Mt. Olympus

At the seafood buffet  
David Carradine opts for oysters,
dead by autoerotic asphyxiation,
his face is like a blue moon
as is Anthony Bourdain’s
(they often sit together
though seldom speak)
No one gets drunk
on Mt. Olympus
but everyone tries
“Have another!
Afraid you’ll wake up
having your stomach pumped?”
the vomit chokers cringe, Jimi Hendrix,
Jon Bonham, Bon Scott…
The only efficacious drug
is angel’s piss
but the high
is seeing everything
for what it really is,
“I won’t touch the stuff,”
says one and all,
“not on your life.”

2023

It is 
a horrible time 
to be 
a writer 
and still 
it chose 
me, 
maybe for 
a reason. 
I see petitions 
to fight 
A.I. intelligence 
knocking off 
journalists 
and content writers 
at Buzzfeed. 
Damn you 
20^th century
writers  
whose print 
publications 
meant 
something. 
I knew 
I was 
a fighter. 
But this fight 
seems 
virtually 
impossible.

Fancy Language

I used the word “creosote”
in a story the other day
and this guy (another writer) said,

“What’s with all the fancy
language?”

“Fancy language?” I said.

“I hate it when writers
try to act like they’re
smarter than I am,” he 
said.

“Creosote’s a
plant,” I told him, “hardly
highbrow.”

“Fuck plants,” he said.

Well, I thought, 
fuck people too.
In fact, fuck stories,
fuck communication,
fuck feeling,
fuck words,
fuck history,
fuck it all.

(Creosote bushes live 
where almost nothing
else can. 
They decorate the desert
and when you crush the 
small green leaves 
it smells like rain.) 

“The Exquisite Relief of Alphonse”  or “Fuck the Alps”

february, lemmings scurry up powder mountain
snort blue air
dip fine wine firelight boogie
very-white shapely sloped alps
ski vacation it’s called here 

foggy town paris
the poor stick around, stocking
grocery store shelves, sweeping rue de funk
afterhour sip the slippery slopes of alley cheap booze

keep your powder dry
store king hollers
over zoom gloom
to the working crew

alphonse takes a horse-size piss
scratches his
daily double, lady luck
shines him a quarter moon 
over three cent town –
takes another shot and says
fuck the alps

Isis in Sweatpants

from where I lay across
the mattress altar,
nude as a sacrifice
trussed in bed sheets,
I bear witness to my
Isis in sweatpants
dancing before her
full length mirror,
this propped portal
to an inverse world
of realized possibilities.

two frenzied goddesses
match motions
to the furious beats
of playlist natives.

her whipping  black hair
creases reality.
the reflection of her
chameleon eyes
mesmerizes me,
inspires rigid worship.

her hips bend my will
to her contours.
her pores soak in
my adoration
until her skin glows 
with sweaty divinity.

her moves send
ripples of resurrection
through my flesh,
seducing my nerve endings
with the desire to break
my Egyptian cotton bonds
and dance beside her.

Some Days Got Dog Teeth

some days got claws.
Some days suck you dry
like a real mean bitch.

Some days fall through.
Sundays, mostly.

Some days take a couple
teeth, and a pretty good
piece of your liver.

You’re not really supposed to
drink on antidepressants anyway.

Bookshelves 

I would meet you in the sports aisle
Or it might be the mystery
Either way it will change quickly
Into new intricate romance
When I wrap my arms around you
Clenching you tightly from behind
Whispering haikus in your ear
Your beauty being the highlight
Along with radiant core
You gasp as my lips touch your neck
Meekly telling me your boyfriend
Is not too far away from us
I smile You should call him over
Bring an army and take some notes
This is how I treat a woman
Who is packed with hours of delight
Who deals in dopamine coinage
Your heartbeat speeds up as you clench
My arms which still cling to your waist
I am not going to let you go
A duplicate does not exist
You close your eyes with a deep breath
One-by-one books burst into flame

The Butcher’s Beautiful Daughter

Plump of breast, firm of thigh
the butcher’s beautiful daughter
caught my marbled eye
beef hearts cow brains livers kidneys and tripe
a most exceptional maid
slaughtered me quicker than a butcher’s blade

Deep crimson hair
dripping down her shoulders
like thick drops of blood
steaks and chops and wings
tore into them with relish
epicurean desires an irresistible fetish

She looks fetching and sweetly pleasant
as her father slitted open a butchered pheasant
blood red lips blood red hair
hanging on the hook of her
blood red nails
tearing through all the cuts served rare

Can’t You Tell I’m a Romantic?

She picked up the hamster and pointed in between its legs
“He’s got such big, big balls, but he’s hiding them now,” she said.
I felt disgusted. I had caught her twisting my dog’s tits earlier.
Now this.

“He just eats, and then sits on his big hamster balls.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“And then he falls asleep.”

I had read about situations like this in poems and stories,
but I didn’t think people like that were real.

“I can’t do this,” I thought. “Am I a work of fiction?”

I was reading Notre-Dame at the time, and neither Esmeralda nor Gringoire
ever mused over nor played with Djali’s tits.

“It’s curfew. I can’t tell her to go,” I thought. “The cops could get her.”
“Why’d she bring that fucking thing here anyway?”

I saw her reach for the creature’s genitals again.

“Stop it,” I said. “Leave him be. He’ll maybe drop ’em later.”
“Yeah,” she said. “You’ll see. He’s got these biiiiiiiiig balls.”
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

white jeans

tights ass
in white jeans

the way you sway 
down an aisle

kills poetry
and makes slaves

tight ass
in white jeans

what does it feel like
to own the living world of men?

tight ass
in white jeans

wars should’ve been fought over you
christ should’ve died for this instead

nations conquered
wild beasts tamed

tight ass
in white jeans

you have laid claim to my art

the goddamned mona lisa 
bows before you

and the moon looms hollow 
in your presence