Love Stinks

Sex don't
smell too
good either.

GLASS DICK

that
acrid
white
smoke

is
now
your
ghost,

wouldn't
that
have
been

so
funny
back
then?

SITTING HERE GETTING DRUNK WAITING FOR MERLE HAGGARD TO DIE

So I can really get drunk.

ALTERNATIVE RADIO

exhumed. what my life has been
like,
I've worn your genitals now you
wear mine
and you're a police officer
and a suspect

fine you) you. it was the end of
pretty much every conversation
we had: accident staged to cover

a murder

(frozen in the moment of the
poisonous double take

)what a good shot man

sometimes when you cum on me,
I think of the song "Nice Shot"
by Filter

sometimes.

just static now

The Joke

you haven't lived until you stand
up 6 ft. looking out right at
ground level of the grave you
just helped dig with your partners
for your dead old lady and
everybody's drinking MD 20/20
when you look up at all them laughing
at your drunken white ass as
they help you out of the hole

THIS IS AN OLD POEM FOR MY EX-WIFE SERENA MARIE WHO WAS FOUND DEAD THIS MORNING:

FOR THE RESPONDENT


I savor you in
glimpses

a bus stop

your black hair
silver in sunlight

days I remember
holding you

precious

like a plastic
Indian doll
your eyes pulled
upwards into your
head by the rubber
band of
crank

we are married we
have the same name

liar

cheat

abuser

lost one

The Virus

It's a viciousgman
to live becaugtted
Another is e gecau
claimed innoganot
executed be ged gu
Monk was a ge. H
a poet, woregd a b
and had the gof an
I've ever mege had
education, wgever
Some time agten q
while he recighad a
quiet voice tgyour
out. Monk ggof po
which I sentgiends
when he wasgave a
poetry awaygsee M

HOUSE

how why
understand

you'll understand
you

so once

Beneath The Volcano

one cannot live without love
on the day of those dead
when the sentences snap
like the cheap beads on
your most beautiful of
necks don't break my
glass only fill it my dear
let's lose it all in our love
even if it's only two fat
bellies covered in sweat
we're fucking on the moon
when you close your eyes
we'll float like the matador
there is nothing holding
us here any longer and
when you come please call
me by somebody else's
name anybody's so that
way I don't have to answer
you when I do get up to leave

ANOTHER KISS

Her mouth sucks in my
tongue in a twilight
embrace on the street,

I'm drunk-

there are never enough
hands to smooth back
imprisoned faces.

A week later her mouth
sucks in the plastic
bag deciphering
breath:

another kiss,

one more excuse to
write the poem.

FOR NOTHING

thanks for the snowy egret on this plate
thanks for the foster home full of dead bodies
thanks for the clitoris that feels all pain
thanks for the thermal pollution of our lips
thanks for the myrmidon that we call president
thanks for the nine days' wonder of celebrity
thanks for the withholding tax on the rapture
thanks for the artficial intelligence asking our questions
thanks for the weasel words they publish in books
thanks for the cleavage on the suicide bomber
thanks for the group therapy of solitary confinement
thanks for the fancy dress with nothing left to eat
thanks for the biosphere that makes a great target
thanks for the autopsy at our local pharmacy
thanks for the doomsday maternity ward smiles
thanks for the reveille of saying thanks for nothing

asshole

Black Water

Old grey vehicles grey sky lost grey skates at Bullhead Lake smoky ghosts of breath from my uncle's grey face. Of course this is memory and memory is a random diagnosis. My cousin hit the guard rail above the canal riding it on two wheels before tipping over into iced black water. Watching the divers searching for his milk van on a grey tv screen. Top stories. His corpse now as frozen as this turkey was just three days ago. Uncle guides the blade through the fibrous white meat. Independent pathologist. Grey deep memories of smoky ghosts. The whiskey is in the trunk. Ever notice grey Chicago in winter drinking Old Style randomly into iced black water pull over and get me some whiskey? Out hunting in the early grey dawn. Pushes me off the sled. Spread his cheeks and showed me his butthole. Snowing in the grey frozen photos in iced black water. Olives rolling off of the table. Crushing the silver ornaments into a grey rug. Bloodied dead pheasants in a pool of water on the wooden floor next to some black rubber galoshes. Old grey voices in the other room around deep memories around lost holiday tables. Summer forts are covered in snow now... The next year on a warm bright day a boy finds an old pair of rusty ice-skates near the lake.