GUTTED BIBLES

magnificent desolation

ggggggg
time is cum

Selfless

for Michael the K

puppet up dress

thrill is gone

bug light on

how blue (can

you get

ONE WORLD ONE DREAM


the linked rings on every
Chinese Coke bottle

the leaping athletes on
each McDonald's paper bag

ABOUT YOURSELF


SO WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME
ABOUT YOURSELF
NO ONE CARES HOW YOU FEEL
SO TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF
NO ONE CARES
TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF
NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU
OR LIKES YOU
SO PLEASE TELL ME ABOUT
YOURSELF
NO ONE CARES MUCH WHAT
HAPPENS TO YOU
WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME
ABOUT YOURSELF
YOUR LIFE IS A MESS AND NO
ONE CARES FOR YOU
SO TELL ME A LITTLE BIT
ABOUT YOURSELF
NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR
OPINION
TELL ME A LITTLE ABOUT
YOURSELF
TRUST ME NO ONE CARES
SO TELL ME SOMETHING
ABOUT YOURSELF
NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU

HOT

tonight on a back
street in North
Hollywood the
severed head of
a porno star looks
just like this one a
waitress had on who
served you breakfast
in 1972 when you
were hot hot hot

Hummingbird

inefficacious bones of
every piece of puke
I ever fucked up or
kicked the shit out of
because I do it for a
living so why would
I front you a 20 sack
when I personally won't
even write a poem unless
someone is buying

THE SENTENCED

Based on this true story
that is based on the lie,

I'll integrate my body
with machines.

Amaranth

ghost tavern on the outskirts.
small and musty like an old train car covered in
rusted beer signs of unknown brands.
tongue and groove walls yellowed by nicotine.
smoky blurred characters at a dark burgundy formica
topped bar suspended in canned laughter.
crumpled red and green Lucky Strike packages
on corner tables full of empty glasses.
a father's skeleton hands lifting you up as a shadow
slides you a Coca Cola in the thick light green bottle.
clicking of an overhead fan like a Nellie
Fox baseball card in the spokes.
faraway smell of a neighborhood burning leaves outside
a hand worn door that doesn't even open.

WE
CAN
OCCUPY
OUR
TIME
BY
CONSTRUCTING
VIRTUAL
WORLDS
WHERE
WE
WOULD
BE
BORN
HAVE
ADVENTURES
AND
DIE

1968

that's when I graduated high school
and on the last day of class we took
reds and went down to the beach but
got delayed for hours because thousands
of people lined Imperial Hwy. to watch
the jet that carried away Bobby Kennedy's
body into the void fly low overhead and that
was a weird sight but a lot of heavy people got
killed that year one way or another so we
didn't really think nothing of it standing
there in history walking up and down in it
ready for a world which when I look at
it now was hardly worth waiting for

YOU COULD BE THE NEXT BIG WINNER

write your little poems for the
rest of your life rolling up
pennies for the top ramen and
beer because all the extras you
can shoplift for your kids so they
will feel normal in a digital
jungle of bad movies and violent
video games where a nigga is on
top of the game with a bigger
pistol in that drug kingdom of
advanced dementia where no
one buys any books or says yes
to beautiful until it all ends
up on You Tube where depression
hurts and no one gives a fuck anyway
unless you're stalking them with the
fake identity that made you want
to write a poem in the first place

VOICE OF THE MARTYRS

(a lesser Flamingo

Red Herring

my storytelling dashboard Jesus ready

for unearthly impound laid beneath

a bullet-punctured highway sign

getting rustier in cold rain

You also have a beautiful clit.

Dead Reckoning

for Greg Hall

back to scars on a trigger. gravestone streets
skid marked from her bloodthirsty Bratz doll face.
chandelier of tits in a shotgun shack by the tracks
of an LP tacked to saber tooth tar paper. adult
beverages with get down syndrome. three lines
of the haiku on snow while kissing a belly button
from the inside. 60 second stopover with a
25 Minutes to Go new coffin haircut mimicking
the lost coordinates conducive to all flesh.

COLONAPEN AT NOON

Someone pets
the kitten,
someone throws
the kitten
against the wall.

From The Glass Lined Tanks Of Old Latrobe

to the filthy
porcelain
of a St. Louis
Greyhound
station urinal
shaking off
before a blow job

All Fell Down

[Your Name Here] liked nothing more than to
take off for the park at night, drink wine
and look up at the stars.

gene transfers
between animals
and plants
are possible
it is conceivable
that we could
create animals
that would bear
fruit or have
flowers just for
our amusement

WE ARE FUCKED ASSHOLE

I'll drive my Chevy to the
levee and get interrogated
with three dollars in a wallet
bulging with more false hopes
than what I could find in an
emergency room filled with
cranksters so what the fuck
I'll at least get a candidate
lawn sign that will help the
cops find my house a little
easier next time when I'm
out front screaming how
I'll do something about it

ENDOWMENT

shit

if I
didn't
sell

drugs
I couldn't
write

poetry

I wish God were alive to see this.

As No One Ever Did In Life

The man-eaters
are nauseous.

TATTOO ON MY FACE

NN

a tattoo of my face on my face

THIS FROM A NOTEBOOK CIRCA EARLY 1970'S BOULDER CREEK, CA:

wash the television screen.

blotches, motion
disturbed. we

smile at her intelligent
answers. "I

would have said the same
thing."
________________________

we asked the
robots 'what do

you do?'/

'III emmm an Ahrrrtist'

John hit this
big one

with a wrench/smashing

the two
tubes on his head.

"Kills Bugs Dead."

,this was in the Museum.

Circumciser Vespiary

this nest of foreskin
and labia inside a
rummage sale
Land Camera
is really nothing
extraordinary

SOME PEOPLE WILL CARE MORE ABOUT AN ABUSED DOG THAN YOUR DUMB ASS

A cataract clouded sun
over dull bodies flush with
carcinogenic credit cards
mean the poems ain't working.

This rifle was broken beating
an old visual poet to death.

LOVE POEM FOR MARK JOHN BROWNING

all those years ago today
on your birthday we
took all the pills and
went and saw the Doors
at the Hollywood Bowl
with Morrison screaming
so beautiful man we never
even wrote a poem about it
but so what who thought it
would mean anything
and it really doesn't
because it was ceremony
and we were there as
unkempt literati with a
Small Press literary magazine
ready to come out on mimeo
which didn't really mean shit
to a tree but so anyhow my bro
I am thinking of you again
on this another summer night
all these years away from
the words we once thought were
as unstoppable as an iron lung
in a breezy field of butterflies

Birth Of A Poet

Bass Lake
with the
Angels
that 4th
of July
when I
was about
14 my dad
dug the
chicks on
the back
of the bikes
in their
white bras
we were
driving
through
into nothing
but were
a family
just like
them so
his Iron
Worker ass
shut the
fuck up
that one
and only
time after
that he
talked too
much when
I wasn't
listening

Token

the old ones with American

dreams caught in the pantomime

of possessing nothing are speaking

tonight on the wind of Yankee

Doodle Dandy with the blues

harmonica gathering power

passed out in a Buick Regal under

a Mt. Rushmore tagged with the

stylized verbalization of flames

THIS VERY MOMENT

to sit think to absorb

the sun with
cold beer

in hand for ones who are

not here but
would still

like to be I am sure

now there is
Canned Heat

blaring out a car window

where the
river turns

away from this very moment