The Spawning

Bill swore he was spawned
From the left nut of God.
Why else would he end up
In the asylum on a regular basis.
He knew the world was crazy,
He wasn’t the only one insane.
But, somehow, somewhere
There was a logic to it all.
Fish can live in water but not
So well in tea.  Vinegar is out.
The saucers come at night
But they never take him away.
Damn them for that!  He’d like
To disappear to another planet.
He’d really prefer one with air.
The doctor comes in twice a day
To do Bill’s rectal exam.  And,
Twice a day, the wandering doctor
Is shown back to his padded cell.
Maybe it was better on the street.
For sure, for Bill life was a daily grind.
But there were fewer doctors there.

Strange Roads and Nowhere Paths

Empty people passing empty store-fronts,
Spice and tax and no tomorrow,
Paths with neither beginning nor end,
Roads which loop forever backwards.
Fake tan so we can pretend we’ve been somewhere,
Betting slips so we can pretend we’ll go anywhere,

Patches of blood like sunspots,
Stain the taxi’s aged upholstery,
‘I’m sorry, sometimes she hurts herself’,
‘Mate, every bodily fluid’s been spilt in ‘ere’’,
At least she knows she’s still alive,
She’s not yet gone fully ghost,

They drive past gloom-drenched bars,
Sallow faces sucking blackened pints,
Never drunk enough to see the stars,
Never sober enough to see the dark,
But they say its all worthwhile, 
That it all serves a purpose,

To everything its place,
And to every place its cause,
Even while we worry that there is no ‘therefore’,
No ‘therefore’, only ‘and then’,
‘And then’, 
And no ‘therefore’.

amsterdam 3/23

the oldish new grey train like texas ribs
sizzles out of gare du nord
past crackerbox shores
to the opening…

riding rail joys graffiti garden windmills
feel the smooth steel rising, tickling my travel loins
of greenfield days

who wouldn’t know where to go, what to write
on a train

even unvaxed vixens heeding heathens call
who circle the earth blindly
in looking glass jars eyes of a blind blonde man

from a candleit pipe organ aesthetic dear
i woke to ‘loosen the grip’ 
whispered from the harangued lips of cryin’ foghorn freeload
standin on a street corner beneath pink morning clouds
as we blow by in a blackbird wind

sad eye dove can’t win
its got her runnin the grand ol reaper man
carrying his last stand dragon stick
ghosts running in the sand and
she’s hangin on to forever melodies

kid eye blind
what house guarantees immortal-ese
racing trains hither and hather
just a suit that fits
for a housewarming party in the sky baby

you’ll all be together again sad eyes 
no fret let the music begin
before these days peel away your love
like riptorn cheap fishnet stockings

things are bound to turnaround
this run of bad luck
that croupier’s hung up his what’s-up-his sleeve cleats

and the sad, zero-eye angels of the reformation
pasted to marble
ascending the walls of galilee nowhere’s in a heavenly squall
where dixieland swing-blowing trumpets yield to brother Joshua

and outside the foxhole crumpets adorn the green green rocky
road the grass of morning grows

Geographical Cure

His native South 
was too sticky, too biblical
so he packed up his shit
and boogied on out to the West Coast
but it was too expensive, too nutty, too fruity
so he headed up to the Pacific Northwest
where it was too gloomy, too wet;
he dipped down to the desert,
found it too hot, too dry; 
he tried the Midwest (too flat, too bland)
and New England (too cold, too snowy)
then motored to the Mid-Atlantic,
a doomed last ditch effort as his arrival coincided 
with that of a category 4 hurricane—
Far from defeated,
he returned home a new man, 
a man with a mission,
a man with resolve 
and wisdom earned through years of travel;
a housekeeper found him in bed,
his brains smeared across the motel wall,
a dog-eared copy of On the Road 
in the trash.  

The Crazy Old Toothless Man on the Bus

The crazy old toothless man on the bus
sat all alone,
an oasis of just him,
near the center of the bus on the left
and he kept saying,
to no one in particular,
They’ll fucking get you,
get you no matter what.
It’s useless to fight it,
we all get it in the ass with a hot poker
eventually, if not continually

and, to a person,
everyone on the bus was silent,
avoided looking at him,
was afraid of him,
wanted him off of the bus
and also thought to themselves,
but when he’s right, he’s right.

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–