Archive for June, 2013

Ice Fishing on Thin Ice

June 29, 2013

Too many things in life go unsaid,
they should
a careless overstatement
a profession, a confession, drunken
endured in ashamed tolerance
because when a man ejaculates
slurred emotion in a spittle spray of,
“I’m really, really glad to have you as a friend,
really. You know? Really glad,” it is distinctly indelicate
to the anti-diplomatic extreme
to cork off his outpouring
telling him to just shut the fuck up already
and that you don’t care;
it doesn’t need saying;
you are well aware of the mutual benefits
a friendship establishes,
and it’s already gone as far as it’s going
so please stop trying to whither my panties
in your toxic haze of kerosene breath
because we are not going to fuck now or ever, capisce?
so please, just don’t tell me…
if I don’t know
I don’t want to
ignorance of subjective states suits me better
than the warmth inside the ice fisherman’s shack

Advertisements

Human Cargo

June 27, 2013

cars pass by and I despair
four lanes of them
five if you count the turning
for each one
I undergo a full grieving process
I mourn the fuels burned
mislead soldiers dead in Abraham’s land
lives spent exuding plastics
molding cup-holders
boxing up beaded seat covers
men with black lungs
foundry sweat faces
I mourn the road crews
arthritic jackhammer bones
potholes to be filled
tar to be smoothed
I mourn the drivers
their destinations and jobs
the bus loads of children
trucked off to school like cargo
like little products waiting to be sold
an inventor’s idea of a dream to come
I mourn the scam of it all
the trolleys and trains
that no longer run
the American prosperity
that dictates two for every garage
I mourn the loss
the lost and ruined cities
Flynt and Detroit
disposable wastes of an industrial age
I mourn the new workers
laboring at pesos on the dollar
in unregulated conditions
for untold hours on end
I mourn that they are happy and eager
to have those jobs
I mourn the vanishing middle class
the devaluation of goods
produced in Bangladeshi sweat shops
I mourn everyday
low prices
and that they must be fixed that way
to keep formerly affluent Americans complacent
so by the time they recognize what they’ve lost
it will be too late
to mourn

I Told My Friends You’re Very Good at Giving Head

June 25, 2013

In a new house not my house
I make no move to make it mine
Amongst her curtains, her vines, her art
And in her
in her shower, her kitchen, her bed, her handcuffs
Under her
under her sheets, her roof, her watch
And if I were a telepath I wouldn’t read minds
They’d be like books
good books you don’t want to finish
But they wouldn’t be books because they’re minds
And you don’t have to finish a mind
I have no home but I live in hers
If I were a telepath
I’d have no mind but hers
surrounded, caged
will-lessly engulfed
in dreams, thoughts, fantasy, fear,
lust, depression and stupidity
all not my own
It’s easier not to care
Far simpler to drown
The pressure’s off if you go to war with the rest
and go down for a bed at night
like a rock flipped into the pond

Lessons of a Push Puppet Paddle Toy

June 23, 2013

orange cat
brown base
yellow triggers to either side
it stands there
stiff, plastic, proud
on black paws
in its green bowtie
on the back of its head
“British Des. Rgn.
No. 96670”
marked
under its feet
“British Patent
No. 1437654
Made in Hong Kong”
the feline with Asiatic eyes
red tongue protruded
between white cheeks
press the switch in
on its right
kitty bows its head
supplicated before master
pump the trigger
on its left
wag goes the tail
pussy pretty pleased
but give it pressure
pushed in from both sides
squeezed in desperate hopelessness
see the animal collapse

Cartoon Heartburn

June 21, 2013

I want to eat a cartoon pizza
yellow-white cheese dangling
aroma waves drifting
pulled up the nostrils
by a long blissful sniff.
I want to peel off
crimson pepperoni rounds
like a lover’s pants.
The colors of crust and meat
so sensuously uniform.
The cartoon characters at the dining table
tearing into the pie.
A blood craze like Serengeti lionesses
having at the twisted-necked impala.
No real humans enjoy their food this way.
Cartoonists create a food paradise,
and sometimes
the old pizza pie, she is magic.
For every slice swept away in frenzy
another appears, reborn for the taking.

But if this pizza is a want
then the cartoon beer
is last call on prohibition’s eve:
the over-flowing foam-head
the draw from the tap
the drawling unreal, “Shloosh!” on the soundtrack
as it’s poured.
Beer that looks to taste
more like beer than beer,
the creamy color of manila paper,
and the mug, always a beautiful mug,
brought to lips, the weight lifters clean and jerk,
shuddering temptation, and
GULP!
a back-handed swipe
wipes the mad-dog froth off the ugly mug
as the last act of satisfaction.
Cartoon pizza and cartoon beer,
I’m some kind of a fool to want it.
What does it get me?

A Day Off

June 19, 2013

Four feet, three feet, two feet
back, back — one foot
back, come on, back, back
the ordeal of parking a car parallel
a mother daughter team
Daughter guiding mom in
back, back, keep going
Mother at the wheel
craning her head around on her squat neck
eyes popping, terrified of that car behind…
I leave this, walk into the library on a Thursday
sober for a month come tomorrow
it’s noon but the new L.A. Weekly isn’t in
but my book on hold is
one dollar fine for poetry
it gets paid
and I get my Hemmingway
In Our Time
read it before — ten year, twenty ago – time again
stop, crank it, crank it
Ugh, Mom!
the auto-circus continues
rarely am I pleased to own no car
but at times
the efficiency of long legs and a good pair of shoes
can’t be over-rated
back, back ¬¬¬¬— on my way back home
on foot — one foot, two feet — on foot
it’s all slowed down
a little life on the hoof
vacant lots littered, overgrown
white picket fences
symbol of the soulless life
with a lot of soul:
splintered, rot, pealing paint, cracked, and bare wood
faded fences, forgotten foundations
things lingering from another time
into our time
as I walk home and feel
like an old man from another era, faded and forgotten
I see myself as old and I’m not
my love for relics turns me into one
aggressively ignorant
Back — back — backing my ass up
in time
terrified of what’s ahead
as the road crew takes a break from ripping out decaying
sewage lines from the street
and sinking new ones, wide guage
to take more shit
as they shoot shit, “And she says,
“It’s the same one as last time. Do you recognize it?”
And I go “Yeah.””
What the fuck could it be
I wonder, walking past —
the sign on the church reads
“Trust in Jesus, he’ll bless UR Sox off,”
What the fuck, god dammit
it’s only Wednesday
the new L.A. Weekly doesn’t come out
until tomorrow
What was I thinking?

Al Qaedahol

June 17, 2013

Al Qaeda; Blackwater
same shit different pay
I’m thinking about days to come
for those days I hope
the people living then
even if this poem
would be something they could read
that they won’t understand it
none amongst them
except maybe or perhaps history majors
would know what the fuck
al qaeda from alcohol
blackwater from diarrhea
all these great concerns of my time
may dissolve like Alka Seltzer
or Al Qae-seltzer
in water, black or clear
in the future – clear – it ain’t
but this petty bullshit
apes waging wars
may it end
may new apes and new wars rise
assume the throne; the cause
freedom vs. submission
the fight knows no conclusion
names change and places round robin
and I – I think about it
and wish, concerned – oh so…
but I don’t understand it

Better Off Dead

June 15, 2013

What if I just disappeared
ran away
left everything never to return
would it be so bad
the sorrow, the animosity
what’s the average time span mourning the dead
would it be so different
sudden inexplicable absence
versus
a corpse in hand
death and abandonment
one has got to be worse
all things being equal, except
there are no equals
anger is a palliative against grief
rage a restorative
and it’s unseemly to be wrathful
unto the dearly departed
but towards those whose departure
is decidedly un-dear
bloodshot slobbering vehemence
falls within an acceptable range
of emotional responses
what ultimate and lasting damage is done
by this metaphorical suicide
letting Jesus into your heart
and changing all its locks
to be born again, you die
you are altered
you leave behind your life
such a gross lack of discipline
to flee that who you are
to be something else
self-absolution of responsibility
for all you have done
forgiven
by the mad munching of magical crackers
for me
this finding of God is betrayal
my fury justified
for those who choose this lazy path
nothing but my utmost disdain
to re-ask the original question
what if I left
ran away never to return
all things not being equal
I’d rather be fucking dead, deservedly

A Free Press and Capitalism Are Not Compatible For Long

June 13, 2013

We rake the muck because we must
left to dry forgotten as dust

Yesteryears’ horrors reappear
remembered without proper fear

Doomed to repeat our sins of past
new evil comes worse than the last

Today’s news is lost tomorrow
uningrained on futures borrowed

Facts are picked to fit the story
endless bouts of rapturous whoring

Media discounts what won’t sell
where once truth ruled now markets tell

Press bought by the corporation
mute witness of a dead nation

That Fucking Hurts Dickhead

June 11, 2013

Collapsed shoulders of muscle’s decay
entering atrophy
under oppression’s endless weight
where burgers flip
bricks get lift
barcodes scanned
and bras snapped
where strawberries get the harvest
under hardly worth gazes
in fields where no animal feeds
under high-socked sunlight horror shows
of depreciated familial desires
food stamp charities for the weak
acquiescing to their weakness
what contemptuous
horribly aged god demands
time reprimands
horribly aged before success
station one to station two
the burger goes through and through
over and over and out and
into the coagulant chili bucket
as long as all the classes eat
starvation is an illusion
but when poverty is a hateful God’s work
and I am worse than even that
omniscience is a sad cast of dampness
on the omnipotent doorstep of Heaven
weights, weights, slouch and cry over the grill
cry, droop, flip, fuel for snapping them
before they snap us… WHAP!