there is this Garth Brooks
song where you've lost
all your fingers and the
last dance is for God and
any dream is over only if
her tits smell like the rope
of addiction that J. Cash
hung himself with on HANK
FM when you really couldn't
keep from crying because
there is no finale to a pretty
face spread out on the only
spot in the road that anybody
will ever get any reception
5/27/09
5/25/09
TOGETHER THROUGH LIFE
sometimes when I'm sober I
hate your fucking guts but
now that I'm flat wasted I
hate you even more so Jesus
don't laugh I've studied my
wrists for years and right there
it is the blues and that's important
so when I write a poem about how
everything should be all better in
my imaginary rockstar pockets
those Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan
don't even attempt to give anybody
their money because that could
only fucking feed the whole world
and what would that say about a
pop culture or how far I've gotten
with a scrap of paper and a couple
of near empty complimentary pens
hate your fucking guts but
now that I'm flat wasted I
hate you even more so Jesus
don't laugh I've studied my
wrists for years and right there
it is the blues and that's important
so when I write a poem about how
everything should be all better in
my imaginary rockstar pockets
those Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan
don't even attempt to give anybody
their money because that could
only fucking feed the whole world
and what would that say about a
pop culture or how far I've gotten
with a scrap of paper and a couple
of near empty complimentary pens
5/22/09
Bus Stop Vortex
there ain't no prophylactic
machines in the rest rooms
of the stations of the cross
so that's why it's best to hit
that highway running with
your thumb up your ass
because it's all designed for
her pleasure anyhow and
making that invisible crucifix
across your chest could only
indicate you're selling drugs
and try and explain all that
to the sheriff in the next town
over where a map printed with
disappearing ink really means
you're still lost without her
machines in the rest rooms
of the stations of the cross
so that's why it's best to hit
that highway running with
your thumb up your ass
because it's all designed for
her pleasure anyhow and
making that invisible crucifix
across your chest could only
indicate you're selling drugs
and try and explain all that
to the sheriff in the next town
over where a map printed with
disappearing ink really means
you're still lost without her
5/16/09
Unfriendly Ghosts
this mind smear like a slow
PC taking that sentence
down in long black lines
goes about ten miles out of
Commerce, TX where the
trigger of her love gun scares
this convenience store punk
and we grab the jerky and
fortified wine and head back
over to the graveyard and
fuck and fuck and still that
ache won't stop and some of
those assholes at school say
we're haunted but I think if I
could get my whole head up
her pussy and take a good
look around I could figure
out who to kill first
PC taking that sentence
down in long black lines
goes about ten miles out of
Commerce, TX where the
trigger of her love gun scares
this convenience store punk
and we grab the jerky and
fortified wine and head back
over to the graveyard and
fuck and fuck and still that
ache won't stop and some of
those assholes at school say
we're haunted but I think if I
could get my whole head up
her pussy and take a good
look around I could figure
out who to kill first
5/14/09
5/12/09
5/11/09
Mr. Congeniality
the back-alley
abortion
crawled off
and became
citizen of
the month so
don't think
you have it
hard when
the jet crash
limbs falling
like rain onto
foreclosure
houses spell
out your
name as a
2nd runner-up
abortion
crawled off
and became
citizen of
the month so
don't think
you have it
hard when
the jet crash
limbs falling
like rain onto
foreclosure
houses spell
out your
name as a
2nd runner-up
5/9/09
A Poor Man's Guide To Self-Medication
three in the morning comes too fast with
George Jones on the box and empty
beer bottles on the floor bracing up a new
pair of panties in town when all eyes
dissolve like the vicodin into an afternoon
that couldn't care less who wakes up
George Jones on the box and empty
beer bottles on the floor bracing up a new
pair of panties in town when all eyes
dissolve like the vicodin into an afternoon
that couldn't care less who wakes up
5/5/09
WORKING MAN BLUES
Ball Peen Jimmy liked to call
his cock Man o' War in front
of those colored girls on their
lunch break down at the X-Ray
Cafe and most of us guys would get
a laugh out of it but some thought
he was just a loudmouthed prick
until on some friday nights at any
of Norwalk's seedier clubs that
8 0z. silver hammer would come
up and put another dimple on an
Aqua Velva-ed chin and everybody
had to scramble out to their 20-
year-old cars and back home to the
House of Wax carrying a bucket of the
Colonel's chicken that a pissed off wife
would bounce against the rented wall
his cock Man o' War in front
of those colored girls on their
lunch break down at the X-Ray
Cafe and most of us guys would get
a laugh out of it but some thought
he was just a loudmouthed prick
until on some friday nights at any
of Norwalk's seedier clubs that
8 0z. silver hammer would come
up and put another dimple on an
Aqua Velva-ed chin and everybody
had to scramble out to their 20-
year-old cars and back home to the
House of Wax carrying a bucket of the
Colonel's chicken that a pissed off wife
would bounce against the rented wall
5/4/09
5/3/09
Stelae By Starlight
Don Van Vliet is almost as dead
as his favorite poet
Philip Larkin who now is
as dead as Myrna Loy
whose hair still lives all over my
face until I remember it is Mina Loy
and her silly legs wrap across my back
as his favorite poet
Philip Larkin who now is
as dead as Myrna Loy
whose hair still lives all over my
face until I remember it is Mina Loy
and her silly legs wrap across my back
5/2/09
Hibernator
you were here first
lightweight skin
and impressions
in mud
into the brain stem
like processing the
horse's complexion
with pockets
turned out
or a blood trail tainted
with the lipstick kiss
because 100 years
from now no one
will know who
we are
lightweight skin
and impressions
in mud
into the brain stem
like processing the
horse's complexion
with pockets
turned out
or a blood trail tainted
with the lipstick kiss
because 100 years
from now no one
will know who
we are
5/1/09
Obit In An Edition Of 100 Copies
for Al Masarik
the clank of a mimeo
machine beats like
two hearts fucking on
the freshly smudged
satin sheets of the
whole word made flesh
just twelve tubes of ink
away from addiction
inside the infamous Small
Press Hotel where we all
died for d. a. levy's sins
the clank of a mimeo
machine beats like
two hearts fucking on
the freshly smudged
satin sheets of the
whole word made flesh
just twelve tubes of ink
away from addiction
inside the infamous Small
Press Hotel where we all
died for d. a. levy's sins
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