Monday, October 27, 2014

I Stare

I stare from out of a miserable hangover     
bedroom losing darkness
a fair maiden cracks the blinds
letting in the late afternoon sun.

I stare from out of my messy skull
an asylum of ill memories
the wind tosses tree tops
and the dark blue humpbacked mountains
are still.

I stare from out of a eulogy of whiskey
my soul broken in the sheets
dreaming of the next big erection
I taste the scarred lips of defeat.

I stare from out of a glass window
thinking of Death and all his joys
whom, like a jealous little boy,
teases to take away his toys -
never to let you play again.

I stare . . . 

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Dead Babies Float

Industrial steel door
economy size
fatality of dreams
under refrigeration
I told you this many, many years ago
that our moments are only moments
mere pixie dust
suspended in time
yet we remain crushed
by their weight
and chained to their fading canvases
unwilling to let go -

I martyr myself like a motherfucker
in a black suit and tie
opening that huge steel door
41 degrees
embalming room
bucket behind the door
42 degrees
slight fluctuations
it’s fine, expected - would be weird if it wasn't
bodies must remain cold
this is what the old book meant by purgatory
inside waiting - for the last brush stroke
or penned word in their final chapter
the ritual of disposal
the flesh tent must leave our sight
our sound, our mental minds
stability requires this
so we can predicate the illusion
and propagate the falsification of self
those are big words, lofty ideas
I venture into the big chill
grab the bucket
and begin.

Mortician, me
director of funerals
some silly nonsense
I suppose a paycheck and a title
makes you more self aware
I take the bucket out of the refrigeration unit
it’s heavy in smell - chemical formaldehyde
I set it down on the embalming table
take off the lid
the fumes fire off in my nostrils fast
not a moment to step back from the onslaught
my eyes water
I see the top of a bald, grayish head
floating in a pink stew of embalming fluid
at that instance
my soul believes in amusement parks
and wants to dance
I hear a romantic waltz by Johann Strauss
cotton candy, teddy bears
I see the death of my own innocence
and the innocence of all those
that have trudged this earth before me
but this baby must be preserved
for shipping purposes
must return home
along with the dead corpse
of a 20 year old female
mommy committed suicide
by leaping from a freeway overpass
and baby died inside
shortly there after.

Now the fetus floats in a bucket -
Damn it!

The top of it’s head has been peaking out
over the fluid it’s submerged in
perhaps not getting
the full effect of the embalming treatment
I think, “I’ll add some more water and chemical,”
I start to fill up the bucket
but the baby just rises along with it
and the top of the head still sticks out . . .

“Shit! Dead babies float.”
Just my fucking luck
I suppose if white men can jump
and grizzly bears can shit in the woods
dead babies can float
but why do they have to do it
at the end of the day
on Friday.

I drain the fluid
prop the baby upright against the circular wall of the bucket
apply some topical cream with preserving chemical
wad up some webril
grab a head block
secure the fetus upright
stabilize the head at each side
using the webril wads
place the lid back on the bucket
put the bucket back in the refrigeration unit
close the door
dreams dead behind a locked door
no more dreaming, a shut door -

“Okay - that’s good. The embalming chemical will slowly slip done from the head
into the esophagus and things will be alright, as much as they can be . . .”

I check my wrist watch -
13 minutes past 5 o’clock
not bad
still plenty of time left in the evening
to poison my mind
with whiskey and cheap women.

I adjust my tie
fish for my car keys
inside the darkness of pockets
still believing the illusion
still self aware
everything is fine
just breathe
it’s not your fault
dead babies float.

Not your fault at all . . .

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Let’s Give Em’ One

You want a poem?
You gotta be straight up shitin’ me!
You want a poem?
It’s 2014 and ain’t no one looking for that.

You want a poem?
You must be soft between the ears mothafucker.
You want a poem?
Jesus Christ himself can’t help you shit-stain -
you must be the only dumb truck
walking God’s green Earth with that wish!

A smart phone with 63GB
a Lambo with a plug-in hybrid power tran
designer kicks
sex toys and batteries
rock hard abs and 24 inch pythons
Henny and a pound of green bud -
mothafucker I can help you with all this
but you got’s to be patient.

A poem however?
Not happening.

A house in the burbs with a 30-year fixed
season tickets for the Gaints, the A’s, the  Lakers
front row at Wrestle-mania
a blow job from Angelina Jolie
hot lunch form Brad Pitt
Cancun or Cabo
Cruise Ships or cocaine
a wristwatch with a Facebook feed
Midol and Medi-cal
a gift card to Hot Topic or Hollister or any place else in the shopping mall
fuck, just dress me up and get me laid!
What you say?
A poem?
Negative ghost rider.

Come on now, really -
what the fuck you going to do with that . . .

Get an A in your creative writing class?
Clean out the parakeet cage?
Light a camp fire?
Impress a girl that thinks your ugly?

You must be straight dropped on your head  and thrown off a cliff!

A poem, you say?
take your funky Maya Angelou ass the fuck out of here
and don’t let the door hit you from behind
go shit in the woods and wipe your butt with Leaves of Grass
take all of your Neruda and all of the Spanish bulls of the world
and shove em’ where the sun don’t shine
just because you feel less sexually repressed
after reading Ginsberg
doesn't mean a poem
is going to get you some strange
and just because Bukowski wrote with
empty beer bottles and bare knuckles
doesn’t mean
you’re a badass Barfly, too
so stop it, already!

You want a poem?
Here you go douche cup . . .

Pen and paper
I scribble heart felt lines
some other dude is laying pipe in my chick.

Not enough?

Screams of orgasm
his engorged cock pounds her box
the Outlaw book of poetry sits in silent dust on the self.


No, no, no, no . . .
my soul screams on a balcony over looking rush hour traffic!

Fuck it,

You're better off punching the time clock -
see you for cocktails at six
the mall closes at nine -
plenty of time.

You still want a poem after all of that?

Well, you must be
 the last free spirit on Earth
 with a soul left to be saved . . .

and I salute you.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Test, Test . . . One, Two . . .

Moderate emotional damage
amazing specifics of hammered lies
people and their lives really stink
tap the top of the microphone
clear your throat and speak,

“Knives are sharp, moments are dull, why don’t you suck on my big toe.”

We can’t help but hate others
in the grand way we hate ourselves.

A poets soul
in my remote control
the Hindu Gods put it there
I switch channels in a make believe delirium
searching for divinity in underwear ads
and reality TV.

If you point your finger at me I will snap it
and hand it back to you.

Fools gold
pleasant views
million dollar endorsements in athletic shoes
we rummage through the pop culture rubble
picking up the pieces of a crippled community
coded messages to confirm
internal confirmation has been received
by the host
that is sucking us all dry
we want your money
we want your soul
and the death vultures
will celebrate your corpse
if your next of kin

can float a loan.

Head down 
speak clearly into the microphone . . .