Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Christmas Eve

Twas' dark outside
Christmas eve
a tad bit chilly
but not cold
the neighbor to my right
built a fire in his front yard
and sat with family and friends talking quietly
with marshmallows on sticks
across the street
directly from me
my other neighbor
was having a garage party
motorcycle engines a glow
and to my left
were Christmas lights, lighted candy canes
a clear path for Santa
and I knew young kids were inside
asleep in there
beds . . . with eyes wide open.

In my house was a shallow stream of light
from a hallway
where promise had once drank youthful form a wine bottle
but promise passed out drunk many Christmases ago
and, in my front yard
a pillow of blackness
feathered out over the sand
decoration-less without dreams
a galvanized ghost of futures wrapped up in boxes of terrorized silence
waiting to unravel themselves

it made me nervous
mistletoe on the refrigerator door
I toyed with the idea of making out with myself

it felt good that people were outside
and that they were alright with one another
it felt good to think that
just for a moment
sometimes moments are all
we got.

Santa on his sleigh
rattlesnakes skinned and drowned in ketchup
a small vile of powder
lucha libre mask
ornaments of white on a tree of green
star a top
a missile over Moscow,

It's Christmas again.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Rain Thursday, Rain! As Dogs Sweat in Blankets of Napalm

It was raining
in Joshua Tree
on a Thursday night
I ran up the steep driveway incline
to the mail box
wearing a Hoodie
with a black leather suit coat over top
all the while remembering that
last Sunday my neighbor across the street
had told me he had carcinomas in both lungs
and some cancer on his brain
the docs gave him 6-8 months
a year with procedures
I said, "if there is anything you need just ask."
and he said nonchalantly, "Ah, fuck it. Let the wolves come."
I stood there dripping without movement
recalling last Sunday
when the sun was out and the news was bad
then, in sudden re-flux of memory, I realized
I was standing in the dark, in the rain
so I hastened to open the mailbox
suddenly remembering that he had built it for me
when I first moved in
six or seven years ago
peering inside for letters
the ice cold rain marching like a slaughtered army on my shoulders
I felt them dry and protected
in the metal black womb
and I thought to my self
not a bad job on the mailbox
grabbed the gas bill and the back child support notice
closed the lid
shivered in wet release
ran back down the driveway
and went

Sunday, November 10, 2013

This Week In Music #1 - w/Shawn Mafia

Starting today, and each subsequent Sunday to follow, yours truly will be breaking down the week in popular music. Although my opinions will seldom be popular, or even remarkably timely for that matter, they will always be . . . well, my opinions. And yes, opinions are a lot like assholes in that everyone has one and that everyone except the shiter himself tends to think they stink. Regardless I’ve heard it said that the Truth is always changing but the Facts of the events forever remain the same. With that being noted let’s get balls deep into some popular fucking music!

Right-y-o. Here goes. This week in music! Ah, let’s see now . . . not quite sure what happened in music this week on the national level or the international level. Billboard Top 200 in the United States probably had somebody listed as the #1 selling artist in popular music today. However, I’m not sure who that individual is or was or will be. I’m just sprouting with informative musical happenings and finger snapping rhythmic wisdom's. Bet I know you’re glad you’re still reading. Or at least you will be glad of it soon, I think. Let me take a brief moment to research.

(pausing for Google support)

The #1 slot for this week in music according to the Billboard Top 200 goes to a band, or perhaps an artist, whom I can’t easily pronounce their name, let alone spell, so I’m copying and pasting it here: Avicii.

I’m not sure who or what that is but according to the powers that be in the land of musical OZ their song Wake Me Up! is #1 with a bullet. I’m sure it’s a thrilling and an awe inspiring tune, but I’m not even going to go try and make heads or tails of it. My brain has a difficult time just looking at Avicii in bold print. I can only imagine what their music will do to the rest of me.

Further on down the list is Billy Ray’s baby girl Miley crawling up the charts to #3 with Wrecking Ball. Her hairstyle looking more and more like Wendy O. Williams as each week passes. For me that is enough to make it interesting. Not much is required to elevate someone up in my minds eye status of rock “n’ roll icon and you, Miley Cyrus, are not raising the bar by much. But, for giving me your best effort and more when it comes to righteous hair-do's I, in the grand tradition of AC/DC, salute you! The best of us know that we’re not selling “music” but “identity.” After all Billy Idol had the “hair that made the people stop and stare.” And he sold millions just on that alone. And he didn't even have to swing half naked from a large piece of construction equipment.

The rest of the “female rock royalty flavor of the week tabloid darlings” were all shouting their names at roll call.  Katy P., Lady G., Selena Gobstopper or Gomez Disneyland, not sure etc. etc. The Billboard 200 Top 10 also included some cookie cutter Urban Outfitter hippie hipster looking types, Imagine Dragon. One dude has a Tony Hawk wedge with a unabomber beard and skinny jeans that don’t look comfortable on him. I sort of like it but then again I’m not sure so I went to You Tube to watch the video for their smash hit “Radioactive.” When I first hit play I instantly started clicking the right hand bottom corner of the video to try and “skip the ad” and became exceedingly frustrated when I couldn’t skip right to the video. I kept pounding away at the computer mouse because I don’t have a lot of time or patience for much of what’s happening in modern music and the damn thing would not go to the video! A good 45 seconds in, pointer finger bruised and bloody, I suddenly realized that the video was actually playing and I had been watching it the whole time. Well fuck me spinning! I thought I was watching an Audi commercial but it was Imagine Dragon’s video for their smash hit tune Radioactive. And this is why you have me in your corner music fans and lovers! To jump right in with both balls hanging and take the hit’s . . . the live gunfire rounds . . . risk life and limb so you don’t have to fall victim to what’s happening on You Tube with music videos for bands like Imagine Dragons. I possibly just saved you from having to by a new mouse or, better yet, a brand new desktop computer because you were so frustrated with watching Imagine Dragons "radioactive" vid that you chucked that son-bitch out the window. You’re welcome, again.

What else? Let’s see. I was supposed to go catch  Jello Biafra performing at the Hood Bar & Pizza in Palm Desert, California with my buddy Shawn Smash, guitar player from the legendary punk rock outfit Total Chaos but we had the days wrong. Thought the gig was Saturday night but it was really happening the night before on Friday.

Again, in case you were wondering, I’m Shawn Mafia . . . singer-songwriter-entertainer expatriate from the planet Bad-ass come to live among the desert hippies and sidewinders in the humble village of Joshua Tree, California. The cat that’s writing this installment of This Week in Music that doesn't seem to know shit about what’s going on in music locally or abroad, when it's going on, why, etc. etc. but loves to write half-assed blogs about it, regardless (end author disclaimer - station ID pause). Now, back to the story:

Smash texted me Saturday morning asking if I was going to see Jello tonight. I was driving down to the OC at the time and looking at Facebook on my smart phone that was wedged precariously between my thighs resting on my well, groin area, while I was hitting a bit over 80 mph in the slow lane weaving in and out of traffic. I’m seeing a pic on FB of JVR from Gram Rabbit with Jello, who is sporting a cowboy hat, both of em' mean mugging for the camera in the Hood’s green room and I’m thinking, “fuck! we missed it” at the same moment Smash is texting me back repeatedly “fuck! I think we missed it” and low and behold we had. I heard Jello crowd surfed all the way to the bar, ordered a mixed drink and crowd surfed back. A feat reserved only for Kriss Angel or real bona-fide punk rock icons.

I was talking to my girlfriend in the car the other day about when I had got back from a couch surfing tour of Houston, Texas. It was 1995 and I was in San Francisco walking up and down Haight-Ashbury. Record stores all over the city we’re splashed with signs and advertisements of Rancid’s brand new album at the time  “. . . And Out Come the Wolves.”  My hair was blue as a Smurf naked in the woods. I don’t know why that is relevant but I thought I would just throw it in there. Back then music existed out in the streets. It was visible. It was part of our day to day reality. Sold, traded and played out where all could see. It just seemed so epic when a band released a new album. The whole build up. It seemed to mean something. At least to me. Now record stores hardly exist and everything lives in the cyber fantasy land of the Internet. Videos debut on You Tube. Singles sell on iTunes.  Goddamn, I remember when the busiest store in the mall was the record store. Now the only place you can buy a brand new compact disc is a shop like Hot Topic where they’re sold as novelty items. No wonder I don’t know what the fuck is going on this week in music. I drive through the towns and cities of Southern California and music doesn’t exist anywhere out in the open. Albeit the occasional billboard for the latest "has been"act out doing the Indian Casino tour.

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I am all about change. The sounds get old so we have to move on with the times. The record label model stops generating revenue so we have to re-invent it. The kids need new fads and trends so we give them new faces to live vicariously through. New stars that can show them what tennis shoe they should be wearing at the end of the tunnel. That’s all fine and dandy. But somewhere, some how, a crucial element was lost. The “epicness” of rock and pop music. The larger then life moments. The build up to that moment . . . I no longer feel it. I can no longer access it.  At least not without a password or a login name.

Do you remember when we used to build to world premieres of music videos on MTV? Do you even remember when MTV just played videos?  Music can change all it wants and sound however it is going to sound down the road in the future. Robot click tracks with young girls farting in microphones. Great! Super! Fuck yeah. I’m in. As along as there is a good solid story behind it. Some real character and characters. But stop the presses ladies and germs if you think for one moment that the “epicness” is going to be sucked out of modern music and I’m going to be alright with that. In 1987, when I first saw the debut for U2’s video “Where the Streets Have No Name”, I thought Godzilla rose from the Pacific ocean and started stomping all over Los Angeles. The police sirens, helicopters and people storming the streets as fools hung from stop lights rubber-necking for a view of Bono and Edge performing a top of a liquor store at 7th and Main Street in downtown Los Angeles was like watching the opening sequence of a blockbuster action film. Lethal Weapon blaring through the cranked amplifiers. It was mother-fuckin’ fight night and the world was coming to an epic crescendo. Camera crews shouting, “they’re shutting it down” as the band tried to play on. LAPD storming the scene. Thousands of fans rushing the streets. Stopping traffic. Ordinary day to day existence grinding to a halt. It was that very instance of “epicness” that I speak of here. The 20th century is chalked full of such legendary rock moments that seemed just as, if not more, important then the politics of the day, wars and social upheavals.  “Where were you moments” that defined who the fuck we were as people! As goddamn music fans. The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, John Lydon squaring off with Tom Snyder and Nirvana’s bassist knocked silly with his own bass on MTV music awards. This is what I’m talking about! Where oh where have my epic rock and pop moments gone?! Perhaps lost somewhere in the void between the torqued legs of Miley Cyrus. Alas . . . oh dear.

That’s enough for tonight kiddies. I need to go take my insulin shot or fix my bike. Something epically ordinary like that. To me it will always be 1995 when a great punk rock album release was visible and there was a buzz on the streets. No WiFi required.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

When You're Gone

Force field jimmy hat
scratch the neon surface
I am Mega-tron melting into dust
7 figure salary
on a dumpster lid budget
a scary clown arched
against the silver moon
a dark desert highway
cars zoom past the liquor store
neon green graffiti
Asian extremists
gang tag mixed soda slap
I am a terrorist
I make egg foe young
and chow mein old
Miss Marry Sun-death
I hang in a closet with a rubber garden house scarf
you can’t see me
telegraph mustard stain
your universal health care is
another line item
on my paycheck
do not pass go
do not collect two hundred dollars
I’d trade my shoe laces for a bag of
Ramen noodles
tish, tish
swish, swish
dirty sink
dirt we dish
nightmare stoplight
changing to quick
I accelerate while texting 
kid friendly acronyms
keyboard generated smiley faces
booty calls to y'all
shift gears with my 40 ouncer
tucked into my crotch
Santa in a sleigh on fire Christmas Day
I pray on the curb
with my head between my legs
studying the hieroglyphics
on someone else’s
Facebook feed
I need modern shoes, steaks, sunglasses
validation in terms I can afford on credit
circling the toilet bowl
with a Skipper’s cap and a mutilated rum bottle
Heaven waits just beyond
the Syrian border
the maggots always miss you
when you’re

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Water the Plants

Sometimes I remember
to water the plants
when I see them half dead
prisoners of plastic pots
gradient shades of green turning to brown
folding up like burnt paper edges
in a slow flaming fire
branches sagging downward
limp dicked in a forced death trance
thirsty without legs
no audio
no white flag
waiting for me to remember
so they don’t

That’s a big responsibility.

I can’t be trusted with plants
or small children
(not to mention kitchen appliances made in Taiwan).

Someone shouts my name from across the room,

“Shawn, why don’t you water these fucking plants!?”

I turn around
see no one
my head spins left to right
back to front
but there is no one there.

I am not disturbed.
This happens a lot.

I keep everything, everyone around me on
life support.

I’ll water relationships once and awhile
spray the leaves with a gentle mist
so they appear fresher
then they actually are
and continue to muddle on
in my emotional failure.

If I had remembered to pay the water bill
I might have made it right 
with my bathtub 
my hygiene
my tiolet
my liver
my kitchen floor
not to mention the plants
and the voice in the back of my head
that keeps making demands 
against my
drought stricken soul.

Monday, September 2, 2013

Brother Logan

Heavy cotton ball clouds
with flat gray bellies
move over me
the sky runs deep blue
in all directions
reflecting the acute emotional condition
of my heart
I’m sprawled out naked on a cot
actually, I’m naked all but my underwear
sweating in the late summer sun
the clouds scattered in clumps
roaming the heavens
you’re up there
in the middle of it all
at least I would like to think that
while I’m still down here
with the serial killers and the housewives
holding down the fort
reading a paperback novel
adapted from the 1980’s 
Hollywood blockbuster flick
Lethal Weapon
and all that runs through my damaged skull
is Danny Glover’s voice imploring over and over,
“Riggs! Riggs!”
my hangover two days old now
slowly coming out of the whiskey coma
it was the other night
when I missed a late call
concerning my friend
who was dead
and not coming to my senses
until late the next morning
jumping up naked from my bed
clutching my aggressively lamentable head
dry mouth motioning
“Fuck! Fuck!”
strange telephone number miss call
on my cell phone
feeling for the lever
to stop this ride
but you always told me that
the ride is the only thing going
but I can’t make 
any more sense out of
rushing down to the funeral home
and finding you there
as the booze tore through my brain
a fiery freight train
and a flash flood of tears 
raged down my face
but I pulled it together
enough to function
did what needed to be done
and then, two days later
I’m covered in tanning lotion
laid out under the death rays
of a Mojave sun
reading Lethal Weapon in paperback
drinking water
fuck the fuck out of ever
raising whiskey to my lips again
panting and shouting,
“Riggs! Riggs!”
as I sweat into an old army cot
positioned in the dirt
in the middle of the open desert
and this is how
I’m coping.

I miss you brother Logan . . .

Wednesday, August 21, 2013


I like it, it speaks to me
In the wee wee hours of the morning
Dead at 40
Decedent Last Seen Alive (MM/DD/YYYY)
Still could make a case for a good looking corpse
Go to the well to drink once to often
Sometimes a rattlesnake swims in the water
Home is where the heart is
some long lost estranged sister in Raleigh
Perhaps parents and government lay a scorned eye on sexual orientation
Club names don’t count
HOUR (24 Hours)
These are mean moments when your ass out with no hydration, and they can’t hear your calls for help
In a sad October we whittle away the seconds on our branch of life

Monday, August 19, 2013

I Don't Know Anyone

I stand haunted
at the edge of liquid night
askew in stance
leaning out towards the open desert
upon a mound of dirt
in my backyard
staring forward
into a dry sea bed of despair
and I don't know anyone.

I search the ground for movement
a child of night and sand
you learn to eyeball creepy crawlies
and to listen for
those things that go bump in the night
my companions are shadows
my heart is strange
because I don't know anyone.

This has been the longest walk
down cactus hallways turning dirt bike tricks
the arid night is a dusty blow dryer
hot air shaking the hand of emptiness
inside a poisoned fear
holding a bone from an iguana's rib-cage
standing in the scorpion eclipse
and I don't know anyone.

Some day I will walk
out past the aching creosote
down through the jack rabbit skulls
that line these shallow streets like open graves
way over and beyond
the bloody threshold of tarantula fangs
the manic howls of coyotes murdering in packs
under the murky waters of the Oasis mirage
down to where the big ole' western sky
finally sinks into the ground
and here will be
a graffitied rocket ship with no fuel
an alien broom handle
ready to sweep me away
because I don't know anyone.

Hello, my name is
Shawn of the Mojave
I'm pleased to make your acquaintance . . .

because I don't know anyone.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Tire Iron

A Mexican kid
was spinning a tire iron
in the front yard
across the street
(dirty white tank top you’re a floating ghost in oil)
his girl was looking on
but way past him
into the air
where the silence was growing more silent
sucked through a hole in the moment
her lips puckered sour
she sighed
waiting for the tire to turn
and her fate to

The Mexican kid
was slowly trying
to change that tire
his brown muscles straining against the sun
his mind and body in no urgent rush
knowing that
as long as the car
wouldn’t run
she couldn’t go

I saw him stop
sniff the air
his nose puckered sour
she waved her hands
as if to get something
away from her eyes
as if to gesture, "I'm in Distress"
two tan faces looking up into
the empty sun
and I too
smelled smoke in the air
my soul was shriveled and stale
a victim of the same
sun God’s cruel joke  
smoke and smog, smoke and smog
a wild fire raged
not to far off
somewhere in the golden state
of California
angry flames eating trees
in the key of Eb minor
raging in blissful discord
madder than a masturbator with no hands
hotter than a sun burn on the back of the Devil.

I continued to walk
to my car
parked precariously
in my parent’s front yard
watching the action
from across the street
Mexican kid with a tire iron
Mexican girl waiting for a ride
I fished for my keys
in my pant pocket
thought for a second
(scorpions and unicorns dancing in a mirror)
(time like a deflated breast implant)
the Mexican kid’s woman
wasn’t bad
not good
but not so bad
if you were getting down to it
but I wasn’t, at that moment
thinking about
getting down to it
so I shook the thought from my skull
opened the car door
inhaled the sweet aroma
of a California burning
put it in gear
and drove on out of there.

Friday, August 16, 2013

I Play Hard, I Rock Hard & I Need a Belt That Lasts

Jimmy looked at Randy and he said,

"I need a belt, man."

"For what, man?"

"I think I want to go into my garage and hang myself."

"Fuck, what for?"

"Because the wind howls and the sand blows and I'm bored."

"There isn't much to do out here."

"It's not even that, man, it's just that I get to thinking all the time in the silence."

"That's your problem, to much thinking! Make some noise . . ."

"I want to hang myself like they do in prison. Cause' it feels like I'm in prison. The walls are made of creosote bushes and the floors are hot sand. The mountains surround us from all directions."

"Why don't you just try and escape. Like Clint Eastwood in that old movie."

"No water to jump in to swim to safety."

"Shawshank Redemption, man! No water in that one! Well, wait. I guess he did swim through the shit sewer to get out . . . fuck!"

"You see . . . no choice man. The Joshua Trees are closing in. The coyotes howl in the distance. The smell of burnt plastic permeating the air. No girl. No ride. Not enough money. All I need is a sturdy belt. Something made out of leather like Sid Vicious would've worn. Something Punk as fuck!"

"Yeah, if your gonna hang yourself it should be punk as fuck."

"I had a friend in high school that was a punk rocker. He hung himself from a water tower. Before he did he spray painted "Punks Not Dead" on the side in dripping red letters. That was Punk as shit!"

"Punks not dead but he was."

"Ha! Guess you make a point there! Pass me another brew ..."

Jimmy went to the ice box and pulled out a tall cool one.

"I know a dude with a leather bondage belt. Want me to call him?"


Randy pulled his cell phone from his back pocket.

"What was that cat's name again? Lex Bangs I think. Yeah, there he is. I'll text him."

"Erotic asphyxiation, maybe that is the way to go. But I don't come back from it!"

"What is that, man? You choke to death on your own semen?"

"No. It's where you restrict the flow of oxygen to the brain to get your rocks off. But you don't hang yourself all the way."

"Fuck, who thought up that shit?!"

"I think back in the olden times when they did public hangings people saw that once a dude was hung that he got a hard-on."

"So, what your saying is that they got to see how "hung" he really was!"

"Fuckin' a right! I think the fact that other people would get that idea from watching a hanging, then go try it themselves, is nuts! We're just all sexual beasts deep down. Driven by the urge . . ."

"Didn't that dude that played the Chinese guy in that old TV Western show die from that?"

"Kung-fu. Yes."

"So how does it work?"

"Well, you restrict the oxygen gettin' to your brain then you start jerkin' your wiener."

"Jesus! I don't know if I could do two things at once like that!"

"You mean like chewing bubble gum and walking? Might be kinda hard for your dumb ass! Anyway, it's supposed to be a real rush when you blow your wad. Like doing a line of coke."

"Dude, you should totally do that instead! Use a punk as fuck belt. I can get a video on my cell phone! Did Kung-fu use a punk rock belt?"

"No. Rope I think. Your a fag dude. You just want to beat off to the video later!"

"Fuck you."

Randy's cell began to vibrate.

"Dude, it's Bangs! He just texted me. He's got the bondage belt! Want me to tell em' to bring it over?"

"Nah, maybe next weekend. Gotta think some more on it. Any more beer left?"

"There is always more beer, my brother . . ."

Thursday, August 15, 2013

The Man Was 25

Thursday, August 15, 2013
11:15 a.m.
people listening to the message were asked to
check their out-buildings and vehicles
audio awakening
someone slipped me a yellow sheet of paper
I scribbled down the phone #
eggs, cheese, sand paper
the body of Billy West
reverse 911 look out call
I hear a dogs faint howl in the bloody distance
cultural dance at Turtle island
lipstick pornography
Lady Luck stands against a screen door
with a knife in her teeth
quietly undoing the latch
the police were looking for a missing person
and, according to the official record,
he was in need of medical attention
acute methamphetamine intoxication
but noone was seriously injured
Banner, Steel, Alamo, and Starlight
John Wayne's horses
saddle up
let's ride!
Hwy. 62 is melting into the Earth
a night under the Stars provided supporters
the perfect opportunity
made to order, fresh everyday
perhaps, the man scrambled
down from a boulder
and got in a tight spot
where he could not
ascend or descend safely
it's not for me to say
out-house tiolet paper
breakfast served during breakfast hours only
let's dance, for instance
tonight the saloon is full
of bright young things
olive branches at the waterside
Piranha swimming in dust
laying more pipe then
the Hi-Desert Water District
cool hand Romeo
test-boost, flag pole, electric erection
summer extravaganza
the coroner has not yet said what
caused the Death
although he was last seen
shirtless and shoeless
wandering the sand dunes
at nightfall
with a free exclusive offer
as search and rescue workers
attached to ropes
and lowered to the ground
swarm my driveway
I peep through the blinds
learning about the problem
special coupon inside
as well as the idenitiy of the man found
dead in the open desert
that has now been released
and I dare say that my electric bill is
rather high this year
but, it's all due
to the god-damn


We took the turtles back to Chinatown
because our day jobs didn't allow enough funds
for food or filtration
and the old Chinaman that sold them to us
scratched his scaly head
and snorted, "make much nonsense to hand back!
Turtles good luck and wort off evil spirit! Ancestors go back thousands of year! Here, take more food . . ."
he handed us a bag of pellets that looked like rat droppings
and the girl looked at me and I looked at her
and we just laughed
reciting to him
a Sikh funeral hymn
"The sunbeam blends with sunlight and the water drop
is absorbed into water becoming saturated."
he scratched some more scales from his head
the hidden DNA code of his ancestors
taking refuge under his yellow fingernails
and he looked more confused
then when we first made the scene
henceforth we split
popping like colorful confetti cannons
spilling our crazy souls out onto N. Broadway
ducking red lanterns that burned
in the golden flames of the dragon's breathe
running wild with love
all over the streets of downtown Los Angeles
making a sensible display of obscenity
wanting heavy drink in the mid afternoon
but again,
our day jobs didn't allow us the luxury
so I stole a kiss
on the stained sidewalk
out in front of a fruit stand
where Chinese children
pushed mini apples into my pockets
and yanked my pants
for funds
but the rain didn't
and off in the distance
the 101 was crawling
madness in mufflers
exhaustion in engines
and the I-10 W towards Santa Monica
was a dead stop
sort of like our

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Any Given Wednesday

A large board

bed-sheet white

with black tape running




creating boxes


tracking systems

this board hung on a wall

in a funeral home

at 4:07 p.m.

on any given Wednesday

a warm body in a suit and a tie

waits by the telephone

for the sure sound of ringing

a cash register cha-ching

this person is faceless

soul painted with the dark strokes

of a casual indifference

a vampire bat sitting up right

hanging on to the inevitable hope

that Death is out there

thinning the heard

every single day

Death doesn't take a day off

nor does the mortician

because he knows the probabilites

he plays a mean waitng game

hanging in there

like a tortoise holding his water

in the middle of the Mojave desert


back to this white board

hanging on a wall

in a mortuary

upon this board

are hand written


in dry erase marker

pretty colors

and if your name

is on this board

you're dead


hate to break it to you

but that's just

the way the bubble bursts.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

It Happens Like This Sometimes

the hammer hits the nail
the nail travels straight through the wood
the picture gets hung
all is right with the world
and it happens like this

the hammer hits the nail
the nail fires in crooked
and the hammerie makes a grimaced face
hammers again, only to tag his thumb
dropping the picture to the floor
it happens this way
other times.

the claw thingy lifts the prize
circles the stuffed animal abyss
and drops it in the hole
I have seen it happen this way

Most of the time
the claw doesn't pick up

I've hammered some nails
and I've operated some claws
many times in my life
the outcomes predictable
but I always seem to pretend to myself
that I'm surprised
and I know it is not sanity leading this horse
to the supposition waters.

I wonder about the many years I have
prayed at the altar of bland predictability
the altar of romantic love
the altar of time clock wages
inhaled heavy the alienation of consumer greed
all the many times I have knelled down to sip some truth
from the alcoholic ponds
only to become temporarily blind
the outcome always the same
it happens this way
almost all of the time.

This morning I woke up
got out of bed
remained naked
took a hammer
and pounded a massive hole in the wall

I took a framed photograph
of someone, something, sometime
from the past
and dropped it in the hole

I wrote with a permanent marker on a piece of paper
and tacked it on the wall
covering the damage.

I got dressed and had some coffee
loaded two shells in the shotgun
put some quarters in my pocket
got in the car
and headed in the direction of the nearest Denny's
having decided that
with some gentle persuasions
the Claw machine could be made
to drop the prize
all the time.

Play Us Your Song

Heated spa
neon HBO
worst Western
rock, paper, scissors
pull out bed
ring for service
cold coffee intercontinentaly
flea bag
carry a bag
don't tell
get out on that
jack your kerouac
mount that cassidy
make a million kid
make five, six, or seven
shit, hit the jackpot
shit, have it all and the cake to
not to mention the pie and the salad
(tossed preferably)
royalties galore
road soda
by the dozen
mercy without salvation
in the arms of the adoring public
the lonely stare of an audience indifferent
the redemptive roar of an audience in sync
the badge of courage
laundry service
fresh towels
and fresh dope
hangers on
and hangers in
rage, rage, rage
down the asphalt lane
a thousand miles
then a thousand and one more,
rinse and repeat,
candy cane sheets
and cigarette burns in the sky
peal the stickers off your guitar case
three day stubble on the face
this is all you ever wanted
all you've ever dreamed
all you've ever schemed
the nights all groupie wet
syringe sedation
never ending vacation
you can have it all
capital A my dreamy child
if you just believe
and all you gotta do is
play us your

Friday, August 9, 2013

We Sit Like Urinals in the Sun

The sabbath is crawling to the tongue
words longing for rest
a major defeat for the literates and the aslyumites
my voice is collecting in monetary tones
bumming a nickel with inflections
so tamed and tapered that a negative G rating
need only apply
drawing out a wounded nap
the pickle soaked in whiskey
the tree growing legs and running
the hills are the eyelashes of the meteorite
I lay panting with my hooves in the sand
lapping at the dust
seeing images:

a torn dress
a spray painted turtle
a forgotten female lubricant
a major league baseball team in drag
a chicken on fire
a funeral home doorway

it's a sad vertigo
the hammered lives we live
out of
doorways revolving and evolving
a master of disguise
a midget with a sword
a bad mother on pills
a hang-glider in the wind
dangerous going over
to scared to cross
we recoil like cold snakes
and wait to strike at
whoever our vengeance sees fit to hit
and it is like this with everyone
always . . .

I see an image:

a blueberry penny
a muted toilet
a trumpet in the mud
a Spanish bull covered in blood
my aging face in the mirror.