God on High

I’m on the make. I’m on the take – take any wench, take any drug, never any shit take. 

I lie on my back. On top the hill. Under the stars. Close the eyes. 

See that ceiling in Italy where God first gave man the finger. Zoom through the cupola. Eviscerate the atmosphere. Kick the ass outta holy space. Shoot clear to the Perseus Clusterfuck. 

I’m on the make, I’m on the take – five bills by midnight. On accounta I turn an eye to the sky. 

There shines Medusa, masked as Algol, the Ghoul, tonight in eclipse. She squats at her vanity, braiding snakes, while her galactic nails dry. Whereas Algol, at the bottom of her/his clockwork, dims. 

Damn sight ducky, hosting stars in the brain. Star maps spritz the cortex. I’m in the heavens called “Tex.” Work the door. Swamped with calls for directions.   

Dusa, my arm across her kidneys, palm cupping an alabaster hip, wears but sky-blue fishnet thi-hi’s. Halo dropped around the neck. Hummingbird breasts perched for takeoff. Curious nipples. Sapphire screwed into the navel. The snakes hiss and spit their approval. 

Across the floor alone together we waltz. 

She breaks the ice – before breaking the embrace – with a pick up the nose. I am severely pithed. A last thought squirms, spit missing the spittoon… 

Tonight I take my eyes out for a date. Take with two flutes. Dinner plus a show. Some blow, some dawdle, some more blow, several licks at the infinite, then we mate. 

Take me in your head to the ceiling. Make me high on that air touch. Take me – for I, too, am, see this finger? on the make.

Podium Finish at the Shit Eating Olympics 

Zabrakis refused to lay down the plastic.
Certain activities demand the utmost privacy.
Paying in cash he had emancipated from some 
East Harlem bodega till almost three weeks ago.

Coolidge showed up a few hours later.
A pre-planned special knock and everything.

Zabrakis saw the look in his eyes right away.
Coolidge was looking for a podium finish 
at the shit eating Olympics and 
Zabrakis knew it.

Both refraining from exit strategy 
colon activity so that they swelled like 
sea monkeys in water.

Pouring a large fruit punch 
and pulling down their pants.

Squatting over the floor at the foot of the bed
to let it all spill out.

Two separate steaming piles
like rust belt chimney stacks flooding 
the hopeless skyline with the squirrely 
chum bucket Rice-A-Roni hours. 

Who has a map of the world
or anything else?
Mistakes are bred right into the 
quilted dumb fabric.

And Coolidge sat down first.
Crossed his legs like some
stanky leg skunk weed Buddha 
from the projects.

By the time Zabrakis joined him,
it was already too late.

Coolidge had grabbed a fat chunk out of
Zabrakis’ shit pile and tossed it in his mouth.
Swallowing without chewing like a stone cold pro.

Zabrakis began with a smaller stinking bit
and chewed it down without a chaser,
trying to psyche out his competitor.

Coolidge seemed unfazed.
Scooped up some of the liquid bits 
and gurgled them before showing his tongue.

Zabrakis threw on the television
to noise out the sound of the shit 
brown slurping.

Coolidge smiled.
He knew he had him.
The first to try their fruit punch
was finished.

You ever fuck floppy roadkill in the ass?
Zabrakis knew he had to mix things up.

No,
said Coolidge
without thinking.

Me neither,
said Zabrakis.

A wrench could be thrown into anything.
Zabrakis’ days as an auto mechanic 
had taught him that.

Coolidge got up and went to the bathroom.
Through some water over his face 
and thought of Niagara Falls.
How even simple water had gone over the 
throaty cold edge of spectacle.

You need a minute?
Zabrakis smiled.

Not as much as you need an hour,
Coolidge shot back.

Before a sudden knock at the door.
Zabrakis got up to open it.

Heller walked past him into the room.
Pulled two forks out from his jacket pocket,
handing one to each.

Heller was their boss.
No telling how he learned about such 
goings on.

But both Zabrakis and Coolidge 
seemed relived to have forks now.
And some rules on down from the top.

Everything seemed half civilized.
As Heller dropped his pants 
and squeezed out some big brown 
anaconda that circled around the top 
of itself like some bus station bathroom
runaway cupcake.

Zabrakis went first,
trying to get out in front
of such things.

If Coolidge wanted to gag,
he never showed it.

Heller offering a big promotion 
to the winner to sweeten the deal.

Some floppy Please Do Not Disturb sign 
gallows-hung over the door
to avoid any unwanted interruptions
from housekeeping.

Prostitutes in Business Suits

Politics
is the second oldest profession
in the world,
but as we move towards 
the future with apprehension,
it more closely resembles
the first.

Getting Old

Getting old is no good.
You get the jowls and your bones creak
and you have to wipe your ass for 10 minutes
and then again a half hour later.
Just wait, it gets worse, says my old mother.
Dad’s got two new hips.
Even grandma is still alive 
if you can believe it.
She’s 96. 
They all live thousands of miles 
from this small Mexican town
where I count change for a pack of smokes
and walk to the corner store 
with my 33 pesos.
Chucho follows me jumping and acting a fool.
He loves to go to the store
though I never buy him anything.
He sniffs the garbage everywhere,
chases a cat or two,
old Chucho now 5 years old but still 
a pup at heart.
Except some days he seems tired
and wants to crawl onto my lap and sleep.
He must have some arthritis from when he got run 
over by a car a couple years ago.
Getting old is no good, Chucho.
He looks at me and tilts his head 
and cocks his ear.
I complain to him about not getting laid anymore
because the old lady’s got a sickness 
and says it hurts
but poor Chucho’s probably been laid at best
3 times in his whole life
and he doesn’t even have porn to look at 
like I do
when the old lady goes to the drugstore.

sometimes

sometimes you get by on coffee and tater tots 
sometimes you get well on whiskey and mountain oysters

sometimes the rent check bounces or the master cylinder fails
sometimes you’re flush with cash and you splurge on a night at the casino 

sometimes the pair of you squabble like cartoon all-stars  
sometimes the pair of you screw like Adderall frenzied jack-a-lopes.  
sometimes she chews on the sex toys while you fondle the pork chops 

and sometimes is a long time to live in a world that doesn’t care 
and sometimes is a hard time to live on nothing but sweat and swear words

and sometimes you look back and wonder What were we thinking
and sometimes you look ahead and mutter Holy shit – That’s gonna suck

but you never beg for mercy
you never pray for a do-over
and you never rat out your neighbors
you just lower your heads and you plow through the bullshit

Golden Banquet

after Robert Frost’s ‘Nothing Gold Can Stay’

at the end 
of the bar, near where 
the payphone used to be 
& before that 
the cigarette machine

Ponyboy 
holds court 
with the regulars

his real name’s John 
nobody can remember 
why or when 
the nickname Ponyboy 
took

might be 
because he drinks Golden Banquet
or is always talking 
about some blonde 
he’s banging

didn’t stay gold
for long though—
motorcycle crash, wrong side 
of the tracks 
on Bear Spring Mountain 

beyond the end 
of the bar, near where 
the payphone used to be
a train whistle wails 
a lifetime 

& dawn 
goes down 
to day

“BEST OF” COLLECTION 2004-2023 /// 144 POEMS *BIG TRIGGER WARNING*

BUY A COPY HERE

Buon Giorno, Stupid

The opera of my dreams continues till dawn,
when the final aria resounds in my braincase.
Look out the window: strange pale faces flash by
and I wonder where industry prods them.
Up goes the window and I cry, “Why go on
with this race you can only win as worm food?”
Hard to watch besuited men and women
hoofing it double time to the blank pages
of their remaining stories: presently microwaves
ripple across time and space and penetrate
my skull. This is why I need to sing now,
why I feel compelled to sing the last aria
of my dreams. La gente sosta e mira …
No one turns to wave or wish me well;
my singing impresses only birds, trilling
back full-bosomed, pumped as hell.
Breakfast is a soft blood orange
leaking over my chest and the floor.
This is like visiting Sicily at Christmas.
Or like tasting sunlight sweetened
with honey and plasma: come listen
one last time, come listen one last time
my love, before the window closes.
E la bellezza mia tutta ricerce in me . . . 

HOW THE COPS FIXED MY ASS

Featuring Free Bass Explosion with Mark Dalton on bass, Tim Leahy on bass, and Michael Hureaux on conga, circa 1992

I was bung out of dung. I was bunged in. I didn’t know where to crap I was gonna get any more dung. I checked inside my wallet and nope – not a turd, not so much as a drop of piss. I was bung out of dung, I was bunged in.

I knew there was a lot of dung downtown. I could smell it. All that dung rolled inside paper assholes, crammed inside cash registers, bung up in the banks, bunged sky high to the lid of the First National Bank Tower.

I tried bunging my way onto a bus. But nope, no soap. The driver slammed the door in my nose because I didn’t have so much as a drop of piss. I was bung out of dung, I was bunged in.

So I hitchhiked and it rained and I got downtown a little later than I had hoped, but Lord – the stench of dung was overpowering! Bunged-out winos crumpled to the sidewalk like men made of turd. Businessmen shiny as piss walked by and grinned at themselves in shop windows across the street. I was sickened. There was nothing else to do.

I entered a bank and shot the teller and stuffed my jeans with clean green dung. Easy as pie. One, two, three. I ran out filthy with dung, and almost made it to the new car I was about to buy, when BUNG! BUNG! BUNG! The cops shot my ass off.

That’s how the cops fixed my ass. 

Before Going To Bed

You must recite
your daily curses
before you go to bed.

These, like prayers,
shall go unanswered.

Still, it is better
to let it all out,

all those hopes
and hatreds,

before you go to sleep
and dream of death,

or strange worlds
almost worth living in.