“when it goes to shit”

 

when it goes to shit
you will feel the teeth in each drop of rain
you will see steel shine
as bones filled with blood
break against it,
you will see a flower killed in battle, now floating down the gutter
toward the sewers.

you will think of her and put meat in her memory
but your hand will pass right through her.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

you will look in the mirror and wish for something else
you will see rain in the small frosted window above;
pattering paws
on cold glass
and think, ‘that has nothing to do with me.’

you will quietly put the lesson away
as a wrinkle, scar or gray hair.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

“and the horse you rode in on”

 

a bone lies stripped on the sidewalk

surrounded by nations of ants

under orange streetlight moon.

 

Another night shot from a cannon,

your innards sucked dry,

what’s left

burned by radiation.

 

little girls dressed like whores,

it’s logical, they were taught from birth they

are nothing, pumped full of filth

transmitted from glowing eyes.

 

they will never be nothing,

the ants will carry their bones

and yours

to gods waiting underground

as the next evil night waits in the shadows of

urine dawn.

08 OCT 07

“fleeting is the breeze that carries love”

 

Match-dot-com
has video ads
that start with the camera (who is “you”)
focused on a woman’s
legs, tits or ass.

When the action starts
you’ve just been “caught” staring.

As the camera moves reluctantly away from the areas of interest 
to their faces, the actresses act playfully outraged.
I quite enjoy it until the girl
says, “Look, if you want to get to know me, you’re going to have to talk to me.”

Our relationship goes south after that,
and there’s no way to rewind to the
legs, tits or ass.

Just like the videos
there’s no good or clever way to end this poem,
(if that’s what it is)
a website won’t help
so let’s recall with fondness a few seconds ago when the
legs, tits or ass
were ours,
then move on
to the next love.

 

19 Apr 07

“dead threats or heart splinters”

sad dogs with tennis ball jaws
popsicle sticks in the trash
ants crawling over anything

the deflated Milk Dud with no malt center
overdue library books
trash bags that don’t fit the cans

clouds that don’t move
the last note of a too-long song
pissing on road trips

green potato chips
broken vitamins
stares from slow children

fat girls wearing belly shirts
abandoned nests
slingshots missing an arm

gagging spoons of cough syrup
world war 2 footage
smiling clowns twisting balloons

sweat under a necklace
mud on the treads of tanks
jammed photocopiers

bad sax solos (all of them)
political advertisements
helmets on riders dead anyway

sticky pennies good for nothing
steaming radiators
mirrorshades on dickhead cops

bones on the ground
sad Indians looking sad for Nature
spent ammunition

hurricane tracking
foreign flags
contracts signed or unsigned

dirty bathtubs
alarm clocks
final notices

flaming arrows
forced smiles
words abandoned

done.

04 Aug 06

“stars”

Never a big drinker,
that night I drank 4 shots
of vodka in 3 minutes.

I wanted to kill the woman I loved.

I walked slowly out of the bar
into black Alaskan night.

My boots crunched lovingly,
the air was crisp and clean.

Stars and light of stars,
you’ve never seen so many
in a single sky
in a single lifetime
it was like a full cereal box
of stars
had been torn apart
so that even the powdered stars
at the bottom had spilled everywhere,
a precise mess so beautiful
my tears dragged to the ground.

I wanted to kill the woman I was in love with,
the one inside my head,
so much better than the real one
with someone else.

I really wanted to cry but the sobs didn’t happen. Nothing did.

The military ship waited
at the miltary dock
like a Christmas dagger.

I rejoined the human disaster
on board.

13 Apr 06 

“poetry forever”

I remember the moment
I gave up
poetry forever.

Clicking through the
latest online issue
of a ‘zine,
looking for
my submission
like anyone seeks
their own face
first
in a group photo,
I stumbled across a poem
I’d written
that I didn’t remember writing.

It was clever, edgy, spritely, etc., dancing like a weapon-y
ballerina
sober on sunlight and pink socks.

I loved it
like anyone loves
their own kid
most
in a school play,
except
my poem was over there
and the one I thought I’d written was written by
someone else.

I didn’t need a DNA test to know
my words were
nothing
if some random asshole could Xerox
“my” madness
“my” fingerprints
“my” unique turds
so much
I thought they were mine.

So I walked away from
poetry forever,
it was easy,
I didn’t love anyone
and still don’t.

The gods had found a replacement
for a replacement
and now that that was settled
I could concentrate on my first love:
jerking off.

Trouble is, between poetry
and
jerking off

no one can tell the difference.

Which is fine,
there’s no money
in either.

 14 Jun 06 

 

Poem written in ’07, just as true today

The heart is a retard
on the short bus
with no helmet or pads,
whacking its skull on the glass
for sheer joy.

The heart is a retard
a pin cushion for bent arrows
halos of barbed wire
hair of flames
and blood-dipped cursive names.

The heart is a retard
now and forever
eating sunbeams and shitting rainbows
shedding glitter dandruff
off construction paper
monstrosities
taped to the fridge.

The heart is a retard
and there’s no special class or program to help,
there is nothing to do.
It’s simple like sand
that cuts like glass.

The heart is a retard and
this poem is drool
from its mouth,
grinning like fishhooks,
staring at butterflies with
diamonds for wings

retarded.