PLAY
WHAT
YOU
BELIEVE
IN
THE
FUTURE
TV
JUNKMAN
FRED
SANFORD
ADVISED
AYLER

THIS WAS WRITTEN WHEN I WAS 19-YEARS-OLD, HITCHHIKING THROUGH OREGON:

POEM IN MEMORY OF ALAN WILSON

this is my opinion nothing
goes for sure we can
take life can't give
death back want to
suck out your hole the
outlet/fingers vibrate/
(arms crisscrossing
like all the telephone poles
along Highway 101 collapsing)
/sounds of a cat
with hairballs choking
then they play the
national anthem
when the country music
station goes off the air/
("...every town is the same
as the last, the future
looks worse than the
past...") the winos
with the shits on Grant Ave.,
S.F. I know/where
are you sweet Gypsy Norman
Tibet-Alaska-maybe back
to West Virginia where
are you Hip Eddie
(wearing M's sunglasses: "They're
rapping what we rapped
ten years ago, man!")
where are you M!
this light bulb this
12' by 15' room also today
waiting/carrying boxes
of food for the
people at the Abundant Food
Center no one wants
to work they are
Americans hick/primitive/
rustic remains of 1850
the only colored people
come when it's
potato picking
time (the Deputy Sheriff:
"...we're proud of that...")
you can taste
the discrimination/
America is dying/
I remember coming across
from Canada the fat
decadent border guards-American/
"...want to check your
things..."
"...what for..."
"...we're told to check everyone..."
"...how come that family in
the Cadillac got through
without being stopped..."
no answer
then they wouldn't let the
French Canadians across
not enough money/
"...fuck your country..."
oh yes-yes what
are borders tear down
those walls let's
all copulate the open
road the open road
Arizona/Utah/Texas/Montana
/too spoiled America
is too soft GET OUT
love it then leave it
sure those sweet
young hitchhikers
"...ass tight, all night..."
oh my god oh
my vision of god the
highways are too
surreal remember
Debbie drinking whiskey
with that old sailor
in the Jaguar
from Monterey a
living Hemingway/
the way we acted each
other's part/
America is dying what
did Kerouac say: "...a
rucksack revolution
...millions of Dharma
bums going up to the hills
to meditate and ignore
society..."
yeah that was early 50's
look now Mr.
camper/trailer/tourist/truck
driving/DYING AMERICAN
look those fuckers
with thumbs out/
everywhere it is
happening!
it is happening!
react/
take a razor blade and
slit your eyeballs
while gazing into the
rear view mirror what
is there to see-
there is
nothing like some asshole
staring at me when
I am not even there



-Bend, Oregon- Sept. 1, 2/'70

Thanksgiving

he woke up dreaming he was
President-elect there at the
food bank not able to spell T-o-p
R-a-m-e-n but still discussing
the world-wide food crisis in the
loudest of fuck you syllables
with a couple of unactivated
credit cards stapled to a sunken
chest and so especially proud of
a 30-year-old car and that time
getting handcuffed for drunk
driving in front of the Human
Resource Center counting how
many children he has by the
tracks in his arms with three
bindles to the slow motion wind
yet still not recognizing most of
the other names on his application

FOUND POEM


the word verification that came up when I just now
left a comment about Steve Richmond at fhole:

ANTINT

NESTING DOLL CULPABILITY

on TV shows
these cops are
always talking
about the vic
or the perp
like it would
take up too
much time to
say the whole
word just as in
real life when
with nesting
doll culpability
you'll soon be
fitting each
description

LIKE

BECOMING MODERN
TO

CREATE

NO

COLLECTIBLE

ART

Someday

the dead never told me
anything I could use
other than keep it up
you'll be here soon and
you know what fuck you
motherfuckers is what I
say being a first lieuy in
the devil's army because
actually I was thinking
of those whores who let
their kids go hungry when
I sat there chopping lines
awash in very cheap whiskey
as they sucked my numb
cock while occasionally
glancing over at that cold
stove like it was Iceland
and someday we would
all vacation there

WHAT PRETTY CLAWS

in
stolen moments
in
stolen panties

FORGOT GODOT
FORGO) GODO,
F RG G D
or got
short lives.

WALKING INTO GLASS DOORS

who
could wear
that mask of
Kenneth Patchen's
reading
with the
Charles Mingus
Band
when
there is a
chance of
someone
else yanking it off

For All Who Served

I remember when I was young
most of my friends seemed to
have photos of the same guy
an older brother standing next
to a sanitary '55 who was now
over in Vietnam but would
soon be coming back from a
free-fire zone to the Twilight
Zone so that when I got drafted
myself in '68 during Tet I thought
what a crock of shit this is all for
nothing while I dummied up at
the L.A. Induction Center and
after one year was granted a
4-F status which was actually
harder to do than it sounds and
a way longer story but I covered
my ass and that is the point I
wouldn't be here now if I would
have went to their jack off war I
am sure of that and each year
on this day when I hear the
stories of honor on the TV news I
still feel the same way with no
guilt at all what you did for your
country may have been arguably
groundless but what I did for
myself was a fucking necessity

58 Tears

if you want to be me
come back to the
graveyard where I
just now visited my
sweet baby under
cloudy moonlight with
the headstones leaning
backwards expecting
the shadows like no one
comes here sober and
really no they don't so
that has nothing to do
with it I came to see
her on my birthday
ain't that fucking stupid
because if she could
spread her legs it would
be dust and that would
only throw me off

PRECUM REDUX

Stories of wisdom
when stupid.

BRIDE OF GOD

I am stupid because
I am dead

laughing but crying
saturated

with the wisdom
of crowds

EXIT POLL

here in Oregon we have vote by
mail so I sent off my ballot
over a week ago but before I did
I had my daughter who is in
the 4th grade pencil in the little
oval next to Obama's name
a talisman to be sure because I've
seen enough of these assholes in
58 years these Presidents who
some of you would call great men
but I wouldn't even piss on if their
motorcade were on fire out in
front of my house so I'm just
sitting here today hoping we don't
get fucked again while I drink
a few beers with history

Born To Die

for Iron Mike

this is the last beer in
the twelve pack and my
partner just left after that
healthy dose of pot butter
I gave him because it's his
birthday and his bike is
down carburetion and my
birthday is a week away
to the day so we trampled
the scorpions talking about
Sturgis and all the bullshit
fuck the cops and blah blah
I forgot to mention the Evan
Williams so he was pretty
fucked-up but you know
when you're born to die you
might as well kiss your ass
goodbye because that journey
could end quickly with all of
your photos blown across
a dusky highway where
no one is looking back

Day Of The Dead

brings me back to the
electric hangover
crushing scorpions on
Tweety Blvd. in
snakeskin boots waiting
to hear Sonny Boy
blow when with sugar
skulls for eyes she says
soy una cabrona erotica
and that could be just
about right except for the
part about pistol-
whipping the wind but
you mustn't turn away
so I carry on living