Marginalia

mirror for
headstone

SUBFEASTERS

these dirty asshole
songs for the starving
about what a great
country this used to
be on the stinking
seats of chairs where
the hemorrhoidal will
tell all about family and
canned laughter as long
as it's somebody else
who goes to bed hungry

Mexico

to Opstedal

nodding out in Hussong's
with your fat dealer's
wallet while out on the
Avenida some assholes
from the San Gabriel
Valley are ripping your
vintage Velzy-Jacobs
board from out of that
glinting unlocked rig
as the blonde bitch baring
her tight midriff slaps you
across your puckered lips
and calls you a fucking queer
during her own personal
endless summer throwing
yet a few more of those dead
dogs way down after you

THE INCHES

for Billy

what women want

ten inches and an apology

what women get

six inches and an excuse

Shot Caller

family photos
hang in an
emergency
room where
blue veins got
tangled in
red tape behind
bullet proof
glass that
could also
reflect your
skull with two
eyes glowing
set stationary in
the rear window
of a primered
'64 Chevelle
pulling out from
the parking lot
onto Redemption
Ave. in soft rain

STRAW DOG

braille on beer cans

"this is not your
father's moon"

AGE-OLD QUESTIONS



where am I



where's my car

To Kick The Footlights Out Again

I live the kind of life
that most men
only piss on a last
chance for last poets
after the fucking
"...looks like a Volkswagen
engine." -Mel Clay
so when we get caught in
our T cells with an iPod and
the letters of Paul Bowles to
Mr. Rogers on Kindle the
most incredible next thing
any of us shits will be
reading is I told you so

59 & HOLDING

tomorrow is my birthday
and it's like the end of
Godfather 2 where
Michael is sitting on the
bench looking like
hammered shit and the
leaves are blowing
and most everyone is
dead and all that guilt
coagulates and it's so
fucking lonely with not
one question asked
like who could have
an answer anyway other
than yes I am afraid

GOOD TO GO

in memory of Morton Marcus

You're good to
go they always
tell me with a
latex mask smile,
I'm already gone
I tell them, then
they look at me.

Little Wing

for Billy

in my mind we're leaving
California $28.07
with a Raven .25 auto
and a half eaten
bag of Baken-ets and
you're too stoned
to give me head "the
truckers will see"
shit they're fucking
high too baby so
I sip on my 24 oz. Modelo
especial while you
jam a matchbook under
a Stevie Ray cassette
and I roll all over the bed
and signal to pass in
yet another bad dream
with both of us pitched
down a grapevine
hill where those who are
lost mustn't ever wake up

NOW
DATA
SUGGESTS
THAT
WITHIN
A
DECADE
OR
TWO
THERE
WILL
BE
SAILBOATS
AT
THE
NORTH
POLE
DURING
THE
SUMMER

Healing The Ghoul

they turned back
the clock on The Day
of the Dead with a
hangover like speechless
inoculation using Ativan
as chalk to scrape initials
on St. Mark's Place all the
way back to the San
Bernardino Freeway for
everyone who feeds