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.