painting with sound- can we break the brain of god this unknown source of which we feed upon its corpse

My mind is glowing

Vulva shaped spaceship performing terrifying miracles of light as darkness eats stars, wanton nebula jettisoned in birth reverse swirling fabric of being and time

The ecstasy of space

Robots on acid

Astronauts in love

A carnal quasar pumping frenzy

Nameless

Recordless

no real living beings here

there are no cages but boundaries

without pasts an  ever uncertain present and veiled future

dire transformation

distracted bv skin and sin

the divine motive looking for that spark in primary colored space-jockeys

switching sex organs, eyes and limbs

lies, fate, false memories

The ecstasy of space

Ocean of the void

Robots on acid

The singularity will be fragmented and unrecognizable

Musta Been Another Spell

I don’t remember nuttin’.
But what the heck, doc.
Check me out.
I’m okay.  No damage.
Guess I fell off the bar stool.
Still, this ain’t right.
I should have a single room.
What’s up with this freaky
Fat ass grinning geek
Over in the corner?
Fool don’t even have a bed,
Just sits there on the floor.
Jesus, man, I think you’re sick.
How come you got no clothes?
Oh god, boy, don’t eat
Another turd.  That’s gross.
Quit climbing up the wall
And rolling across the ceiling.
I can’t see how you manage to
Stay up there.  Don’t drool, fool!
That’s nasty and it drips
Right down on me.  Don’t do
That damn horse’s cock dance.
Quit jerkin’ off and shootin’
A jizz wad across the room.
How do nuts like you get in here?
How the hell do I get out?
Look here, you whistle dick moron.
I swear by Einstein’s glowing balls,
When I get this straight jacket off,
I’m gonna kick your ass.