In the Last Days of the Obvious Unknown Words

Here lies the voices:

The visions
The repetitions

Of a generation
That cannot
Move on

Let go

Or
Find truth
Beauty or
Meaning

On their own

As they follow
And worship the
Already well known
Well worn paths

Looking for
Fame

Or a
A status

Perhaps
Some brilliant sign
Like a star in the sky

As all the artists
Poets & rock stars

Have already
Left the building

Checked out.

Bowie &
Frida

Kerouac &
Bukowski

Had nothing
To say

With no likes, sad frowns
Love

Or comments

Thoughts
Transcendental or
Heartbroken

No meme
Comes with this
Poem

No new movement
Or a revelation

Wisdom or
Solace

For these are
All the things

You must
Find

On your own

In your own soul
Own words

For
Here lies the voices:

The visions
The repetitions

Of a generation
That cannot
Move on

Dead &
Unnoticed

Unremarkable
& unremembered

In their own
Fire &
In their
Own time

Unknown

Woodstock Doc

I recently watched a 
documentary about Woodstock 99
it was appalling how quickly
things got out of control in
regards to the riots and fires
especially after being given
peace candles nonetheless  
I was extremely saddened by the 
blatant groping and fondling of 
young women brave enough to go 
topless or full nude in
front of 400,000 people
300,000 of which being young
white, sex-starved, angry males
think someone who believed “Nookie”
by Limp Bizkit was a good song

then the dismal reality hit –
I was 23 in 1999
a poster child for the 
aforementioned class

so with poignant regret 
I have to admit
if I had been in Rome that weekend
I possibly could have thrown
a propane tank into a fire 
looted a bit or squeezed a 
crowd surfing passerby boob myself 

but as far as the LB…
they lost me after Three Dollar Bill, Y’all

I’m Not an Astronaut (I’m a Nut)

I am a citizen 
I was born 
in the northwest corner
of these United States

I know I’m not a lot
I’m not even a spot
On the map
and an astronaut
would not know where I am at
Looking down from outer space
he would not see me

But, sitting in my little room
I can see him
he’s on my tv

I‘m using my telephone
I’m making a call
to the president of all
these United States.

I know he’s busy 
but gee
he ought to listen to me
after all I listen to him 
when he talks to me 
on my tv

But he can never hear my call
I guess he’s too big and I’m too small
he can not see me

I’m buying a gun
The gun I’m buying
is a big one
sold in the U.S.

I’m gonna blow a hole
in a famous face
I’m gonna put my face
in that famous place
Then even an astronaut
up in outer space
he would see me

And sitting in there little rooms
others would know who I am
I’d be on their tvs

Hit Parade

I’m a shirtless man with an axe. 
You’re a wanton woman in a state of undress. 
The sky is live and heavy.
We eat blue oysters on the sunset strip 

& party with Mr. Rainbow
in the back of an airbrushed van.
We capriole in a crystal ball
sweep picking the road to the rim.

The clouds are high drum risers.
The sun is a wheel of steel.
You parade your ass like a greatest hit
& monsters of rock rise from the sea 

for all the answers you need

two thirty in the morning and 
coltrane is wailing about some 
lost love

the last drops of scotch are gone

the spanish princess awaits me 
in my dreams

this is what happens when you make 
it to the other side and realize hype 
kills everything

the grass is greener but you don’t 
want to know what is in those chemicals

wait twenty years and an oncologist 
will gladly bill you for all the answers 
you need

where all the superheroes are taking bribes

and every broken soul believes there 
is a pole out there where they will 
be a star

fifteen minutes have become 
fifteen seconds

fading like a fart in the ocean

one of those nights where your head 
won’t fit in the toaster

all the knives are dull

three hundred channels and still 
nothing worth watching

crawl into bed and wait for the 
quiet death that never comes

The Vengeful Villain of the Classy Strips

Black sky – yellow bolt – CRACK!
Block the moon!  POW!
There were never any questions 
About who the villains were when I
Was your super hero toon girl.
And who was in your power posse??
Me!  That’s who!
One night after drinking too much 
Pink boy pony glass sugar wine,
You left the punches dangling,
Like a participle,
Like a spinning penis,
Like a stay-tuned-next-week,
Like a hole in the script,
Like an uncolored Sunday comic.
You already lost the gist of your
Five star law suit with the Times.

And then you lost me. 
I made demands:
A seventeen point checklist.
So I popped the corn – POP!  and
Slushed trails home in the snow. SQUISH!!!
But I did like being your ingenue –
“The one with the good tits,” you said. 
I miss the son I never knew.
He was slated to be my special guest star. 
“We must wait for his voice to change,” you said.

But I knew, when laundry is 
Prioritized over coffee,
One becomes a weekly TV rerun,
A strip mall stripper,
A blue-haired cartoon Pulitzer runner-up. 
Yes, there were rumblings of a movie back then,
A book deal of sorts,
Always discussions.
What ever happened to 
Sarah Silverman anyway?

Death of Narcissus 

Narcissus doesn’t see the antlers 
of the murdered deer. Lips are paths, 
sad flames, waves that lick his hips. 

Cold green fish swim in the mirror. 
Flocks of pigeons hide in the dead throat, 
daughter of the arrow and the swan. 
Foam hangs from his eyes, 
marmoreal skin begins to drop off, 
a heron cruises around the corpse.
He hears fruit-like screams in the snow, 
the secret covered by geraniums.

Silk whiteness, spilled lips,
open oblivion. Eyelashes 
surrender to the dream, 
on an impure seashore.
Lips search for the straight 
thread of life. They are slaves 
of wet contours. The air bites, 
changes its sound into a blond 
litmus of salt lime and war waist.

If Narcissus goes through the mirror, 
the waters that stir the ears boil.
If he leans on its seashore 
or inclines his forehead the antlers gouge 
his side. If he opens his mouth, 
bees penetrate his eyes 
and the letters inside 
the dream fall apart.

Airwaves wrap the albino’s 
harpooned skin.  Color the hallways 
of his memory until the minute 
of silence transverses endless 
whiteness in the dry flames and drizzled 
leaves in water. Bees sting the wake 
of his corpse, demand they be given 
the gunwale of his body. 
This is how the mirror found out 
Narcissus took to the sky 
in the middle of toxic water. 

Purple Tea 

My wife’s 
got me 
drinking 
purple tea. 
Her Tia 
swears by it – 
heals everything, 
cleanses 
your whole system – 
Hell, 
cures cancer! 
She gave 
my wife 
a huge 
brown paper bag 
full 
of leaves. 
My wife 
boils them 
in a pot 
then 
extracts the tea 
and stores it 
in mason jars. 
Over time, 
it condenses 
into this 
thick purple stuff 
that tastes 
like dirt water. 
I have to 
infuse it 
with honey 
and pinch 
my nose 
when I down it. 
It’s not bourbon! 
my wife jokes. 
Sip it! 
But there’s 
no enjoying 
this stuff. 
It’s old age 
in a mug 
laughing 
its way down 
my throat 
and landing 
where the bourbon 
once was. 

Amber (no. 129 of Women’s names sensual series) 

Hey  
What’s going on  
at the Boom Boom Room? 
She’s making it happen; 
she’s out of the cage! 

She came from a den of thieves. 
Her Mom 
pickled her own heart 
with hot vinegar. 
& her Mom’s never satisfied; 
she’s often sinister 
& full of rage. 

But right now, 
all the lights are on. 

This girl’s eyes are burning brightly 
while wearing a top with cut-outs  
& long sleeves 
as the music plays on— 

Worlds apart, 
her loves go down 
so much quicker 

“It’s great to be ignored in stereo,” 
she whines like a jesting Valley Girl 
finally gaining some beach curls 
from a very special Japanese shampoo. 

Oh oh oh 
What to do? 

She’s got a famous resting bitch face 
the paparazzi wants to reveal; 
her curious reinvention 
sputters on, as if  
she came up 
with the first wheel. 

But when she opens up, 
she’s a little genius, not a ditzy brat 
with a soul of a black cat 

who’s working on her next free life. 
Like her Daddy 

who played good on his Fender, 
his fake Beatles haircut  
is now wearing thin; 
he never made it big 
in LA or NYC. 

He left his two girls home 
as an afterthought— 
the trip-lights, the mind benders 
& the fantasies, to him 
were more important  
than reality. 

& the cad 
that came to claim her, 
he was her secret lover 
until she was discovered 
by Hollywood 

He ditched her right after 
she gained the limelight. 

She claimed: 
“If I can’t have love, 
I want power.”