The 2nd Day After the New Year

The sunrise makes movement
ascension in the sky
it’s after 8 a.m.
a cat in my front yard
still as a statute
sets silent
facing the ball of fire
then stares across the road
perfectly straight in alignment from toe to ears
back arched in a semi circle
head pivoting from side to side
scanning the desert terrain.

This isn’t a dream
this is the 2nd day after the New Year.

The cat will eventually cross the road
making haste to return home
my neighbor worries about the cat
has asked me not to harm it
as previous  residents
have tried to trap and kill
the feline.

I suppose I’ll let the cat be
it just bolted across the road
as if some hidden alarm clock exploded in it’s brain
running up and around the neighbors car
the animal disappears behind the house.

Perhaps it's time to eat
or come inside
to take temporary shelter from the storm
and sleep into the afternoon
I don’t know if cat’s dream
but it would seem just and right to me
if they did.

However, for me this is not a dream
this is the 2nd day after the New Year.

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 . . . 

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 . . .

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?
What?!
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.

 POEM
PoEm
      Poem
poeM
schmo-em!

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.

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 . . . 

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.

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
inside.

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.

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

and

the maggots always miss you

when you’re

gone.

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

die.

That’s a big responsibility.

I can’t be trusted with plants

animals

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.

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 . . .

Amendment

ACUTE MULTIPLE DRUG INTOXICATION
I like it, it speaks to me
OVERDOSE OF PRESCRIPTION AND ILLICIT DRUGS
In the wee wee hours of the morning
SOME COLLEGE BUT NO DEGREE
Dead at 40
Decedent Last Seen Alive (MM/DD/YYYY)
Still could make a case for a good looking corpse
NAME, TITLE OF CORONER/DEPUTY CORONER
Go to the well to drink once to often
CERTIFY THAT IN MY OPINION DEATH OCCURRED
Sometimes a rattlesnake swims in the water
PLACE OF DEATH
Home is where the heart is
INFORMANT’S FIRST NAME, LAST NAME AND RELATIONSHIP
some long lost estranged sister in Raleigh
EVER IN U.S. ARMED FORCES
Perhaps parents and government lay a scorned eye on sexual orientation
AKA - ALSO KNOWN AS
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
I CERTIFY THAT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE DEATH OCCURED AT THE
In a sad October we whittle away the seconds on our branch of life
HOUR, DATE, AND PLACE STATED FROM THE CAUSES STATED.

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
and
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.

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

change.

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

anywhere.

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.

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?"

"Sure."

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 . . ."

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
summer
heat.

Chinatown

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
come
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
lives.

Any Given Wednesday

A large board

bed-sheet white

with black tape running

vertical

and

perpendicular

creating boxes

categories

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

so,

back to this white board

hanging on a wall

in a mortuary

upon this board

are hand written

names

in dry erase marker

pretty colors

and if your name

is on this board

you're dead

Jack!

hate to break it to you

but that's just

the way the bubble bursts.

It Happens Like This Sometimes

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
sometimes.

Sometimes
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.

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

Most of the time
the claw doesn't pick up
shit.

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.

Sometimes
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
THERE IS A PICTURE IN A HOLE BEHIND THIS
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
$59.95
rock, paper, scissors
pull out bed
ring for service
cold coffee intercontinentaly
flea bag
motel
carry a bag
don't tell
get out on that
ROAD
son
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
believe
believe!
and all you gotta do is
play us your
song.