My Liver is Your Planet

The world is so broken
and I don’t know why they want it that way
it is destroyed inside me
screaming stuttered obscenities from the roadside
lapsing into long catatonia
I want to make it better
but I’ve got to get drunk
the illusion is instant
the effort is minimal
the cost is the future
and then I understand them
they don’t want the world broken
they’re just like me
only they don’t know it
and that’s too bad for all of us

Last Call

Time obsesses me
when I’m someplace where there’s no clock
I am offended by the disregard
people say
I should wear a watch
but the straps of them
they grieve me
tugging the short hairs at my wrist
perhaps a pocket watch
would be to my liking
you might think
but you’d be wrong
my pockets are overly full
as it is
wallet, keys, smart phone
of which the latter
functions as a pocket watch
but I don’t like having to pull it out
turn it on
swipe the screen
get distracted by Instagram
so much effort and time wasted
to spy a few numbers
I won’t remember
and then have to check again
under a minute later
people laugh and cheer, oblivious
as it all goes winding down
they fail to realize the end is near
but not I
time persists to inflict its urgent passing
insists I observe its rapid going
pesters me daily
around the clock
until there is no round to go more
time of death: 1:30 antemeridian

No Dream Child

my son of five years
has never featured in one of my dreams
I don’t want to think
there is a significance
but I can’t shake
the hunch
that this slumbering fact
holds a load of meaning
but I don’t know
what

questions
under conditions such as these
do tend to arise
and I ask myself
does it diminish a father’s love
to not envisage
his own child’s face
as a player
in one of his dreams
that it would
is not something that I think
and I must confess
not as an excuse
that in my dreams
is no place for any child to be
the saturated violence
the sweeping perversions
too much almost for me to take
thus for now
I’ll accept the absence
of the most primary actor in my conscious
from my subconscious
as a desirable good
in accordance to that which
one would dare not dream

Dodger’s Stadium

techniques to trip terrorists
I have a few
when you need to get by the gate
beyond the frisk
groping fingers
past the rub and the pat
the shake and jostle
clutch, grab, poke, assail
guardians of the turnstile
their mission’s to squash joy
ferret out alcohol
from the ballpark
if you’re not willing to endure sobriety
if you’re not willing to pay thirteen bucks a cup
then you’re unfit to root for the home team
but still
ways to get by, techniques
as I said
flask in boots
mini-bar bottles in the undies
advanced methods include having a child
mixing white Russians in its baby bottles
far be it for a puritanical fascist
to twist the nipple
to sniff the titty milk
and
stashing the drink deep in purse
hidden under wallet and make-ups
a handful of tampons scattered ‘cross the top
a layercake for the gynophobe
too terrified of menstrual blood
to probe the purse deep
for almost always is the case
checkpoints of freedom are monitored by men
proud in their position of testicular authority
but how the balls withdraw
face to face
with the evidence
that women milk and bleed
this is our advantage
how we may inebriate
under the watchful gaze of pigs

Cry, Baby, Cry

Time once upon, ‘twas I
tabernacle in friend dining room
vagrancy wicked way
homeless, nomadic, cash-strapped
at co-op marking cans, ringing register
per hour few dollar
pocket-fill, but no bank
get food, get drink
roof over head
rice and beans and tabbouleh
high living in limited style
poor, yeah true, but soul rich
just missing one thing
company desires
zip up, private, ensconced in canvas
get fox back
explain lifestyle later
on bartime crawl go
alcohol and women
draw one in
heart-stopper Soviet broad
talk hungry
chewing Russkie ears
swallowing heat
going where good
friendly touch she give
she lean her face near
success think I
then into flow lurch friend
jack-eyed, drunk-stink
see her, see me, see kiss, he say
“Hey! You want to fuck my friend in his tent?”
Situation critical
I truth-speak
give it straight
“I live in a tent I have set up in his dining room.
It’s nice. There’s padding,” say I
she has eyes white-popping
quick think and add
“But we don’t have to go.
I could get your number?
Call you.
Go for a cup of coffee tomorrow?”
she say, “Oh, baby,” up she get
signal her girlies
out door in pack they go
I shake head at friend
say, “So much for that,”
thirsty bambino get whisky
sorrow to drown
no titty baby for to suck
Wah! Wah!

Hero

In magical thinking rightwing gun nut land
I am always first to draw
I hold my firearm sideways
shooting straight without a flaw
In magical thinking rightwing gun nut land
from the front bad guys attack
they state their intent clearly
as my gun goes ack-ack-ack
In magical thinking rightwing gun nut land
good guys always get to win
no innocent ever dies
where the law ends I begin
In magical thinking rightwing gun nut land
the police cannot help you
naught but Barney Fife’s they are
incompetent through and through
In magical thinking rightwing gun nut land
gun-free zones will be your death
people packing everywhere
assures long life and good health
In magical thinking rightwing gun nut land
guns are the answer to crime
the one perfect solution
that will work every time
In magical thinking rightwing gun nut land
the 2nd amendment’s king
the gun is the one true god
and in its name praise I sing

You Puke What You Eat

When a phone was a phone
a home appliance affixed to the wall
set in a nook
or placed on a table,
and before online social networking
that was a time when
I had escaped
the backwards provincial bigots
but now it’s become to easy
for them and their opinions
to find me
once, I used to like them
upon a time, when I didn’t really know them
but now
it is too much
their thoughts, their beliefs
gullibly swallowing all the fact-free garbage they can eat
as they wallow in their vainglorious ignorance of reality
proudly their ideology leads them to refuse
basic scientific evidence
quoting Bryan Fischer on the right
Tetyana Obukhanych on the left
Alex Jones firing from both sides
moonbats to the left of me
wingnuts to the right
here I am stuck in the middle of derp
I was either born too late
or have lived too long
to tolerate
any
of their fucking retarded nonsense
at least I won’t be seeing them in Heaven
if I’m lucky
and they’re not

Limited

“It’s breath!” she said
arms out-stretched
“You have to know your space!”
her hands waved
sweeping in the immediate
world around her
which she was the center of
“I fond it so empowering!”
she said
taking the posture of one on the cross
then, purposefully
she strode across the street
got into a black Volvo
inserted an ear bud
tapped and swiped on the mobile
twisted the ignition
spun the SUV in a tight U
gassed past the ignored stop sign
took a wide right out beyond the bike lanes
where she met the 780 Rapid Express
limited stops
going east
operator hunched over the wheel
determined
and entirely unsurprised
by the Swede machine
reaped like rye before the thresher
if pressed for a statement
I’d say the bus driver appeared empowered
that he knew his space
and that any breath
might not be followed by a next

I’m Tired of This Shit

If you’re rich
your jokes will be laughed at
no matter how lousy
likewise, when famous
sycophants flock
stroking the otherwise
unredeeming cock
it’s true of politicians
as it was true
of the high school jock
an ego is not boosted
so much as exalted
risen high
thrust upward to greatness
they expect their idiocy
to be defended by loyal idiots
to be unconditionally loved
guffawing at their own wit
basking in toady adulation
disconnected from the sad fact
of their lowly intellect
onward they spout wisdom
fame, fortune – they are a star
and deserve their awesome pulpit
willing now to spill their soul
let me tell you about what I know
let me tell you about the negro
the perfect picture of perfect privilege
is just another white screaming “nigger”