Pinky Bipolar Blues

I used to be the kinda girl
who’d fight with another girl
over a bag of trash;
over a bag of trash, man
over a trashman
Ha!

I used to be the kinda girl
who’d strip with another girl
to get under a fan
to win over a fan, 
to get over on the man
Ha!

I used to know Pinky- 
a basic whore-cheesing mouse
who lived in a glass house, 
ran with a lost soul, strapped;
ran into her own trap,
ran spitting the hunger rap
Yo!

Pinky turned pale as a ghost
when forced to face the host
broken glass-sharp-dull heart;
broken bottle-false start
broken personna(s) empty cart
Go! Pinky, Go!

Haunt me now with bad bitch wisdom
Shame is a dollar store thief in The Kingdom
I remember pieces of Pinky

and 
The 
Blues.

Royal Flush 

We wake up 
one day 
not who 
we want to be 
or where 
we thought 
we would be 
because, 
while we planned 
and dreamed 
we didn’t act. 
Or maybe 
we did all 3 
but luck 
missed us 
by a hair. 
Something else 
got in 
the way 
and we 
let it. 
Whatever 
the reason, 
that’s life’s 
plot twist. 
You had to 
expect 
that while 
you were sitting 
on a straight flush, 
Life had 
a royal flush 
tucked up 
its sleeve.

Checking the Facts

The truth is composed
Of ninety percent lies.
Check the facts often
Because they frequently change.

Don’t trust in books,
Or looks, or films
Or speeches.

Classroom lectures
Are mostly theater.

You need to do
The hard work
Of doubting,

Double checking
And triple checking,
Asking again.

Don’t take it on faith
Even if faith 
Is all you have.

Believe in your unbelief.
Trust in your misgivings. 

Construct a new city
Made from all you “know”,
A place worthy of Potemkin,

Shown on all the maps,
But nowhere
to be found.

Or Maybe It’s Already Ended 

Let’s not be melodramatic
let’s not wear turtlenecks in the sun
let’s not stand up there and apologize for nonexistent
stage fright
let’s not applaud wildly like soccer moms
at kindergarten graduation
let’s not be sad because it’s cool
or delicate because it’s expected
or vegetarians
let’s not pretend we’re Indians
or gangsters
or are channeling some Egyptian princess
let’s not quote Becket
or carry bibles everywhere we go
or romanticize bus stops
or heroin needles
let’s stop saying blood and guts and
let’s stop saying genius and must-read.

Let’s start being honest
about all this
it’s not much
we’re not much
goobers in the sand pile
downers in skinny jeans
latte-slurpers and sushi-chewers
screws loose and heads fat as Thanksgiving turkeys
just look at the way we walk and talk and
make videos
it’s sickening
even our laughter is false and condescending
our little hard-ons
our little death plays
12 poems about starvation before dinner
9 poems about heart-ache after dinner.

Rebels, please, even our preachers have earrings
and tattoos
everybody’s trying to sell their penny-sick souls
everybody’s trying to sell their dimestore doohickies
shit, just look at the cherub faces
of the poor prepubescent world-changers
chapbook makers
pony-tailed haiku poopers
shopping mall roosters with perfect noses
crowing about the hard life
academics writing papers about reviving the male spirit
slapping their own asses
loafers and tenure and diarrhea down their legs
which nobody will mention.

Where will it end
where can it end
our doggy-whimpers
practicing inflections to the mirror
writing “you are beautiful” in lipstick
believing everything that falls off
the ends of our dull little pencils.

Can we fuck and still be friends?

Won’t work if she smells 
like buttered popcorn, 
looks like a hot air balloon,
thighs thicker than a snicker
splitting those denim blue jeans,
Ass like a stuffed trash bag,
backing it up like a tractor
ready for harvest.

Won’t work if she a tall 
glass of bourbon whiskey 
enough to bust a 
few nuts and
thirst a few hearts
smothering meat
with crusted, rosy buttcheeks 
and begging on knees
like church Sunday 
praying to Jesus for alimony.

Won’t work if she performs weekends
cash money splurged on
purses, booze, heels, jewels, cigarettes 
all for spoiled, snotty, shitty 
hooligans cruising around town 
like taxicab drivers in search of 
some ripe, fleshy, putrid, lesbian pussy. 

Won’t work if we bitch, moan, whine
and split the spotlight to fly coach 
sharing a Queen-sized bed 
in a cheap hotel where hookers cost pennies, 
thinking what’s in that bald watermelon 
head of hers, pouncing on that prey
to make a move by
slithering under the sheets,
Kiss.
Lick.
Sneeze.

Won’t work if she looks like ash,
reeks of spoiled, rancid ass
and treats you 
like trash–   

When We Were Dogs

Do you remember when we were dogs?
Fighting for every scrap of flesh and bone
While the protesters screamed for a freedom
they’d never known and would never have
The powers that be just didn’t have the machinery,
or the will to build it.
We were happy in the dirt.
Breaking the necks of vultures
Who were they to starve us?
Who were they to take our bones?
Times were simple.
Until your rising
When my wounds were still open
You left the dirt to transform the world.
All you got was a chainsaw
and a rusty pail full of empty promises.
It wasn’t just bones buried in the dirt.
You didn’t understand that we were surfacing history.
The only truth is that it’s real.
So, tell me; tell me from your podium,
flags blowing behind you, and the starving at your feet.
Do you remember when we were dogs? 

Some Poets Are Like Porn Stars

Some poets are like porn stars
And that starts with the ease in earning the title.
Just fucking on film makes an actor a star;
Just breaking up lines makes a writer a poet –
At least to the disinterested general public.

Anyway,
They come out of nowhere to appear in every pop-up journal around
For a year or three or four. 
They hustle here and there along internet streets
But without a suitcase pimp to push them along.
They go it alone.
They collect credits like checks from storefront modeling agencies,
Holding on as long as they can
Until the bloom is completely off the rose
And one acceptance gets lost in another
In a great swirl of blurring days
And just as quickly they are gone because the payoffs became too small –
Their poems now hidden away at the back of the internet
Like stag film reels in a hatbox in Uncle Phil’s closet.
Forgotten.

Then there are the few who remain for decades –
The Nina Hartleys, if you will; 
Knocking on door after door with endless single pages pumping out.
Never getting to the big show, the legitimate acting jobs
But undaunted by that. 

The need, just need to appear somewhere.
Anywhere. Everywhere.
The true exhibitionists.

The rest just stop writing
Or go back to writing behind closed doors,
Showing it to one person or two
Or maybe even no one –
Like masturbating with the lights on
But remembering those salad days
When they thought not only should people see all their naked parts
And how they work,
Those people should even have to pay for the privilege.

Old Boy

Restful days 
of uneventful
contentment 
meddle into one
like obscure parts
of a life lived 
through the peripherals 
of one’s eyes 

hard to believe it
but you can become 
numb to boredom

only reason 
of knowing the date 
you’re living in
is the obligation of a job.

Ian, the forklift driver goes:
“work hard 
and have fun, kid.
Took forever to get to 18.
All of a sudden I’m 49.”

it hits in full
time goes by fast,
too fast,
sometimes I’m afraid
to sleep

to blink

how does 
the galloping time
equip you
against the incoming loss
of your parents?

“loss is the standard trajectory
of all things”

how to endure it
how to cope with it

A natural fear 
coats your thoughts 
but you have to follow
the fear 
otherwise it starts following you

there is so much waste
in most people’s lives
as they age 
as they so irreversibly age
that it pains to look at
and yet
your waste is just as big

some times I don’t feel like 
a 31 year old adult
but more like 
a boy who grew older.

sometimes it rains
for weeks

sometimes 
I’m starving for a meaningful 
conversation

some times
I’m so lonely 
I make small talk 
with my barber

and when he cuts my hair
I look at my puffy face 
in that mirror
staring into my own 
eyes for twenty minutes 
with the knowledge that
I have to lie a lot
about who I really am
just to get some pussy.

guts to water

sunlight detonates off
a thousand splintered
shards of glass like
god’s stripper glitter
strewn across the alley.
stiletto heels of honed fire
pierces my eyeballs
threatening to create
a second migranial sun
lap-dancing my brain.

two sun-bleached Strohs cans
peek out like a couple winos
hiding in the tall weeds.
I grab those babies up,
shake out the piss trickle
from their skunky innards
and push the empties
into my jacket pocket.

I catch a whiff of rot,
a bloated garbage bag
split asunder with its
entrails undulating
and I think for a moment
I must be hallucinating
until it occurs to me
I’m staring at a buffet
of maggots and I wonder
what they must taste like,
these squirming protein pills.

a scream turns my guts to water,
a woman’s keening wail
so much like my late wife’s
post collision dying octaves.
I’m running toward its origin
before I can even realize
I should be running away.

I recognize the brick bunker
section eight apartment complex,
the laundry room vents
beneath which I sometimes sleep.
I recognize the brunette
flailing on the ground
pleading for her babies
to run and get help.
her two howling children
watches a strange man
squirt lighter fluid on the
crotch of her blue jeans.

the man speaks to her with
a voice like colliding metal
with words I no longer possess
the ability to understand.
he withdraws a Zippo from
his pocket, the silver catches
the sunlight sending kaleidoscopes 
through my pin-wheeling brain.

I think I should stop this
before it gets out of hand but
I haven’t taken my protein pills
and I don’t know what words to use.
these thoughts for and dissipate
like exhaust from a laundry vent.
the man flicks the Zippo afire
and tosses it on her lap.

flames erupt from her crotch.
her screams siren supernova
promising my cranial implosion.
backing away, my eyes catch hold
of the children, eyes rolling in horror.
I’m bearing witness to the creation
of me, two more hollow bodies
with minds like sieves set to
wander the alleys of the world.

and this knowledge, this destruction
at a soul one molecular level
spurs me forward charging into
the man with all the force of 
the locomotive that ended my wife.
the stranger collapses beneath me
as I drive my knee into his groin.
when he attempts to shatter me
with his screams, I gouge my
thumbs into his eye sockets,
evicting the jelly orbs on
bungee cords of bloody licorice.

I roll onto my back, crying,
the entire world spinning
with the stench of burning denim
and charring skin and agony
and ruination, all of it
twirling around the nexus of me.

Been Drinking Most of the Day

I sit here tonight
Writing these words
Like I dream as they
Come to me
Telling me the way
Telling me the truth 
As the bar suited me earlier
& tonight I know,
It’s just gone 8 and it’s
Time to do this.
I shall sit here and write
As I drink my wine and
Smoke my smoke and 
Beautiful serenity comes
To bless my soul.  The 
Bar closes at 10 but I
Get in about 2 when
The crowds are few
And the freaks are more
And life is beautiful as
I drink the drink and 
Very occasionally step 
Foot outside to smoke
A bad-boy and then 
Run off home with
The thought, hot-damn
50p pints tomorrow and
After that a day hungover
At work before, hallelujah
A few days to work on
This god-damn novel.