Archive for April, 2012

Crash Course Crashes

April 30, 2012

Invasions upon the suffering
all fall upon those who afford to suffer least
fore the Lord afflicts the horribly afflicted –
a judge of perverse justice – punishment upon the poor
it is His way – say “Hallelujah” – hurray!
vigor is the path of the righteous –
falling on incorporated fields of the formerly independent
brought down on scabbed knees, in bands
in tornadoes of beasts, savoring
unholy – or blasphemously Godly – feasts
succulent deliverance by mandibles mindless
secrets in the houses of the whispering
forbid foreknowledge of forthcoming swarms
how hand in hand God and weather work
God and animal agree
God and disaster delight
all in step
all out of step
bah bah black sheep have you any coal
naked in the mines, little boy –
scrotal cancer beset
the canary never sang your song
of civilizations
of manifest destinations
of all the death upon what we now rest
in our state of glorious glee
because it is we – invaders of the sufferers
judge’s of what is just – deciders of the decidable
we rule this course of life as it for now courses, terribly temporarily

Flaccid Indigestion

April 29, 2012

There was this professor
an exemplar of tedium
poetry was his thing
tortured language
strapped down, blind-folded
and water-boarded, never confessing
when its next failed
terror attack would come –
his stuff tried blowing itself
to smithereens with methodical regularity
planting suicide bombs that always fizzled
frayed wires, bad connections, wet detonators
a lack of the Kamikaze’s resolve
lushed-up sake deathwish, not for him
beer and bitch-dream curses
spat at the editors who couldn’t quite grok his genius
one poem, he had – reworked, rearranged, rewritten
(should’ve been retired) –
endlessly resubmitted
limitlessly rejected
a masochist artist
on an approval quest
recklessly sacrificing sheaths of time
into the fires of editorial doom
like a fascist in a library
like a whiny wanker in a bar
this professor, I forget his name
I’ve forgotten his poetry,
but the lessons he taught,
unintentional though they were,
remain:
don’t coerce, coax,
wag it like a flag
or haggle for acceptance
and, also
don’t submit it
to loose-lipped coeds for review
if you’d prefer to keep the world
in the dark
about your sad, dangling participle
in the face of the muse

In Your Shadow They Grow

April 28, 2012

In the way, my brain, of an occult sun
extinguishing the dazzling rays of truth
I suffocate behind its mass
emitting its pull, drawing up red whales
from turbulent seas, jaws like alligators
snapping as they fall back into their depths
and I can’t prove they don’t exist
crimson cetaceans, shaking unseen blood in the dark
and I can’t prove, can’t prove
and therefore magic and Jesus
and you’re not like those other Christians
but you provide them comfort and succor
padding out the insanity in numbers
you embolden their craziness
oh, mild and meek one who would never
damage the science classrooms
revert to iron age laws
ban contraception
or lay ownership to the claim
Satan is systematically destroying America

Meanwhile, baboons home invade the pantry
and you, nightly, choose to leave open the window
an invitation to munching madness
leaping through the illogic
chucking turds and pissing up a long fuse
to the top of the Buddha’s head
blown off in a fit of religious pique
you help inspire by the very insipidity
of your beliefs – solace for murderers, rapists,
racists and anti-woman pigs
who snuffle for compost cultivated truffles
in fields you’ve plowed up – ready-made
for their hateful fantasies
by your crude search for
imaginary meaning

Memorializing Time Immemorial

April 27, 2012

Arid aphorisms promising rain
float on hot desert winds,
kicking up dusty platitudes
off the parched lips of optimistic dowsing fools
carrying their cock-eyed cross
across the sands of their old time religion
searching for waters in a desiccated promised land
where heat stroke is the only gusher blowing
folly straight into the sun-crisped imaginations
of socially isolated goat herding ne’er-do-wells
who have nothing more to offer than smiles at a funeral
because they’ve decided
all on their special own
the cessation of life is wonderful
for one of two reasons
either you die and live forever
erect and fucking for all eternity
or
the bad guys suffer in their bad-guys’ afterlife

As poverty is to a sale at Wal-Mart
their thoughts are as to cologne poured down a cesspit
a palliative that might at first glance
appear to offer a reprieve, relief
an escape
out of the suffocating stench of hungry despair
but upon closer inspection
only deepens the shit
from which there is no hope for freedom

About Mold

April 27, 2012

Beer-brined and wicked
Meat on a meat hook
Sweets on a sweet tooth
Mold growing in the walls
And it’s paranoia #1869
Grant the railways passage
Horseradish suffrage on the boards
Discordant hymns upon the Cutty Sark, ho!
Stains spread on the wall
I call the California Department of Health services
I get a pamphlet:
Mold in my home: what do I do?
I don’t know!
I might only believe there is mold
my wife says there is
that there must be
and I am susceptible to what must be
the day before yesterday
I wasn’t afraid of my walls
But those days before yesterday are over
I was a great man once, within my walls
Walking on wind
Riding centuries of steel
Those walls around me, growing mold now
Betrayed by my own security
My own solitude
What if it’s in my brain?
My lungs?
Multiplying spores in my blood.
How do we survive this?
This attack, this fungal invasion
Can you imagine the intrusion
The violation of it all?
Coffee colored stains
So joyous in the past as they’d work across
My notebook pages at the local café
But now, growing on the walls
From the inside out
I fear, the capabilities of this mold
I’ve heard the stories:
Respiratory stories
Tales of memory loss
Mood swing fables
Nosebleed sonnets
Haikus of fever and pain
Wheezing novellas
And dry, hacking epics
These molds are present everywhere
Indoors and out, the pamphlet says
Like a god, omnipresent poison to the mind
Microscopic and alive
Crawl and creep
Maul and seep
For molds to grow and reproduce, the info sheet reads
Molds need only a food source –
Any organic material will do it:
Leaves, wood, paper, dirt –
FUCK!!
I didn’t even know dirt was organic!
Do you know what else is organic?
No, besides Hitler…
Me! I am organic.
I am mold food
I am mold reproduction
My skin
My liver
Kidneys spleen and eyes
I’ve checked the check list
The mold causation list:
Damp crawl space… CHECK!
drippy Roof… CHECK!
Plumbing leaks… Oh dear, Check.
Steam from shower or cooking… Oh, hell yes, CHECK!
And I was concerned
I was concerned before I got the data from the Health Dept.
But they had to ask me
Why did they have to ask me,
“Should I be concerned about mold in my home?”
They put the question in my mouth, then answered it –
Yes
YES
Didn’t they think I was worried?
Just a little
Calling them and all as I did?
I informed them of the threat
Clearly I felt threatened
Yet, their cruel response,
“Should I be concerned…”
about a snake calmly eating my head?
With the high price of gas?
Over nuclear proliferation?
That nobody seems panicked the way I’m panicked?
Because I’m panicked
Ye, gods, I’m panicked.

Church

April 27, 2012

dark-set eyes like candles down a well
too deep to scavenge out in a bucket
a tortuous caution creeps through every word
enunciated slow to avoid the stutter
an asthmatic wheeze and gulp between each idea
fight in tandem as new thoughts come
they put you on the spot
denier, leveler, skeptic
anarchist
atheist – You answer! You answer me now!
What is the diameter of yellow?
How many rabbits to the furlong?
When is your favorite chess master?
What is the meaning of life?
hands are sewed on backward
tongue is upside down
and your only means of communication
is licking cryptic messages
onto your palms then cupping
my cheeks like a last caress
of a departing love –
they stole the tools
rigged the questions
to doom us to lose
as we pull out the yardstick
to calculate the weight of a dead mole
in centimeters squared

Nobody Needs Know

April 26, 2012

Slather it up in lotion good and thick
put it on a treadmill running fast
stuff pills into it and inject it
know what not to wear
hide it under fashion’s layers
cinch it
suck it
pull it
stretch it
isometric blues it to it
do the yoga
do the surgery
do the botox
cardio kick box the shadow of your chakra
sing for it in praiseful songs
ask the Lord your God
and if he’s a no go go to his son
and if that brat refuses you aid like a common Samaritan
seek the holy spirit
or Allah
or Krishna
or Poseidon
or the mold
on the floor board that looks like a woman who has an intact hymen…
Getting fat and getting old
you don’t need a mirror to see it
walk the shopping mall
eye the teevee
and you’ll trust your heart
to Lipitor
your face to Aveeno anti-aging cream
your ribbons of loose dangling neck skin
will rock your head to the blow job rhythm
of the Neckline Slimmer from Paul Younane
and that’s like ‘inane’ but specially for ‘you’
and you bob your head, “Yes, yes, yes.”
and you bob your head, “God, Jesus, Mary, yes…”
the message is crystal
clearer than the looking glass
you are disgusting, but,
hush, my sweet, nobody needs know.

Piss

April 25, 2012

Chopping block stains drip
thin fingers down the vertical grain
grasping for a squeeze at my balls
in the suffocating ascendancy of the sun

Have you ever seen heavenly sunlight shafts
streaking down through cloud-breaks
like God’s head-lamps illuminating swathes of fog?
They vivisect my spinal column. It’s what they do.

Mascara streaks accuse
oily smears on the driveway
the curse of cheap machines
the injustice of easy-bake love

Did you ever hunt a job in drunkenness?
Did you ever hunt a god in weakness?
Did you ever proclaim love because you could no longer hold it,
and saying, “I love you,” was the quickest route to escape for a piss?

Queer Sport

April 24, 2012

What a good run. What a good run.
Great for awhile and now it’s done.

Open yourself up and learn to experience
like never before a journey of discovery
an exploration mapping out darkened interiors of inner-self self-help
shelves in the book stores buckle
under the weight of tomes that teach you
how to let go and love a thing all to easy
where are the books to show us how
to shut off from experience
to go nowhere and find nothing
a text illuminating the shell of a man
a dead husk kernel consumed from within
who can tell us how to hold on and hate
how to make the difficult trek
up the mountain where
life grows sparser air thinner temperature drops
degrees of frost accumulate
crystals coalescing on protective masks
breathing heavy on the climb against gravity
carrying tremendous weight pulling and clawing you
desperately out of clouds down to earth
where they want you to be
with them in the glow of their passionate fire
kept burning by obsessive neediness
for others for tears smiles snakes and ladders
they wait and pray and need for you
to hit the wrong patch and slide back to square one
the innocent wide-eyed beginning of the game
where there is no relief
from their constant offers to help you
help yourself as you pull the title off the shelf
learning to clamp on skis for the wind in your hair run
the race to the bottom
good one sport
now you’re done

The Golden Age of Ironclad Stupid

April 23, 2012

In Godless trust
for when the scarlet
atheist “A” is strung-out
dangling free
there’s naught left to hide
all the piñata pariah
you could hope to beat with a stick is there
whack it one
truth wills out
burn it down
non-toxic smoke blooms
when you hang it
deified martyrs
dribble treats upon your upturned heads
fall to your knees
scramble for the golden meats
of your lords and masters
whom you have served
as their enemies served them…
…ya feckin’ iron-age cunts