The Human Condition As Portrayed By The God Particle At The Center Of The Venn Diagram (Would Make For Some Great Reality Television)

It appears to me
For all intents and purposes
That they are content

Day after day

Huddled around the water cooler
And coffee maker
Talking about their shared interest of things
Like

‘Brangelina’
‘Snookie’
‘HG TV’
‘Dancing With The Stars’
‘Entertainment Weekly’ magazine...

‘NJ Housewives’
‘DC Housewives’
‘Central Pacific Out In The Middle Of Nowhere Housewives’
‘Transgendered Housewives’

And if nothing new
Were to be discovered
From these morning summits

So be it.

They are comfortable with the same routine
Of living their lives
Through others
In a box
From a sofa
And existing to the next day
To tell about it.

Each one
Already knowing the answers
Dissing the others
For they passed by their GED’s
And got their doctorate
In such fleeting things
As important as this.

I’m sure many
Fall asleep
Alone
On the sofa.

The particle
Gets smaller
And

Smaller.

Destination Mars

It was day three
Of a four day junk bender
Which would’ve been longer
Except the money was running out.

The party was gonna come to an end soon
And that wasn’t gonna be pretty.

It was Dave’s turn to make a run
To the store
For a score
And he looked like shit.

Hell...
We all looked like shit.

When he came back
That was gonna be it.

We were gonna hafta find money
One way or another
Whether it was stealing
Selling
Or begging
Or else the party really was over.

But all of that didn’t matter at that moment.

I was playing DJ
Spinning records on the turntable.

There were plenty of pillows on the floor
And while Dave was gone
There were just three of us left.

Me and two girls.

We lay there limp and sprawled
White of a three day high
Chapped lips
Metallic breath
Listening to Einsturzende Nuebauten
Usted Ghulam Hussein Khan
Hement Kumar’s
“Songs From Hindi Films”
Gregorian Chants
23 Skidoo
Velvet Underground
And Iggy Pop.

When Dave finally crawled back
We could tell that he was already high.

We could see that the bag was short
Which was against our housebound junkie principles.

Technically
We were supposed to wait
Until we got back to the party
To get high.

We were really pissed off
And really jealous.

The girls turned
Their ‘Bitch’ mode up full volume
To the point of
Hysterical screaming
In stereo.

It was too much.
I couldn’t take it any more.

“Look” I said.

“Anyone of us might’ve done the same thing”

“Let’s just get high and forget about it”

We did.

The girls were pros and hit themselves.

I put on
Annette Peacock’s “I’m The One”
Bauhaus “The Sky’s Gone Out”
Minnie Ripperton’s “Adventures In Paradise”.

Things became distant and forgotten
Within the black channels of
Lydia Lunch
And Throbbing Gristle.

We drifted off
All of us
To the repetitive click
Of the lock groove
At the end of
A Cachao record.


I awoke parched
Lips cracked
The early afternooon sun
Illuminating dust.

I looked around
Lifted the needle off of the record.

We were all strange friends
Not to be trusted
Curled around each other
Mouths open
Like corpses.

I shuffled to the fridge for some juice.
I had a sweet tooth coming on.

The fridge was empty.

It was going to be a very rough day ahead.

Horology

There is a rip... there
In the sky
Where the moon
Is pulling from its socket
Like a soft egg eye

Dangling
Vericose
Swinging
Gently
From a thin blue vein

Slow pendulum movement
Like a dusty German clock
Geartrain spinning inside
Frictionlessly
Ratchet clicking
Antique motion work
In need of slight adjustment
And cleaning

Time slowing
As the bob falls lower
Behind cumulus clouds

The tall black trees
Stand there
Spines cracking
Vertabrae separating
As bones of hands reach high
To pass the hour mark

Waiting
With
Decelerating
Breath
For the fragile yolk
To break lose and fall

Nightbirds go blind
As the sky goes dark
Clouds disappearing
And somewhere
A clock keeper
Trips
And bruises himself badly
As he climbs
The heavy wooden stairs
Of the cold stone tower

He settles
Alone
Chilled
Weeping
As his bells
Remain silent

Blues For A Dying Marriage

It was a molotav cocktail

Too much booze
Shaken
Not enough love and tenderness

Lots of bitters

The garden
Once her pride and joy
Rested
Defeated
Surrendering all of it’s splendor
To ugly weeds and vines
Wrapping around the trunks and branches
Of the small flowering trees
Wresting breath and animation

A botanical of the grave

The fairies were missing

Devils had moved in

Within glass bottles
That would be hidden
In the back of closets
And under the bed

Forgotten about

Like the pot on the stove

Love and intimacy
Burned away inside
With the brittle chicken bones
Turning ash grey black with carbon

The flowers of romance
Long withered and fallen

Petals crisp without color
Spread around the base of a vase of clear glass
Of which the dark departed stems were visible
In the futid green foamy septic water

Let Me Tell You About Some Of My Social Shortcomings

Just as soon as I finish
Flipping off the asshole driver
In front of me and tell
Him to go fuck himself
Because he is driving
Too godamn slow
Causing me to be later
Than I already am
For something that is way more
Fucking important
Than his pilgrimage to the pharmacy
On his retirement schedule
Upon this congested two lane highway

This road to hell...

Coffee In Bed

Well...

I think I had
The WORST sex
I’ve ever had
Last night.

I mean...

Look...

Why even bother?

If you’re that boring
Why not just turn on the TV
Or listen to Justin Bieber.

This morning
She brought coffee
Into bed
And proceeded to ask
Dull questions
Like

“Where’s the strangest place you’ve had sex?”

Really?

I rattled off a long list of places
Others might find strange.

But
What I REALLY wanted to reply
Was

“The strangest place I’ve ever had sex was here in YOUR bed!”

Now that I look back
And think about it

The coffee wasn’t that hot either.

Datura Stramonium Delirium

I feel lovely tonight
As I lie in my bed
Breathing in the soft frocks
Spinning open like a ballerina’s skirt
On pointe

Floating
Simply
Couru
Glissade
Across the wooden floor
Like the ghosts
That live here
With me

One a member of the
First Nation’s tribe
Algonquian
That is trying to speak to me
In his ancestral tongue
Ojibwe
As the erect trunks
Of the Devil’s Trumpet
Reach high up into the midnight moon’s glow
Of the October sky
A good eight to nine feet tall
Orange bell flowers
Hanging just below my windows
Glowing
Like small lit pumpkins

I lie quietly in bed
Breathing in tropane alkaloids
Atropine
Hyoscyamine
Scopolamine

And I understand
As he tells me
How the Lord Shiva
Was fond of smoking the Datura
And that they smoked together once
Using the Algonquian pipe
Spending several days
Crossing skies
And galaxies

Holding hands
And dancing

Grand Jete
Entrechat
Fouette En Tournant

The Indian man presented his pipe
To the Lord as a gift
And they still keep in touch
As spirits can

The Indian man ghost
Closed my eyes
With his invisible fingers
Offering me protection

As ballerinas’ skirts drop
At different times
Throughout
The length of night
Landing
Upon the ground
Far below
Leaving their attractive white legs
Naked and exposed

Heavy Narcotics

My dogs just got their balls
Chopped off.

After 10 and 5 years respectively.

My son went with me to the clinic
To pick them up.

“All done”
She said.

“They’re doing great!”

Another woman brings them out.

They are drug stupid.

They’re wobbling all over the place
And Cocoa proceeds to pee
All over himself.

We leash them up
And head out of the door.

Cocoa
Walks straight into it
Banging his head
Acting like nothing has happened.

I know that routine only too well.

I have to lift them up into the car.

Understandably so.

The woman at the clinic
Told me that it was okay to walk them
When I got home.

So I did.

They had no bearings
And they stumbled up the steps
As I dropped my son off at the house.

He was laughing
At their dopey antics.

“Now you go read”
I told him
Caught up in tangled dog leashes.

The dogs stumbled back down the steps
Tongues panting loudly.

Cottonmouth?

They swayed all over the sidewalks
Running into things
Running over things
Glazed over for moments at a time.

The little one pissed on the big one’s head.

The big one crashed into an election sign
On somebody’s front lawn.

I looked at the two of them admiringly
Knowing that they were stoned.

The laughs just came out of me.

I think about all of the times
That I have acted like this
By my own account
Or others...

Stumbling through bushes
Banging my head on something
Moving zig zag
Through streets or apartments
Pissing all over myself.

Acting with the same fervent nonsense
That I see my poor balless dogs
Performing in front of me
Though
I’m sure that they are too high to know
They are without balls yet.

Breaks my heart champs.

While I’m walking them back to the house
I notice
That they are not pulling me
Which is the norm

And that there are times when
I am actually pulling them
Saying

“C’mon, let’s go!”
But they are dope stupid
Languishing
The non sensical moment
That I had lived for many years

And
Not by choice
They
Had just discovered.

The Dream *By FogBob MoonSkull*

One night I dreamed
Of how much gas would be needed
To run a 4,000 foot long car.

The next night I didn't.

That’s what he said.

And I replied...

One night I dreamt I sold you that car.

The next night I dreamt I sold you the gas
To fill that car’s tank and became a rich man.

The following night thereafter

I dreamt you ran me over.

If you've never been run over by a 4000 foot car
It takes forever.

And as the car is passing over me
Endlessly
I yell up to Bob

“Re-tire the car!”

I noticed some balding
Happening on the tires
As he drove over me.

But it was too late.

He was already 2,500
Feet away.

The Stroller

I walked up to her
As she was bending down
Touching her baby
In the stroller.

She was talking baby talk
And cooing
Touching the infant
Over and over again
Just like a new mother would.

The mother was dressed in fine clothes.

A wool suit
With skirt and jacket
And a hat to match
With a flower of grey corresponding felt.

An obviously sophisticated woman
That smelled of money.

As I got closer
Something struck me as odd.

The stroller was small
And cheap looking...
Like a child’s toy.

A contrast to this rich lady.

Out of the corner
Of my eye
I saw the tiniest pair of patent leather shoes.

She continued to talk
Adjusting the baby’s clothes
Over and over.

I noticed then
That the baby was a doll.

A small unproportionate likeness
To a real baby
Much as the stroller.

Caught off guard
I was uneasy
And kept walking.

The mother looked up at me
As I passed
And I could see the distance
In her eyes.

She was spun out
And gone.

Menstruation

She shared with me
Her brown blood.

A sweet gift
Of divine intimacy.

She was embarrassed at first
Apologetic even.

Stating

“My period must have just started.”

I said

“Don’t worry about it, please.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She pulled my head down
And kissed me.

She shared herself devotedly.

Her brown blood
Like words
Poetry
A painting
Or sculpture
Under construction
Vulnerable
To review.

‘74 Chevy Nova

1. Transfer Of Title: A Boy’s First Car


My friend Mindy
Was selling her car.

She was a year or two older than me
And she loved to get high.

She showed me how you could blow pot smoke
Into somebody else’s mouth
And use that as an excuse
To make out with them.

We got blazed in that car
Plenty of times.

I was very familiar with the car’s interior.

The way the seats reclined waaaay back

All the way
Crushing the rear bench seat
As Mindy climbed on top
And mounted me
Her shadow moving
In the dense cannabis fog
Her white arched throat
And kinky black hair
Were all that were visible
To me
In the ganja haze
Filling the interior.

She had her way.

Her brother
Owned the car before her
Until he upgraded
To a Charger
And sold the Nova to his sis.

He liked to party too.

They both were coming up
Off of the Seventies.

My Dad came with me
On a summer day
To help inspect the car.

The Nova sat parked next to the Charger
All muscle.

Still somewhat new and gleaming.

That made it a little sad for the Nova
And ridiculously sexy for the Charger.

The Nova was a little beat up
But it was perfect
To someone who had never
Owned a vehicle before.

Plus I could afford it.

Eight years old...

It was Forest Green with a lot of
Sun fading
To the paint.

It had a cream pebbled vinyl hardtop.

My dad was unaware
Of my trysts with Mindy
In that car
And
As he looked under the hood
Kicked the tires
And listened to the engine
As it came to life

I’d catch Mindy
Winking or giving me a sly smile
Behind my father’s back.

I was reminded of
Her giving me rides home from work
That took way longer
Than usual.

My dad
Did and said
The usual fatherly things
During the inspection.

It was a tank.
3,200 lbs of
US steel.

Six Cylinders.

We talked on the way home.

“It is a 74.”

“It looks ok, a little rust, not much, but it’s your money.”

“You just have to remember that it’s a used car and drive it carefully.”

“You’re just gonna hafta make sure you do all of the maintenance.”

“Is it really the car you wanna drive?”.

“It smells to hell of cigarettes. You gonna be able to deal with that?”

I looked at my dad and smiled.

In a few days
I was the proud owner
Of a used
‘74 Chevy Nova.

Faded Forest Green.



2. Power Glide Transmission


The Nova had amazing acceleration.

As soon as I put my foot
On the pedal
3200 lbs of prime teen testosterone
Would jump forward
Smoothly and quickly.

Power steering.

It was a dream.

One year later
I was on a coke run
Up on 162nd and Amsterdam.

The Columbians there
Knew my car well
As it breathed heavily
I guided it slowly
Down the dark
Dangerous
Ebony night streets.

They would shoot out the street lamps
So that surveilance
And undercover
Couldn’t see their activity.

After making the score
I headed downtown
Via the West Side Highway.

It was somewhere down
At the Meat Packing District
That I avoided getting into an accident.

We were high.

The stopped traffic
Came up too fast
And to avoid a crash
I pulled over into the outer lanes
Of the West Side Highway.

It was a six to eight lane highway.

When you dropped off of the elevated part
And went South past the piers
It turned
From six lanes...
Three each side
To eight lanes...
Four lanes each side
And the four lanes in each direction
Were divided by a concrete curb
Down the middle.

I decided to cut over the concrete median
To avoid getting into an accident..

“Callump, callump!”

It was just like a movie.

The car quickly lurching to the right
Driving over a concrete curb
And settling down again
In the nearest lane
And continuing to drive
As if nothing had happened.

I don’t even remember car horns.

It was like that shit happened
All of the time.

We stopped at a traffic light
And did a few lines
While a cabbie
Looked over to his right
Giving us the solid thumbs up.

The light changed to green.

I gave it the gas.




3. Vinyl Interior


“Keep your eyes peeled for another barstool.”
“I need one more.”

My neighbor’s words
Crawled forth from my soaked brain.

I was in the East Village
Hanging out with the local color
Drinking too much Tequila
And getting stupid.

I stole a barstool
From the dive I was in
And the bouncer
Chased me down the street.

I
Running
Carrying a barstool
He
Right behind me
Cursing me out.
I
Turning the corner
Running up Avenue D
Somehow
Out pacing him.
He
Stopped
Defeated
Turning around
Returning with no barstool
No head of the enemy.

I stood in the street
In the early AM
Trying to shove the barstool
Into the back of the ‘74 Nova.
It had two doors.
The front seats flipped forward
And I was trying to jam
The prize
Into the backseat.


Meanwhile
The front seat on the drivers side
Is pressing forward into the horn
Making it go off.

I drove home
And quietly put the barstool
On my neighbors
Steps
Like a cat
Leaving it’s trophy kill
For it’s owner to find.

A gift.

It wasn’t until the next day
That I noticed
I had torn the vinyl
Across the back seat.

I’ve always been wary of tequila
Since then.



4. Death: Pedal To The Metal


Years later
A group of us were driving back to Baltimore
From DC.

We had just seen a brilliant concert
By the Slovenian band Laibach.

Stark and simple.

Synchronised military drumming.
Loud trumpets of controlled noise
Dark Socialist
Graveyard vocals
Amidst
Naked bright airplane lights.

The car was packed.

One of the girls in the back seat
Was flipping out the whole ride back.

I don’t know what she was on
But it got worse
And worse
The closer we got to Baltimore.

I was trying to drive
Focus
But it was impossible with that bitch
Screaming
And rambling.

She was insane!

The group as a whole
Were trying to keep her present
While trying to calm me down as well.

One of us was going to tip over.

I don’t know how many times
I told her to

“Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to drive!”

I would catch her crazed wig out
In the rear view mirror.

At the top of her lungs

“They’re fucking communists I tell you!”
“We just saw fucking communists!”

Off of 95
Driving through the streets of Baltimore
Getting close to where I lived.
I was actually counting down.

But
She does it.

She breaks me.

I turn around and scream at her

“Shut the fuck up you fucking bitch!”
“I’ve had to listen to your fucking shit the whole way home!”
“I swear to god I’ll...”

BAAMMM!!!

The car jumped and stopped.

The car hung on a curb
The headlights flooded an empty grassy lot.

I got out of the car
And immediately blew up at her
Ripping her out from the back seat.

I shook her and was about to hit her
When she wriggled free
Hysterically.

She took off running
Never to be seen again.

I could tell the car was history.

The bottom was shredded.

I got back in
And backed it out into the road
Before the cops came.

It was two blocks to my house.

But
I made it
Driving on two blown out front tires
The Nova spilling it’s guts out
Along the way.

The car died silently
Overnight
Parked in front of my apartment building.

The following day
I watched it being towed away
To some anonymous graveyard.

I think
That there were tears in my eyes
As the faded green paint
And cream pebbled vinyl top
Disappeared
West on Madison Street
And I was left alone
Staring into puddles
Of oil
Transmission fluid
And engine coolant
That the sun
Was reflecting off of
Like a kaleidoscope.

From within those colored life fluids
Forming on the warm black tar

The white light came on...

Dirty Dishes In The Bathroom Sink

Her fall has been bottomless
Having lost everything
Within a year and a half.

She now lives in a room
At the Travel Lodge
On the side of a highway.

Social Services pays for it.

She’s in her early to mid fourties.

Her neighbors are fellow addicts, alcoholics and South Americans.
People either going down or trying to find a way up.

They live in rooms similar to hers
Dusty curtains drawn over the single window
Facing the parking lot
Wood paneling
Suffocating any life within the room.

She proudly tells
How she caught 95 flies
On a single strip
Of fly tape
In one day
Only.

The place is run by Indians
That speak little
Fractured English.

They prefer to look at each other
And discuss in Hindi
How to take your money.

They live in the apartment
Adjacent to their small office
Which is a cinder block square
With a metal door and a safety lock.

There are security cameras
Both inside and outside of the office.

They must have bought the place
Everything inclusive
Because the worn office furniture
Was there from day one.
There is a vending machine in there
Where there is not one thing that costs less than a dollar.

The Indians illegally sell
Three different brands of cigarettes
For eight bucks a pack.

They see opportunity
In sucking the blood out of the fallen
And desperate.

There are not many cars in the parking lot
As most of the occupants
Can’t drive
Legal reasons or otherwise
And they can be seen walking
Up and down
The sides of the highway
Or riding bikes.

She sits inside
Watching
A shitty color television
Her clothes piled on the cheap furniture
Around her.

There is a hot plate
That is plugged into the wall
And she heats basic things up on it.

She makes coffee endlessly
In her electric coffee maker.

That is her kitchen.

And when she’s finished
She washes her dirty dishes
In the pink bathroom sink.

The Pirates Are Drunk On Rum Again

Autumn Equinox.

Opiate full moon.

We just underwent
A Hell of a storm
That came upon us fast
And of the fury
Of an unpaid
Drunken whore
From Baltimore.

The sails came down
Right quick
Just in time
Before wildcat winds
Lightening
And fierce water
Could cleanse
The sins right out of
Us fuckers.

The crew was a hard, ragged bunch
But they came down
From the rigging
Looking yellow
And a bit soft.

It was a bloody bitch
That poured more water within
Than without.

We did the proper thing
And waited it out
Tossed around
Below deck.

It was as good as time as any
To bond with the dogged company

So
I stepped out of my quarters.

They had made some headway
Hitting on Turkish Black Gold
Harvested in Malwa
By local Indian chiefs.
We so elegantly confiscated
The opium from the
“Syed Khan”
A clipper of 300 tons plus
Built in Bombay
And sunk by us
Off the coast of Portugal.

What a day that was.

The mongrels had also tapped a barrel
Of smokey caramel rum
That we had honestly traded for
In San Juan.

The party was underway
As the sky
Unleashed the devil’s bladder
Upon the seasoned wood
Of this fine ship.

There was gaiety down below
As Billy Two Thumbs
Pulled out his fiddle and began to play.

He was called Two Thumbs
‘Cause that’s all that he had.

But he could play...

And there were times I wish he didn’t.

Sometimes he could play well
But
When he played bad
Well...
I didn’t have an ear for it.

But the temporarily abandoned crew
Liked it
And Two Thumbs was off on a bender that night.

The situation was well out of hand.

There was a lot of merry making going on
That a captain
Just stepping out of his quarters
Might not want to be gifted to see.

Sweaty men
In different stages of undress
Singing and dancing
And holding each other up

Mind you
These are ugly one eyed bastards.

As the ship sat there
In open waters
Spinning around
I thought in earnest
To turn back
To the velvet confines
Of my quarters
And work on charts again.

Alas
Instead
Being the leader
That I’m celebrated for
As well as a team player

I made my way through the revelling
Drunken, stoned, sweaty men.

I even gave Two Thumbs
A pat on the back
As he chorded something
That sounded like a dying whale.

I made straight way for the barrel
And poured a long draw.

It could’ve been
The motion of the ocean
Or the coarse thought
Of passing again through
A gallery of souring mates

But I held onto that barrel
And I drank
The maple syrupy elixer
Slow cooked over a fire
Aged for fourteen years
In 17th century port wine barrels

Matter of factly
A gift of the gods
If you believe in that sort of thing.

I don’t.

Sugarcane on the brain.
Feeling no pain.

I took a pull on the hookah
As the hose was passed to me.
The screeching fiddle disappeared
And I noticed that the rain
Had stopped.

There was still distant thunder
Other than that
I could hear the quiet of night.

I grabbed a tumbler of rum
And stumbled on deck.

It was an eye-catching sight.

It had cooled off considerably.

Full moon.

Lightening flashing everywhere.

The ship was lost
A bobber on the water
Meditating
While the frivolities down below
Grew louder and more vulgar.

I sat down by myself
Under the direct weight of the Equinox moon
And watched the bright flashing cracks
Skip across the sky.

The music got worse
And I closed my eyes.

The rum and the ocean
Started to rock me
And I thought if any of the crew
Were to come above and find me passed out
They were sure to piss on me.

Pirate tradition.

My eyes opened and closed slowly
Taking in that magical display of night

A gift of god
If you believe in that sort of thing.

I don’t.

The rum and the ocean
Closed my eyes

Myself knowing
That high noon tomorrow
Everything
Would be back to normal.

God help the fuckers
That piss on the captain.

If you believe in God.

I don’t.

Stuntcock And The Prettiest Ass In Show Business

He was called in
For closeups.

He was legendary
Not because of his size
But for the perfection
Of his cock.

He was on everybody’s speed dial.

All of the girls in the industry
WANTED to work with him.

The size
The width
The shape
The warm fleshy tones
On camera
And off.

The way that he fucked.

He could keep it up for hours
And appeared to actually
Be turned on
And enjoying himself...

Even before the camera.

Well...
He was.

When it came to sex, pussy and ass
He was full of enthusiasm.

It just so happened that he got paid for it.

What color is YOUR parachute?

He was circumcised and smooth
He was always well groomed
And smelled nice
Which for the girls
Was a pleasant bonus
And quite frankly
A turn on.

He was the ‘Go To Phallus’.

She was the
‘Prettiest Ass In Show Business’.

Her ass was strong.

Muscular but feminine.

Her legs were the same.
Superb muscle tone
Evenly tanned...
Business expense
Money well spent.

Her legs were sculptures under the bright lighting
Showing erotic carved shadows
Put to high def digital.

They would get anybody’s perverted mind
‘There’
Diverting eyes from the actual action
Instead
Focusing on the muscle movement
Under the silky skin
Of thighs and ass.

She was Italian
So she was naturally dark.

Her asshole
Was a rich, velvety shade of
Java nut brown.

The flesh of her ass was big
Nice
But not too big
Heartshaped
Which was the trend.

Her pretty ass commanded a pay scale
That worked out to
Approximately $60.00
A bounce or
Stroke
Depending on her manager.

Prolific in the business.

She was credited
In the titles as
Persephone.
All of the guys
Wanted to work with her.

She was hot.

Because of the nature of their work
They met on sets often
And provided some of the
Hottest scenes put to film
Sending them both
Down the ‘red’ carpet
To garner gobs of AVN awards
Of which hers
Were arranged and dusted
On top of the baby grand piano
That sat in the study
Of her modest home.

They were on set at a shoot
In front of expensive cameras.

She was on top
Doing a reverse cowgirl
So the Stuntcock
Got an unbridled view
Of her perfect
Well insured
Ass.

She kept halting and asking for water.

“What’s the matter, Baybee?”

“I am so hungover”
She said.

“Turn over”
He said.

“I’m gonna fuck the hangover right out of you!”

He mounted her
And got to work.

By the end of the shoot
They lay there spent
Holding each other.

Her hangover gone.

All but just residing climactic waves
As she laid there on the
Crumpled up bed
Spent and exhausted.

She threw out ready-to-drop
Beat
Breathlessly

"Please turn out the lights."
"We're done."

All but just residing climactic waves

As she laid there on the

Crumpled up bed

Spent and exhausted.

She threw out ready-to-drop

Beat

Breathlessly

"Please turn out the lights."

"We're done."

"We're finished."

In Line At The Wawa... Dude In Front Of Me

It just came out of me.

“Dude, I hope you’re not offended, but I really like your scar.”

He had an exceptionally deep
Long scar that ran up the center
Of the back of his neck
Surging up the back of his skull
Like a jagged pink river
On a map of closely shaven hair.

It was the kind of scar
Where they peeled your skin back
Like a grapefruit
To do some serious work within
That you couldn’t
And wouldn’t
Want to be concious for.

A savage kind of scar.
A trophy scar.

He turned and looked at me
His lip curled in disgust
Like I had just farted.

Me...

“I’m not gay or anything.”

“I was just admiring your scar.”

“I like scars.”
“They tell a story.”

He gave me the brush off
A silent pissed off second glance.

He pushed his purchase
Towards the cashier.

They’re still called ‘Cashiers’ these days, right?

Or...

So
The ‘Financial Administrator’
Pushed buttons
And totalled up
His Reese’s Pieces
Large coffee
And frozen chocolate push up pop.

He looked at her
And not at me.

She smiled patiently as he counted his money.

Her ‘Guest Service’ training
Was worn on her sleeve.

He paid exact change
And without waiting for his receipt
He got out of there
Leaving me next in line
Without telling me
A really good story.

Staring At The Ground

There is an old man in my town
That walks around
Between 10:00 and 11:00
At night.

A pale photographic shadow
Of who he once was...

At least under streetlights.

I am usually walking my dogs then
And cross paths with him
Quite often.

He doesn’t seem to have a map
Nor a curriculum

Walking
His only agenda
As I find him all over the place.

I don’t know who he is
Or where he lives.

He is strangely endearing.

He is frail
And hunchbacked
To the point
Where he is looking
Directly at the ground.

I am always careful
With the dogs around him
To the point where
I think he senses
Our approach.

He recognizes our footsteps
Or our breathing
Or the dogs pulling
Hard on their leashes.

I see him just ahead
Staring straight down
Holding onto a tree
Or a telephone pole
For pause
As we pass.

I warn
Repeatedly

“Coming through!”

Offering greetings
As we slither by.

“How ya doing old timer?”
“Having a good night?”

As we’ve gotten
To know each other
Like this

He usually profers
A gentle laugh
Or a faint
Casual

“Hello.”

Or

“Hi there.”

It’s our dance.

We waltz
Several times a week.

Sometimes
I think about engaging
With him more so

But
Then
Always
I come to the thought

That on nights like this

It is much more pleasant
And rewarding
To turn off the color
And enjoy
The creatures
That inhabit
This black and white world
Preferring to let them keep
Their secrets.

Whilst I
Hold on to mine.

Death Merchants Panhandlers Squeegee People And Prophets Of Death

They smelled of death
As I walked past.

I could smell the grave
As they looked up at me
All hollow.

They were colorless
And grey
Sitting on a stoop
Smoking cigarettes.

Life was gone
Escaped.

It’s one thing to smell
Death by itself
But as a group
It was a little overwhelming
And retched
Like rotting teeth.

It started
To overcome me
A few feet away
As I was walking up to them.

It was very distinct.

I could smell
Hospital beds
And embalming fluids
The stink
Of
Foul breath
Escaping
With the smoke
From their menthols.

I did not smell menthol at all.

I smelled death.

The maggots were there
Working away on
Their insides
Chewing
Charcoal wasted flesh
Bloating up from
Death’s gasses.

They were not long
For this world.

I walked past.

A few feet away
My son
Who was just behind me
Asked

“Dad, what was that smell?”

I turned and looked at him.

“That is the smell of Death my friend.”

“And worse, it was the smell of stranger’s Death.”

“Ain’t nuthin’ worse than the smell of stranger’s Death, because it is unfamiliar.”

“Best to steer clear of that stuff.”

He gave me a nod
Like he understood
And we kept walking.

It was sunny out
And we were going to get
Our hair cut.

But we avoided Death
Like we were walking
Around a puddle.

The Blue Bottle Glass Girl

The crickets were out and mad
With noise
When I first set eyes on her.

The carney was settled comfortably into
A dewey glen
On top of a small wooded mountain.

For a modest fee
I was able to see the small travelling circus
Under generator lights
Within a single roundtop tent.

That particular night they did not draw
A very large crowd
Due to a misty constant rain.

It was a renaissance circus
By all means and
One in the most classical sense.

They made their money
Selling tickets for performances
And serving tasty gypsy food
From small wagons and stalls
As well as hawking photographs
Of the star performers
That would sign them
For a little extra.

So
They were a little worse for wear
Needing a shower
And a shave.
Their costumes
Looked rather threadbare
Under the spotlights.

They were of European descent
Many related
Sharing trailers and dressing rooms
With other talent
Gathered like clover and dust
Along the way.

They each took great pride
With their individual performance
As well as that of their troupe
And when it came down to it
Many were seen
Helping other acts.

They were a crew of
High wire walkers
Ballerinas that danced with ponies
Sword swallowers
Clowns that performed miniature silent theatrical pieces
Inbetween the main acts
Agile dogs
Gymnasts
A strong man that took a cannonball to the chest
And a ‘real’ Russian princess that could contort herself
Into many displays
Including being shut into
A tiny little box.

I was impressed by the circus
And went for the blow.

I bypassed the obvious...
The midgets
The bearded
The transgendered
And deformed.

I had no interest in seeing the Fat Lady
Or the Snake Charmer.

The girl I wanted to see
Was advertised on the broadsides as
‘Blue Bottle Glass Girl’
And she had my interest right away.

I paid my entrance
Without much thought.

I waited outside
While there was a let up
In the rain
As the talker
Did his job
Selling tickets to her show.

“Blue bottle glass girl!”

“Her skin is fragile and hard as glass!”

“A great irony!”

“She is a woman of diligent persistance...
As she cannot move like you or I...
She was birthed with enormous discomfort
To her mother
And has had to deal with her deformity
From a very young age.”

“Imagine growing up with the will of a young girl
But having the skin of fragile handblown glass!”

“She glows blue, see for yourself! Just one dollar!”

“She glows blue and is made of glass!”

“You’ll tell all of your friends that you saw the Blue Bottle Glass Girl.”

“You’ll be the envy of your cul de sac.”

When they had enough people
We were led into the small tent.

There was a large vitrine
Filled with bubbling luminescent water
On the left hand side.

I took a seat with the audience
On rickety wooden chairs
And watched her come in
Being escorted in a wheelchair.

She didn’t move
And appeared frozen.

There were obvious blue spotlights on
As we were told that
She was unable to move...
That her skin was as hard as glass
And for those of us
That would like to pay
An extra quarter...
We could come up and see for ourselves
Exactly what he was talking about.

The same man from outside
Went on about her condition
Telling tales
And taking our quarters.

But I will tell you
That
Firstly
I paid my quarter
And secondly

That I touched
The Blue Bottle Glass Girl
And that her skin
Was hard and smooth
As hand blown glass.

It appeared to be blue.

But whether that was the lighting or not
I couldn’t tell.

After everyone that paid
Their quarter
Touched her and stared into her
Dead cold eyes
Seated themselves again
The talker went on.

“There is a mystery to the woman that all of you fortunate people
have just touched and felt”

“If not cared for properly, she could just fall and break like a wine glass or a
porcelain tea cup”.

“She would not be free like you or I in any manner, imprisoned in her own body”.

The man behind the wheelchair started to push her behind the vitrine.

“The amazing thing about this dear creature...”

The man lifts her out of the wheelchair and throws her into the water.

“Is that she IS free like you or myself when she is in water!”.

The Blue Bottle Glass Girl floated in the water
Before me
In that tank.

And then she moved.

She moved without effort
Like a mermaid would.

Fast.

Her actions were as natural as a fish
As she swam
Doing circles and figure eights
In that large aquarium
Only coming up for air.

She was beautiful as she swam
In the cool light

And I never questioned
Whether her skin
Was really blue or not.

It didn’t matter.

Something truely miraculous happened.

I know.

I was there.

I paid the quarter
And touched the flesh of the
Blue Bottle Glass Girl.

We were ushered out
While she was still in the tank.

Many of us perplexed
And wanting to know
How the transition was performed.

But I left knowing
That there was no trick.

That it was real.

That she would be lifted
Back out of the water
Into a wheelchair
And that her skin would harden gradually
She would have to be spoon fed
And nurtured
Inbetween acts.

That while she was out on the road
She would have to be thrown
Into a confining bathtub
Just to survive.
Just to have some comfort
Some freedom.

But that night
As I left the tent...

I knew all of that...

And I walked out into an evening
Fresh from rain
And the crickets were out...

And they were noisy.

Date Night At The Movies

She tells me that she wants to go see a movie.

“What about this one?”
She says.

“Melancholia by Lars Von Triers.”

“I love Charlotte Gainsbourg!”

“It’s still in production.”
I tell her.

“It’s not even completed...Who knows when and if it will be?”

“It depends on how depressed he gets.”

“But I like the way you think.”

So I propose to her
That I will take her
To that movie
When it shows here
In this country
At some independent theater
In some nameless city.

But she will have to dress up
In some of her finest lingerie
And put on only a raincoat
Or jacket
Over that
And that I’m going to bind her wrists
Behind her
In the bedroom
Before we leave the house.

I tell her that I will open
The car door for her
And help her get in
Holding her arms
And balancing her
Carefully
As she folds back into the passenger seat.

I can see the excitement
In her eyes
As I tell her
How we will drive to the theater
That night...

She so naughty
And beautiful
Sitting across from me.

I’ll park the car in a garage
A block from the theater
And help her get out.

I’ll fall into her eyes
Which is dangerous
And kiss her long.

She will start to get worked up
And I’ll stop
Leading her to the exit
Arms still tied behind her.

We will walk up to the ticket booth
And purchase two tickets.
I’ll hold the door for her
And lead her inside.

To anyone that is curious and observant
They will be able to see everything
That is going on.

A well dressed man
Leading a pretty woman
In high heels
Wearing a simple but expensive coat
With her hands bound behind her.

We are both confident and assure
Paying them no attention.

We smell good.

We’ll stand in line at the concession stand
And when it is our turn
I’ll order soft drinks
And popcorn.

We’ll enter the theater itself
And take our seats.

I’ll be possessed by her
Sitting
Her posture upright
And alert.

I’ll put the straw to her lips
And tell her to take a sip
Asking her to
“Please not ruin your lipstick.”

“We will ruin it later, baby.”

I’ll feed her popcorn
One by one
Kernel by kernel
Placing it directly inside of her mouth.

She’ll chew it slowly
Seductively
Teasing me.

She will wait for me to offer her
Another sip of drink
Her eyes fixed upon the screen
Just ahead.

And we’ll sit there
In that dark theater
In some nameless city.

She with her hands
Bound behind her
Me kissing and touching her
While we watch
“Melancholia”
By
Lars Von Triers.

His masterpiece
Completed.

Television

The rain comes down
Terribly hard.

I sit alone
On my side porch
‘Lifted’
And I hear the nocturnal angels
Singing.

The sky falls down
Lashing
Like whips
At the hands of said attendant spirits
A-buzz
In Gregorian chants
And Mozart chorales
Impassioned
And full of lovely fury.

I radiate
Blossom
Bloom
And become posessed
To take off my clothes
Stripping down to nothing
And stand in my backyard
En plein aire
Challenging
Arms outstretched
The cool, dark downpour
Of this night.

In mere moments
I am soaked
My hair a wet mop.

I am
Slick and glossy
Luxurious in the beating water.

I can not
Imagine
Anyone in a stable
Frame of mind


Avoiding
At any cost
This free and spiritual gift
While they sit
In air conditioning
Clothed like Puritan Pilgrims.

Ashamed of their
Flabby
Pale, unhealthy
Forgotten
Let go bodies
As they watch something
Of absolutely
No importance
Whatsoever
Unfold
In unforgiving
Loud
High def
42” television.

And they gawk
Eyes glassy
Jaw slack
Spittle hanging
Watching the weatherman
Speak of the storm
Just outside of their window.

The lightening flashes.

It’s supposed to
Thunderstorm all night.
They are glad that they are there
Protected inside
Avoiding
Anything of relevance.

They will never
Figure out
That their neighbor
Is free
Outside
Splashing naked in the puddles
With the angels of
Beethoven
Grieg
Chopin
Mozart
Schubert
And Liszt.

Black Market Razors

I just found my razors
At a flea market
For half the price.

I always feel like I’m bending over
And taking it in a big way
When I’m at the drug store
Or supermarket
Forking over $28.00
For eight razors
But they’re the only ones
That work.

But
I’m elated to find
The same replacement blades
Amongst the Louis Wonton bags.

I don’t care if they are stolen
Fallen off the back of a truck
Counterfeits
(As long as they work)
Or made by
Third World lepers.

I only see
Great value
In cutting myself
And making myself bleed
For a fraction of the retail price.

Poetry Slam (I’m Slurring Cuz Mah Spoken Iz Broken)

Amiss are the days
Of the Poetry Slam.

The sweaty mosh pit
Of literature
The punk fucking rock
And acidic noise of
Poets slam dancing
In circles
Epileptic
Lunging and pulling
The crash junkies
Like warm tar
Into a mess of reverbed words
Spilling stories
Onto wooden floors
With their cheap beer
Dropping rhythm
With the grey ash
Of their shaking
Cigarette
Cadent movement
To the moulded words
Passing through the blistered lips of
Pirates, dykes, drunks and revolutionaries
Ad hoc troublemakers
Painters, musicians, spiritualists
Fags, hip hoppers, eccentrics
Disease survivors and feminists
And always the few people that would
Write the pretty poems
Or the rhyming poems
That would have done better to have
Just stayed home.

It was a place to bury strangers.

The audience could be vicious dogs
Bloodhounding in on the jugular.

They were mostly fellow poets
Drunk on wine and blood.

They neutered the ones with the grey plasma
And flowery words
The ones that thought their homes were good
Their books were read
And shelved in alphabetical order
Book spines perfect and aligned
Gardens tended and watered.

The sun always coming in
Through their windows.

At worst
The price of milk
Was going up again.

That was THEIR madness.

And...

With very little patience
The dogs would set upon that poor poet
Attacking
Teeth flashing
Saliva flying through the smokey air.

They wanted it to end quickly.

They wanted to send the weak
On their way
Limping
To poetry workshops
Held at local libraries
By housewives with free time
And a gift
For giving the respect
The smiles
The pat on the back

That
That kind of poetry
So justly deserves.

Air Conditioner

Early morning phone call.
First day of a heat wave.

“You better powder yer giblets! It’s gonna be a hot one!”

“Now I know why Jimmy Buffet doesn’t wear underwear.”

“I’m gonna be sweating like Rosie tearing through a bucket of Xtra Grease KFC!”

“Where’s the Bounty? The quicker picker upper?”

On the street corner
With a cup of hot coffee
Chatting with mah homies.

“It’s gonna be another scorcher out here.”

“104 for sure.”

“You’re balls are gonna be dragging in the sand making drawings like an Etch A Sketch .”

“My balls are gonna be dragging like yer momma’s bottom or a rusty muffler. Whichever
hangs lower.”

“Throw some Blue Gold Bond on and it’s like smoking Newports down there.”

Later that night.
On the phone again.

“Jeezus, it’s fuckin’ hot out! I’m melting like Michael Jackson’s nose over here!”

“Coop’s power is out. Her pancake will be so yeasty, she’ll piss beer when
she wakes up.”

“I’d be willing to go down on the Good Humor Man just to get cooled off.”

“Put your cock ring in the ice box with the butt plug.”

And for some reason
The conversations about the weather ends there.

I hang up the phone
Laughing to myself.

That last statement seems
The most plausible...

The most refreshing
Like a giant Slushee
Or a dip in a cool olympic size swimming pool
Or an air conditioner turned on full blast
Icicles forming on the vents.

Sage advice
Offered from a fellow brother
Suffering
As I am.

Sweating his units off
Several different zip codes
Away.

And he’s right.

A frozen butt plug
Up my ass
Would really
Cool me off.

Dinner Bell

It’s not the first time that I’ve ruined dinner
Trying to write a poem.

Tonight
I overcooked the burgers.

Not just a little.

And the dogs
Ate the buns
That I so carefully cut
And placed on the counter.

I was so looking forward
To those sesame seeds
Toasted on the grill.

I’m left with lukewarm beans
Because I shut them off
An hour ago
For fear of burning them

And mediocre potato salad
That I purchased
From the supermarket.

Things don’t change.
They don’t get any different.

I keep writing poems.

Sirens

It was a humid evening
In Lambchopville
And I was walking the cracked concrete
Of my neighborhood
In silence
Head
Slightly tilted.

You know...
Lazy like.

I was tired and sweating.

My mind was on unsettled things.

They approached
To the left
Way ahead
Of me passing them.

Walking smoothly
As if they were electronic devices
Next to one another
Parading in unison
Eyes flashing
Red
Like LED’s.

They were dressed for an affair
With billowy summer dresses
And salon hair.

Expensive I might add.

They approached
Closer
And I greeted them.

“Hi! How are you ladies doing?”

The pair of them
Turned to look at me
At the same time
And immediately
Started chirping
Some nonsense jibberish.

“Lllluuuuu...Rrrreeep....Quallllloooowww”

Like night sparrows they sang
Crooning
As they turned the corner
In tandem
And kept walking
And singing
Down the
Crooked sidewalks
Perforated with crabgrass
That is common in my town.

Hypnotized
I watched them
As their billowy summer dresses
Failed into the
Oceanic fall of night
And their siren’s song
Was devoured
By the passing
Of trucks and cars
Of this world
That was mine
And not theirs.

Bohicket Road





Driving through the tunnel
Of shrouded oaks that is Bohicket Road.
I am on a sloooowwww ride.

The heartbeat bass of hip hop
Is playing loudly on the Jeep’s radio
As I make the pass
Through the nature and ghetto
Of the Gullah
In the Outer Banks
Of South Carolina.

But even so
With the windows open
The music is still overcome
By the louder cacophony of crickets and frogs
Hidden deep within
The marsh and woods
Dense in the humidity all around me.

The perfumed sweat
Of Southern Carolina shoreline
Is swallowing me up
As I pass ramshackle vegetable stands
With handmade misspelled signs
That are closed for the night.

There are many great black trees
Swathed with elaborate grave markers
Beaconing some amigo’s unfortunate end.
I’ve seen them all juiced up and acting loco
Impervious to the high speed traffic
Impaired thinking and motion
Meeting crumpled fender
Or silver bumper
At the side of this long road.

Most of the single level homes
That I pass at 50 mph
Still have their Christmas lights up
And there are trailers with gardens
Of debris
And rust
Statuary
And broken furniture.


The Jeep rushes by churches.
Lots of churches.

Abandoned churches.

Churches in people’s homes.

Simple churches
As old as the road
That I’m travelling on.

I can hear cats in heat
And ferocious dogs barking
At the ends of chain
As long as the yards.

I ease past chrome parties
One hand on the wheel.

Gatherings of young, stoic black men
Lifting forties and shorties
And Bud tall boys.
Blazing with the family.
The smoke from the barbeque
Mixing with the chalice being passed around
The choking
Laughing circle.

I can sense the tattooed criminals
On parole
As they smile at me
Through their metal grilles
Their muscular arms
Flashing in the firelight.

I can feel the voudoun vibe
The Gullah spirit
Woven tightly
Within the corn rowed hair.

The history here
Is long and extended.

Generations upon generations.

Yet it reaches in through
The open windows
In a quick and sweeping pass
Gripping me dead on
Thumping me in the chest
Point blank
Like a fellow heavily inked bretheren
Welcoming me home
And putting the drink immediately to my lips.

Bastard
(Too Small To Fail)





I was born high in the hills...
And ‘High’ is the operative word here...
To some fiery folks
That took great pleasure
In the disdain
Of the life
That they had encumbered
Specially when they took
Monster swigs
Outtah the jelly jars
On the top shelf
In the kitchen.

Top shelf was miles
Diff’rent back then.

I was birthed
At an ungodly hour of night
That was neither polite
Nor convenient
To the country veterinarian
That had to travel several miles
On the dark, rutted dirt roads...
So his patience was short
As he worked me out of the womb.

The same man that births the local
Cows, horses, goats and pigs

And so
Fittingly
He birthed me
With the same crude compassion.

When I came out a-squealing
And kicking
He cut my umbilical cord
With a jelly jar dipped
Hunting knife
And quickly tied it off
With the rough twine
That mah Mammah usetah
Dress the stolen chickens with
Before throwing them in the oven.

Mah naval still looks fucked up
Like a tumorous nub
Allah these years later.

I used a similar kindah rope
To hold mah pants up
When I went tah school
And it itched my belly fiercely.

Nothing like a red splotchy stomach
Tah drive yer mind
From the studies in earnest.

That and the exposed skin
Of Sarah Anne’s thighs
As she sat quietly at her desk.

Beautiful white skin stretched over
Thigh muscles
Strong from running home
After school every day.

Oh Sarah Anne
I remember you
Like the rosebushes and peonies
That grew wild
And wreckless
In front of Ol’ Man Hanson’s house
Exploding in bloom in the late Spring.

In the Fall we would sneak up
And pick tart juicey apples
From his prized Braeburn and Winesap trees.

God help anyone who got caught.

I still have my flannel shirt
With the right sleeve
Torn away in fetters
From the rock salt
That he blasted on me.

My arm burned like the Devil’s Fire itself.
It was through tears
That I watched him jump up and down
On his front porch
Waving his shotgun in victory.

“That’ll teach yew, yew lil basterds!”
“Yew tell allah yer friends wot happens if’n they try ta get my apples!”

If yah look real close in the right light
Yah can see the scars
Where I spent the rest of that afternoon
Picking that shit out
Of my oozing arm.

I’m sorry...
Mah mind is wandering.

That seems tah be a flaw in my character
A simple mind such as mine
Can’t stay on track fer very long.

Mah brain moves faster
Than I can talk
Sometimes giving people
The wrong impression
That ah am slow
When in fact
I am fast...

I can’t even keep up with mahself.

So with allah the distractions and white noise
I didn’t finish school
Leaving instead
Without my parent’s consent
To join
‘Dr. Kirchok’s Traveling Emporium Of Gifted And Unusual Curiosities’
That would more often than not
Attach itself to several different carnies
Depending on scheduling and whereabouts.

I started out as chore boy
Setting up, breaking down
Feeding the few animals
In our entourage
Rubbing Talcum Powder inbetween the folds
Of Hilda-The Human Whale Of A Woman’s bloated flesh
To keep it from rubbing raw against itself
Causing her huge discomfort.

She could be a REAL bitch
If she was uncomfortable.
She was known for her mean backhand
That would come without warning.

I caught the weight of her flabby hand
Across mah face
And she sent Raldo The Seal Boy
Tumbling across the baked dry dirt
To the other side of the tent
With one giant sweep
Of her jiggiling arm
Sending him off for a visit to the carney doctor
And keeping him out of work for a week
Though I think he was milking it for the sympathy.

It might have caused him
Great depression.

In any case...

It did cause the Great Dr. Kirchok
To pay a visit to the fat lady
And he evidently came down
Pretty hard on her
Docking her pay
For the misfortune.

The worst punishment employed
On any sideshow performer.

A bit of self satisfactoial revenge
For the limbless
Helpless but popular Raldo.

It was during this tenure
That I got hooked up with the Meth heads
That ran the Dark Rides
In the carney.

I would finish my duties
And wander over to the carney side.

The Tunnel Of Love
The Haunted House
The Tea Cups
The pathetic Roller Coaster
The Himalaya
The Fun House Of Mirrors

I’d snort or shoot speed
With the Op’s
And shoot the shit
And help them close up
Or break down.

I raised enough money
To buy a kangaroo boxing rig
From a guy from Tennessee
For what I thought
Was a great deal.

I paid $1200.00
Including the trailer and the
Beat up International
Pick up truck



With balding tires
Complete with the privilege of illegal temporary use
Of registration and plates.

I brought the rig over to
Dr. Kirchok’s Traveling Emporium Of Gifted And Unusual Curiosities
Giving great performances
Of getting my ass kicked by two kangaroos
For several years.

It was either the smell of
Kangaroo piss and shit
The cracked ribs
Broken nose
Or general damage
Inflicted on my body
Or the continual use of speed
That got the better of me.

But I grifted the shabang
For a small profit
To a chore boy
In a similar position to mine
A few years before.

I wandered after that
Making money how I could.

Many of it not so proudly.

And I spent it
On whores
Tobacco
Cheap booze
And speed when I could.

Sometimes I would spend it
On food
Or a place to sleep
Though that was rare.

I had my priorities.

Things were a blur for awhile.

I ain’t to proud to tell some
Of the things that I’ve done
But I did them outtah survival.

Are you following me
Or am I talkin’ too much.

It’s a residue
From the Meth.
I talk a lot
Without making a point sometimes.

I am trying to make a point.

Bear with me.

I got married once.

Thought I had met
My be all end all.

I pictured us sitting on a porch
Someday
Old
And in love.

Just rockin’
Back n’ forth.

So old
We couldn’t have sex no more
But we were in love.

Well that went South.

I took up an apartment
Above a whorehouse
After that
And I just started to read.

I read prolifically.

Great books.

I cleaned the toilets
And soiled sheets for rent.
I soon scheduled the ‘gals’
I cooked dinners
For them
And acted as security
For times when things
Got outtah hand.

I washed their undies.

I was a chore boy again.

But I was able to steal
Books from the
Store down the street
And ‘Borrow’ books
From the library.

Mah life has been
A few mistakes
And a bunch of reaching.

I want the golden ticket.

I want to win the lottery.
Of which I play every payday.

I want to catch that brass ring
As I pass by
On the Merry Go Round.

But I’ve been thinking.

And this is my thought
That I wanted to get across
Originally.

I may not be particularly educated
Or well read
But then
I don’t thinks ya have tah be
A very smart man
Tah figure out that there’s a lot of things
Wrong in the world today
That need fixin’
And people are dragging their feet
Like thay were stuck on flypaper.

Me.

I was never stuck on flypaper.

I just needed to do the things
That needed to be done.

And I did them
Rarely making effort.

Too small to fail.

Performance





I stand here
Center stage
A hollow puppet
With limbs held together
By Band-Aides.

My once dancing strings
Are silent and
Lifeless.

It’s embarrassing too.
My costume
Being a pair of stained
Boxers
With polka dots on them.

I cannot hide
From the bright
Invading light
From high above the dirty stage.

The heat from which
Causes me to sweat
The salty dew
Making the Band-Aides
Start to peel away
From my white flesh
And I wish the tattered curtain would close
Before I fall apart.

Killing Art





The red cylinder is solid in my hands
Smooth albeit a few scratches
Slightly cool metal turning warm
To the touch
The warning stickers
Paintings themselves
Telling of danger
In bold yellow and black graphics.

I turn the knob clockwise
And a radiator hiss
Erupts from the tip of the nozzle
As I work the striker
Sending small white sparks
Into the basement smell of the gas.

Ignition.

A peacock blue flame
Narrow and precise
Like the point of a pencil
The tip of a sable brush
The sharp end of a knife.

Oh
Little red killing machine.

What beauty shall we
Bring forth
On a night such as this?

White Boys In West Harlem





162 and Amsterdam

Once you were there you were somewhat safe.
It was getting there that there was a chance of being robbed.
So we usually drove
But that had it’s own problems
Usually alluding the undercover cops in the area.

We were regulars and bought weight
So we had keys to the buildings.
We would walk right by the ten year old boys trying to sell
And they were everywhere.

That’s how this shit all started.
I remember buying an eight ball
From some juvenile Columbian boy.
I handed him my money through the window
And drove around the block
As he was coming back out
And handed me a tightly wrapped foil packet
That I could smell instantly through it’s metal.

But now we were regulars buying half pieces or more
And I jumped out of the car
Walked up those brownstone steps
And put the keys into the lock of the door.

The Colombians owned this zone.
It was a lock down.
I would walk past guards with machine guns
Uzis and openly displayed Glocks.
Those same boy peddlers outside walked amongst the filth,
The fear, the depression, past these guns
How many times a day?
I wondered.

The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke.
As long as you were there on business
Nobody fucked with you.

Once I saw them beating the shit
Out of someone in the hallway.
No idea why.
I had to actually wait for them to finish
Before I continued upstairs.
I had no idea what they were screaming at the poor fuck.
My Spanish wasn’t that great.
And as I was checked and led up to the door
My heart would race...always it did.
There was never any guarantees.
Even if I was a regular.
I just wanted to make it back outside to my friends...

If the situation was reversed
And I was the one waiting in the car
While one of them went in
I’d be nervous for them...
And time would pass so slowly
Until I saw them fall down the steps
Heading for the car.

Once inside the door
There were greetings
Like good friends
But macho,
And mountains of Cocaine.
How this shit could find it’s way
All the way from Columbia
Up to this room
In New York City
Is beyond me.
And you knew that this was just one apartment
In one building, in one block.
You knew there were hundreds more out there
Just like this one.

The sheer volume of it was breathtaking
And it was always like that.
Never once did I go there
And see just a little.
There were blocks of it stacked on a table.
There were piles of it next to the digital scale
And I’m sure there was more that I couldn’t even see.

There were stacks of cash and
Two digital bill counters.
Guns were everywhere
And other than some sparse furniture
There wasn’t much else.

The amigos played the good salespeople
Being friendly and joking
But I knew very well
That I could just as easily
Be that sucker in the hallway
Losing teeth and blood.

I could only trust them
When I had the goods
And was far away
Heading downtown
Or back to Jersey.

When we first started this gig
Surveillence was minimal.
Cops did not want to patrol this area.
It was dangerous.

Once I was held up in a small tienda
In front of several people.
Nobody did anything, of course
They knew the gig.
I was an out of place white boy.
They continued shopping
As he walked out of there
Only after insulting me
And picking me clean.

But over the years
Police presence became more noticable
Especially undercover.
You had to constantly be looking over your shoulder
And sometimes they would tip you off on the inside.

Twice we got popped.

Once when I was leaving the building.
I saw a guy walking up on the opposite side of the street.
It didn’t take me long to figure
That he was after me.

I dropped my evidence
Discretely behind some trash cans
And kept walking.
He came up behind me.

“You!” “Hey white boy! I’m talkin’ to you!” “Punk!”
“Only one reason a white boy like you would be in this neighborhood!”
“You holdin?!”

“No!”

He flashed his badge and patted me down.
He asked me to empty my pockets.
He sees I’m clean.

“What are you doing up here you crazy cracker?!”

“I’m walking to a friends house a coupla blocks from here”

“Yeah, right!” “You are SO out of place up here! Like White on Black!”
“I better not see your white ass around here anytime soon!”

I walked many blocks
And waited under the El tracks.
I knew I had to go back and pick up my drop
And when I did
It was gone.
Someone saw and scored it
Probably one of the juvie lookouts
And I had to get outta there
With nothing.
I had no cash for another draw.

The second time
One of my boys was inside doing the deal
And we were waiting outside in the car.
A cruiser came up and put his lights on.

“Shit!”

One guy got out and asked us what we were doing.
He reminded us to not even think about lying to him
As there is only one reason us white boys would be up in this neighborhood.

His partner came up to the other side of the car.

We told him that we were thinking of buying
But considering the circumstances
We were considering NOT buying.

He told us he couldn’t help but notice the Jersey tags on our car
And that we were going to drive
Directly back to Jersey
As of now
And to make sure
He was going to follow us
To the GW Bridge
To make sure that we got on.

And we did.
And he did.
We got on
And drove down through Jersey
To the Lincoln
And went to one of the clubs that we frequented.

We hated leaving our friend up there alone
But there was nothing that we could do
And eventually he hooked up with us
A little pissed
But he knew the drill
He knew the chances that we took.

We bumped the King
And danced through the night.

It was Area
Or Robots
Danceteria or the Ritz.
It was the Pyramid
The Palladium
CBGB’s or the Mudd Club.
It was Gaseteria
The Tunnel, Limelight
Or the Holiday Bar on St. Marks.

It was rooftop parties
Or the Lower East Side galleries
The Loft and others...

It was a long time ago.

We were young and fearless
White boys
Breaking through the Black city night.

Sinclair Lewis





Sinclair Lewis was a snail
Who left an icky sticky trail.

He tried sneakers.
He tried high heels.
He stopped snacking
Inbetween meals.

He tried deodorant
Herbs and teas.
He even tried walking
On his knees.

But all of these things
Were to no avail...

Sinclair was doomed
To leaving an icky
Sticky
Trail.

Pussy Drunk

“You really know what your doing”
She says.

“I’m just enthusiastic”
I grin.

“It looks like you really enjoy it”
She responds.

“Like a day off!”
I counter.

“It’s creative like painting or drawing or writing...
Except I have much more energy and commitment
To this...”
I say
Face buried deep.

And from the sounds of her pleasure
I’m getting way better response
Than the rejection letters
That I’ve gotten recently.

She shakes and moans
As she comes
Alerting the neighbors
Outside of my open window.

Her thighs tighten around me
Silencing anything
That can be heard
Except
For the
“Jeezus Fucking Christ!”
As we are thrown all over
The bed.

I will probably wait
All of my entire lifetime
For feedback
To my poetry
Or paintings
Or drawings
To be as well received
As this.

Materials Used To Write This Poem

This poem made multi use of the following materials:

Anxiety, Love, Passion, Cosmic Radiation, Bodily Fluids, Oil Paint, Gravity, Paper,
Panic, Anger, Found Objects, Plasma Energy, Broken Glass, Alcohol, Sumi Ink,
Violence, Violins, Bitterness and Resentment, Canvas Sized With Rabbit Glue,
Bad Attitude, Lunar Waves, Pollution, Technology, Human Hair, Eye of Gnewt, Snips
and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails, Polymer Solution, Digital Photography,
Mac Operating System, Black Sense of Humor, Sarcasm,
Oil Pastels and Crayola® Crayons, Courage, Coffee, Childlike Behavior,
The Finest Brushes Made From The Pubic Hairs of Virginal Geishas
(Soon To Be Banned In The State Of California Pending Act: 3204D Sect: B128-C),
Rocket Fuel, A Case Of Warm National Bohemian (Natty Bo) Beer and a Pint of Mad Dog,
Pencil, Rice Paper, Dictionary and Thesaurus, Deer Ticks and Lymes Disease,
Crabs, Low Tide, Incense, Marijuana Butter, Third Rail Electroshock,
New York Times® Headlines, Divine Intervention, Monoprinting, Plagerism®,
Collage From Various Mainstream Porno Mags and Websites (Please see resources),
The Hide Of A Near Extinct Species and a Genetically Modified Form of a Non-
Treatable Strain of a Fatal Illness.

This poem would not have been possible without a generous grant from the
Foundation of Safe and Conforming Arts Council Fund.

Please take a moment to fill out the survey including your email address,
And you could be in the running for some fabulous prizes!

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Employees Must Wash Hands





I entered the men’s room
And cut a hard right
To the urinal.

I was trying to relax
As I stood there
Letting nature work
When I heard the most terrible sounds
And grunting coming from the far stall.

Something very unpleasant was happening
In there...
Or dying.

Nature wasn’t working too well for him.

Then I heard a cell phone
Start ringing muffled.

“Please don’t”, I said to myself, “Please don’t”.

The sound of movement
And ringing
Fumbling
Ringing getting louder.

“Please don’t”. Mantra.

More grunting
As he undoubtably fishes it out
Because it is ringing loudly.

Pause.

Ring!

“Please don’t”

“Yeah!”

“No, no, no...”

“I’m on the second floor!”

“No! I’m in the bathroom!” his voice echoed out of the stall
Into the rest of the public space.

“This is so wrong” I tell myself.

“No, I’m in the bathroom!” Gas escapes.

“Look. Stop bothering me. I’ll be down in a moment.”

I can hear her annoying voice
Over the speaker of the phone.

“No. Don’t bother coming up here. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Heavy breathing while she barks something else.

“I didn’t want to come out shopping to begin with! You made me.”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I zipped up
Turned around
And washed my hands
The sound of water
Drowning out all else.

I quickly opened the door
Making my swift exit.

I immediately proceeded down the escalator
Moving directly to the entrance of the store
Avoiding looking at anyone
For fear that I would catch a glimpse
Of the ugliness that was on the other end of the phone.

I made it outside and breathed in
The unusually humid Spring air
Carrying the scent of the Mexican joint
Up the street.

There amidst the smell of onions
Peppers
Seasoned beef, chicken
And corn tortillas

I felt dirty, disgusted and defeated.

Any hope for the human race
Squashed
By one person’s decision
To answer the phone
While sitting/shitting on a toilet.

Playground





Her bed moves up and down
Like an accordian fold
With the touch of a button
On a white remote.

It’s still
And then

She shows me how
It moves
Slowly
Into different positions
Of which I am not used to.

I am more familiar with a plain and simple regular flat one.

I remember a bed
In a roach ridden motel room
That I shared with a stripper.

I deposited quarters into
A box on the nightstand
And received fifteen minutes
Of monotonous
Irritating vibrations
That just got in the way of everything.

It wasn’t even sexy.

We could only laugh
At the shear noise of it.

But it did make the roaches
Scurry
To an allowable distance.

We spent the rest of the quarters
On cable porn
Like we needed it
And rented the room
By the hour.

Now
I am on a bed
That moves
For the first time
Since then
Many, many years later.


This bed smells good.

And it moves
As she presses the remote control
With a mischievious smirk.

It shifts and changes position
Softly
Like hands
Pressing into my body.

I go for the ride.

I am altogether curious
About this bed
And seduced by the superhuman
Inamorata
Within
It’s bent form.

I challenge positions with her
Like never before
And push her
Into confines
Of which she likes.

She adores tight spots.

With her legs
Above our shoulders
And myself
Pushing deep
Within her

We move together as one...

All of us.

Her, myself
And
Her fondling mechanical bed.

With Age





Mah gurl tells me that my balls hang low.

I guess I’ve never given it much thought
Or even noticed before.

Maybe it’s cause I’ve never worn underwear.

She’s younger than me
And
My guess is
That she has only been with guys
That have younger balls than me.

It’s become quite the joke between us.

But like I said
I’ve not given it much thought
Until now.

I can remember when
My balls were tightly packaged.

I can remember when
That feathery underbrush
Of pubic hair first
Gave sprout
Like bulbs in the spring.

I can still remember
My beautiful balls
Untainted
Virginal
Soft and delicate
Like freshly laundered
300 thread count Egyptian Cotton bedsheets.

They were tight and ripe
Like fresh figs
And juicy like plums.

Inbetween then and now
I don’t know how I lost count.

I don’t know where
I went from that
To this.

And why wouldn’t this happen to me?

I’ve been in the showers at the gym.

I’ve seen old naked men
With their balls
Hanging down to their knees.

Their asses too!

When I was privy to that
I just put it out of my mind.
It was too close to looking in the grave.

But here I am.

My balls are hanging low.

Lower than I’ve ever noticed before.

I’m fourty five years old
And my balls are halfway there...

Halfway to my knees.

I’m right on target.

It’s unsettling that they’re settling.

What am I gonna do now?

There ain’t no exercises
To get your balls in shape!

In other cultures
Low hanging balls are a sign
Of prestige
Wisdom and wealth
Sometimes royalty.

It’s common practice for younger men
To put weights on their balls
To get the desired effect.

It’s not about the size of your penis
But how low your balls go.

That last part is not true.

My balls just made that up.

Just Call Me Joe





Joe Cardarelli was the one that got me started.

Blame him.

Grizzly bear poet
With his black and white hair and beard.

“Just call me Joe”
He said.

I didn’t know it until later
But he was a little off.

He would’ve had to have been
To convince me to take his poetry class
In college.

I didn’t know dick about poetry.

But there I was
In his class
For not just one year
But several
Until I graduated.

My stuff was real dark
With a biting black sense of humor.

Ironic
Considering
That whenever possible
His class was conducted outside
In the grass.

In the sunshine.

Peace, love and happiness.

Sometimes wine was poured
Or a beer was opened.
Cigarettes were burned
Down to their filters.

“Just call me Joe”
Had a lean to
In the woods
Somewhere
In Bumfuck, Maine.

It had an outhouse.

He would constantly
Tell us
How much he liked to stay up there.

NOBODY else around.

He talked about it as he would a lover.

I laid back in the lazy sun
Eyes closed
From the mandatory
‘Pre-class’ joint
And listened to others
Picked by Joe
Read their
Poems.

We were a motley crew.

Through the orange flesh
Of my eyelids
I could picture Joe

“Just call me Joe”

Bypassing
The wooden shithouse
Pissing stoically
Amidst
The Spruce, Balsam
Fir and Hemlock.

Plumes of hot breath
Coming out of him
As he pissed undisturbed
Thinking of nothing else
Except the beauty and simple peace
Around him
While
Words and poetry
Tumbled
Through
His grizzly bear brain.

Ants






The ants are out in magnitude
Marching in armies
En masse.

They all have their orders and directives
And follow them to the minute
Until they meet an obstacle
Of which they overcome
And then it’s back to business
As usual.

It’s fascinating
To take the time
To watch the ants
Perform their different tasks.

They march back and forth
In a continual line of traffic.
Empty going South
Carrying payload going North.

They don’t stop for anything
Shitting as they proceed along the way.

But the janitor ants keep things clean
And roll the tiny pieces of fecal matter
Into a distinct shape
Forming a question mark.

A message to the gods above.

Punk Stupid





Part One: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes


It was a sunny early afternoon
In late May.
A Saturday.

The kind of pleasant Saturday
That was slow to pass
Allowing young boys
To realize
Too much time
Was at their fingertips.

I had ridden my bike to
Gardiner Athletic Fields
And met some friends there
Proudly unveiling the fact
That I had some smoke bombs.

The place was packed.
It was the height of baseball season.

Always the comedian
I thought it would be hilarious
To throw a smoke bomb
Into somebody’s car
And create some panic.

Imagine smoke billowing out of someone’s car?!!!
That would be
“Awesome!”

I lit the fuse and threw it
Into some faceless window.

Everybody left their window’s open back then.
I wasn’t particular.

I rode away sniggering to myself
To watch the action
From a distance.

My friends did the same
Focused on the car
Amongst cars.
Nothing happened.
There was no smoke.

I knew I lit the bitch.

After a few minutes
I was like
“What the fuck”!

I rode back to the vehicle
To see what had happened.

What was up
Was that the fuse made contact
With the vinyl of the back seat
Causing it to melt away
Spreading quickly
As flames
Started to fan up the rear cushion.

There was no smoke...
There was fire!

In horror
I quickly rode away
Hoping to not get caught
As yet
Another part of my innocence
Drowned a fiery death
Stuck melting on the back seat
Of someone’s
Boring suburban car.


Part Two: The End Of Television

You had me at
“Motherfucker!”

But the TV was already raised
In locked arms
Up above my head
Atop the Mount Royal Bridge
Over the Northbound lanes
Of North Avenue

And as I heard
“What the fuck are you doing?”

The TV had already started on it’s journey
Over the concrete rail
Spinning
No longer plugged in
Showing grainy imagery
Of game shows and soap operas
Anchor News and sitcoms.

No.

The screen was grey and blank
As it fell heavily
In the city night
Electrical cord trailing
Like a useless parachute
Unopened.

The hippie
Was beside himself
Having a panic attack
As the TV exploded
And bulbs burst
Glass shattering
Plastic
Caving in.

He was crying
As a car swerved to miss
The remains
Illuminated by a flickering
Street lamp
Wheels tapping over pieces
Of television
Broadcast over the pavement.

I told him to
“Relax”
That I would go and clean it up
But I don’t think he ever got over it.

I didn’t watch much TV.
Didn’t care for it.

I was into action.
Doing stuff.

TV bored me.
It made people inanimate
And dull as well.

But I watched TV that night
With a hippie dude screaming
Raving and unhinged
Next to me.

Totally out of character for him
Wishing he was at home
Stoned
Watching
Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert
Or
The Mutual Of Omaha’s
Wild Kingdom.

For me.

It was the best television
That I had ever seen.


Part Three: Post Industrial Art Geurilla Tactics

It’s not a cereal.

It was a way of living
For years
For myself and several of my closest friends.

The yellow and black metal signs were there
But we never thought of it as
‘Trespassing’.

The ghettos
Abandoned buildings
Ravaged piers
Forgotton industrial complexes
Train tunnels
Empty breweries
And factories

Called to us
From Brooklyn
Baltimore
DC
Bethlehem and Pittsburgh.

The dirtier
More dangerous
The better.

We were on a mission
For imagery
Experience
And supplies
Most of them extremely heavy metal.
Giant wrenches and gears
Were covertly lugged to a spot
Where later they would be picked up
By a car with it’s headlights
Turned off.


We didn’t see it as stealing.
I mean
They weren’t being used anymore.

So
This one time I got caught.
Actually
We got caught.
This girl and I.

I took her into this one stellar
Abandoned factory
That I would frequent
Because it was easy to get to.

I found a way to get in
Down by the polluted stream in back
Through the dark, damp metallic smelling basement.

We made our way to the upper floors
And were exploring
When I heard a helicopter
Keep hovering around the building.

I had noticed it subliminally for a few minutes
Not thinking anything
But then I paid attention to it
And wondered what was going on.

I looked out the windows
And said to her
“Something must be going down outside”.

“Let’s go check it out”.

We made our way back
And as we were exiting the way that we came in
I heard

“Freeze!!! Don’t move or I swear I’ll pop a cap in your ass!”

I was like
“Holy shit! Take it easy. We weren’t doing anything!”

I looked up to see him shaking
Holding his gun with both hands
Pointed directly at me.

“You got someone else in there?”

“Yes. A girl!”

“Bring her out here then! No moves!”

Now
I must have looked strange enough.
A tall skinny punk
With a shaved head
Earrings
Chrome belts
Doc Martin’s
Rings
Leather jacket

But when she came out
In her wild clothes
Colored mohawk
Short skirt
And stockings

He was on the radio
Calling for backup.

The SWAT Team moved in.

We were cuffed and separated.

They found my butterfly knife in my pocket
And one cop was threatening me with it
Spinning it around on his fingers.

“What you doing with this punk? Do you even know how to use it?”
He said as he flicked it in front of my face.

I spent the next twenty hours in the city jail
Filled to overflowing throughout the night.

I was paired with a crazy
Psychopath
And couldn’t sleep well.

I tried everyone
With my one phone call.
By everyone
I mean my parents.

Nobody picked up.

Finally
I got a hold of a friend Riley
Who posted bail for me
And I was set loose
Sometime
The next day

To find out that they released
The girl the day before
On her own accord.
Hilarious.

I was told to turn it down
When I had to appear in court
And I did
Somewhat.

I brought in photos of my sculptures
And examples of my paintings
Explaining my reasons
For trespassing on abandoned property.

Me
A stupid punk
Explaining my artwork
To a courtroom
Instead of a classroom.

How could they take me seriously.


Part Four: Love Your Mother Well (a)


There was the time
Where I got busted
For shoplifting
At Rockaway Sales Department Store.

Security nabbed me in the parking lot.

I was busted with a bag
Of records and cassettes.

What was I thinking?

You’re right.
I wasn’t.

And they held me in a piss yellow room
With throw away office furniture
And the smell of burned coffee.

They kept ‘mock cop’ threatening me
Telling me
That a punk like myself was going to jail.
I, myself, the shoplifter
Was gonna get it up the ass
For sure!

They had me call my mom
On their phone that smelled of bad breath
And cigarettes.

They relished my discomfort
As my mom answered the phone
And I told her what had happened
And that she needed to come up
And speak with them.


It should’ve taken her fifteen minutes
But it crawled like hours.

I held it together that whole time.

Until I saw her enter through the door
With tears on her face
And I broke down
Right there
On the spot
In front of the
‘Mock cops’
And cried
Honestly.



Love Your Mother Well (b)


“What are these?”
My mother asked me
Standing over me
Holding a bag of quaaludes
That I had forgotten
To take out of my pants pocket
Before I put them in the laundry.

The dryer was going
Buzzing and making noise.

I was laid back in a bean bag chair
The TV going.

Damn.
There were a hundred of those in that bag.

Either way
I was sure they were gone.
I was so pissed
At my stupidity.

I made up some elaborate lie
About
That I was holding them
For a guy at work
So he wouldn’t get in trouble
While he went in for a meeting
With the boss
And I had completely forgotten about them.

Total bullshit.

Over the top bullshit.
Good as down the toilet.

If she didn’t believe me
She didn’t let on.
Perhaps she felt safer just confiscating my drugs
Than admitting to herself that her son
Was taking them.

It wouldn’t be the first time
That I lied to my mom.

I had no problem lying to my dad.
He could be a real bastard
Inflicting physical pain
With a leather strap
At the drop of a pair of pants.

Usually mine.

But my mom was soft, kind, domestic
Nurturing.

I was her first born
And she was on my side
Quite often.
Maybe she didn’t want to know the truth
And that’s probably fact
But
She really didn’t deserve dishonesty.


Part Five: Insomnia Or The Devil At Large

Dave
You fuckin’ crack head.

You were a speed freak truck driver
And you lived
By their rules.

Which weren’t any.

I had sex with your stripper pole girl friend
Because you were too fucked up to.
She wanted attention
From somebody.

She was a complete dolt
Right out of a porn video.
She was cute though
Kinky blonde hair
Dramatic make up
Tight little body.

She loved sex
But other than that
It was hard to take her gum popping
Squealing
Giddy

Air headedness.

I lived right across the street
From the two of you.

She was a trick and a half!

And I always got nervous
Thinking about
That crack handy magnum
That used to sit right out in the open
When I would go over to visit you.

The rest of your arsenal that I knew of was hidden away.

I looked you right in your eyes and told you
That nothing was
“Going on”
Saving my ass
Because I didn’t want
A bullet
From some sleepless
Crack demented zombie
In the back of my head
When I wasn’t paying attention.

I saved her ass too.

You were all tweaky anyway
And I knew that you beat her.

I saw the blueish jellyfish bruises
Under her pale white skin
And sometimes she cried
And I would feel bad
But I didn’t really want to get
Involved that deeply.

There was nothing ‘deep’ about her.


The blue lights of cop cars
Were seen flashing on the ceiling
In my bedroom
On several occassions
Way before they came and arrested you for good
Emptying the house
And your girl moved
Back in with her parents.

I found out later
That she was the one
Who called the cops on you.

Love hurts
Doesn’t it.


Part Six: The Resurrection Of The Kracken (magna cum laude)
Finale



Do you remember the time
When you and I were children
At the playground.

This was before we had dreams.

It was before we had ambitions and disappointments.

We were free
Until our moms called us for dinner.

We would run around
And chase each other
Until we were red, sweaty and out of breath.

I would push us on the Merry Go Round
My feet running as fast as they could
And then I would jump on
And we would all hold on really hard
And hang over the sides
Letting the centrifigal force work it’s magic
Spinning around fast
Looking up at the clear blue sky and clouds
Shuttering by amongst the trees.

I would push you on the swings
Running underneath you
Giving you a huge advantage
While I got on the swing next to you
And pumped until I caught up to you
And then we would join our feet together
And swing in unison.
We would laugh so much
And tell each other secrets.

We would climb up those tall trees
Just to see how far we could see.

There was a whole world before us.

And now that I’ve grown much taller

Those trees don’t seem that high anymore.

They’ve taken down the giant metal slide.

Liability hazard.

I like risks.

I like running around
Until I’m flushed red and panting
Feeling my lungs breathe in
This magical mystery of life.