Francis

We’re only beginning to heat up here
all day, all night
on Poe-wope radio 103.1
the cooooool FM
I hope you enjoyed
those last four enunciations in a row
free from commercial interruption
we’ve been getting a lot of calls in
all for a very special request:
a condemnation
ha-ha-ha
you all know I’m not that kind of Pope
I like to keep my bigotry close to my heart
play it below the boards
it’s like Eddie Murphy said Bill Cosby said
‘you can’t come on stage
saying no “filth flarin filth flarin filth!”’
ah-ha-ha
that is me
speak sweet
conceal a sour mind
now, then
join me as we bow our heads
we got us a red hot prayer
it’s got some elders angry
but baby this is rock-n-holy-roll
you sing it with me
as we put in a musical request to the Lord
to forgive these sluts their abortions
and those sodomites their perversions
kicking it off, repeat, after me
“Dear loving God…”

Industrial Mojo

Wymar pushed into n-space
like a dog
leaving a gift on the lawn
the tenacious Kubb still refused
to relinquish its will to digestion
Wymar thumped his chest
and belched up a combination:
bitter acorn, sawdust
with hints of cedar and birch
not entirely unpleasant
he thought as he gathered his bearings
and determined he was right where
he wanted to be

in the arched dormer window above
he saw a large mirror was placed
to redirect the sun’s rays inward
harvesting, he thought
the crazy bitch was to do it again
still though
three years to go until graduation
why was she prepping the work so early
it smacked of ill-etiquette
but so did he
ill-etiquette was literally
stewing in his juices

the yard was awfully overgrown
every inch of it thorns and burrs
perhaps Lady Tailor lacks the funds
for a thirty dollar a week landscaper
Oo, that does not bode well
how many more futures can she steal
on her dwindling pauper’s reserves
none of he had his way

he looked up to the window once more
was the harvest one of impatience, convenience
or… could she be wise to him
not a chance, he burped
entombed in flesh
the Kubb could transmit only its terror
good for keeping the others in line
if she was planning to undo the boy
before his eighteenth
then it was only right to act now
from his satchel he pulled
an old tin Coca-Cola can
filled with used engine oil
the oil had been drained
from Henry Ford’s very own Model A
the oil’s vessel
was also quite unique
from the first test run of canned Coke
for export only to U.S. military in the Far East
Korea specifically
the soldier, Private Meyer,
nicknamed ‘Wiener’
the previous owner of this particular can
had his throat slit by spinning shrapnel
as he drank
blood and Coke spilled from the wound
but not in equal measure

Wymar picked his way through the weeds
to where the large arroyo rock rested
on it he expertly drizzled and splashed
flung and dripped his special brew
it began to glow as if from deep within
fissures opening, the fires pouring out
the boy would awaken
to be undone or not
either way no matter
this time the boy would awaken
and Wymar, as he danced
his Jackson Pollock dance,
felt it fleetingly
like the brush of a bat’s wing ‘cross his heart
a doubt, a concern
a small uncertainty
that maybe waking the boy
was not a wise idea
was not in fact
even his idea
well, it was too late now
the fire sprites were in flight
“Welcome boy to the real world,”
Wymar whispered, wedging himself back
into the distanceless void

Amish Witch

gas lights in their sconces burned blue
in the house was no trace of modernity
for over a century eschewed electricity
the girl used to think they were Amish
the boy and his mother
but he assured her they were not
“Then why don’t you have a fridge or teevee?”
“My mom’s allergic,” Sammy said
“To television?” Nina asked
“To all of it… electricity. Period.”
“What’s making that fan go then,” she asked
and pointed up at it
the large light weight blades
churned the gloomy air
“A spring inside;
it winds up,” Sammy answered
and then directed Nina to the stairs
“Mom’s up there;
she has it all…”
Sammy paused, looked at Nina’s belly
and continued, “…prepared.”
Nina brushed dust
from the intricacies
of the ornate Newell post
and started her way up
the sweep of the curving stairs
this old Victorian
seemed older than all of Los Angeles
grander than any at Heritage Square
sitting smack in the middle
of an obscenely sized lot
for such a densely populated neighborhood
she was always sort of jealous
ever since she was a kid
of Sammy and his huge yard to play in
until she got to know him
and now she was lucky she knew him

in the room, Sammy’s mother
had massive round mirrors
reflecting a bright pool of sunlight
from the open windows
onto the bed
“Nina,” Mrs. Tailor said gently
and shook her head
“Fourteen years old,”
heat surged like hot blood into Nina’s chest
“Please Mrs. Tailor,
I just need it done.”
all the mirrors seemed to turn
refocusing their beams upon Sammy’s mom
who suddenly appeared to tower tall
as the rest of the operating room went dark
“Your mother will never know,
never have a cross word for you
on this subject, but know this,
we are not in Texas
you should know better
you should know how to prevent pregnancy,”
her voice was like a distant storm
soft but potent with violence
“I’m sorry… just, thank you. Thank you,”
Nina sobbed
“Remove your pants and get on the bed,”
Mrs. Tailor ordered, seeming to shrink back
to her normal height as mirrors resumed
illuminating the bed
Nina did as instructed
and as Mrs. Tailor readied for surgery
she turned to Nina and said,
“You’re lucky I need the parts
you’re lucky you’re knocked up with a son
you’re lucky I have a son
you’re lucky boy parts are what I need,”
and Nina had no reply
Sammy’s mum was spooky
but she was glad
that in some ways
her abortion wouldn’t go to waste

High Mambling

purse snatch endless days
getting up and going afar
designated howl silencer
shackling friends and begrudging deceit
animal far cry furious invasion
anywhere but yesterday
on National Lampoon’s Vacation
to visions faraway plus
aiming near and far
on the future’s credit card
paid for on a loan
interest delinquent homes
lost, bartered or stolen
no good Jew ever
protected by the Golem
let go more than he could swallow
domestic drink cheap
drunken on the floor’s plastic sleep
cowards face
under eyes on the bottom
never sweat forever
ping pong unhappily
digital back and forth across teevee
rowdy watch tech progress
no one fair of interest comes
banks delinquent refuse release
as whopping great secrets
distrust to tease more by sky
more by sea
more by air
more by the skeleton’s bone
more by the lock of tomb
more by tales
of morbid tales

Accuracy

God is a wicked excuse and a wanton explanation
imbeciles thus contented
who favor validation of belief
over historical accuracy
prefer for their behavior
an easy answer
opposed to honest examination
hold in their wretched hands
dangerous antisocial power
for either you reject lies
embrace evidence
or wallow in filthy deception
cloaked in a cowards camouflage

Those discontented
who favor fact-based truths
over subjectively soothing stories
prefer experimental results
rather than personal assertions and anecdotes
hold in their whispered hands
the delicate breath of society
built on reality
prone to precarious shifts
upon the progression of learned ways
for either you accept truth
dismiss conjecture
or flounder in ideals wasted

Louse Letter

What should become of words
as memory
in an age of tedious documentation
where every plated meal is a rare event
that requires memorialization
in photography
as if a species
newly discovered
to be meticulously inked
in finest detail
by a Victorian naturalist
as he explores the world afar

Words are relegated
to accompaniment
a hasty thought
dashed off and disconnected
a trail of inconsequential cracker crumbs
leading back to home
another place, truly, yet
equally lost

How is the function of words
to cope as technology advances
and us, the word-users,
adapt to paradigm-shifting novelty

A disturbance is en route
soon to arrive
but to what it will be
I am as illiterate
as a million-year-old savanna ape
upright and getting there brain-wise
still, no wiser of what’s to come
than the lice inflicting him
their tiny chewing mouths
etching history into skin
with every bite
stories passed down
parasitic generation after
parasitic generation
a tale for the ages
for the eggs
the nits yet to be picked

Think of the Children

Volcanic eructations
an inverted geyser
clogged with mud
erupts in belching splutters
but without the solid mass of relief

this is how life ends, he thinks
his legs lose blood flow
a fast tingle of pins
perspiration runs
rivulets propelled by gravity
down neck and chest
humidity from the morning’s shower
still hangs close
the exhaust fan overhead
rattles alarmingly of failure
of man and machine
the tank behind his back
gurgles endlessly
never filling fully
as the fluorescent above
hums and gutters
in the mirror
his sweat sheened face
stares back at him
sickly-skinned, gray-eyed
he shivers
arms wrapped around the waste bin
crumpled tissues within
soaked in bile
and semi-digested saltines
old man, he thinks
this is death
this is its arrival
the knock at the door unanswered
this is the calling card left behind
he extends a hand to the floor
to the left of the toilet
raises the bottle
gets another good swallow in
of Clan MacGregor
he can’t give up
just because
the chips are down
what kind of example
would that set
for his kids

The Serenity of Impotence

Moist in crotch and limb
sweating under a woolen oppression
I pass, on my march
fetid puddles of stirring dark stench
over which buzzes
an aerial orgy of rioting filth
procreating disease
in much cherished spit-pools of desire
as they rapidly diminish
in the ceaseless assault of drought
the last frantic hope
for a next generation to be born
and as I leave it behind
I finally feel I can
unpurse my lips
unclench my sinuses
and breathe again

By Interpretive Errors of Source I Harm Reality

stressful eructative squeaks of fear
emit from the bird’s throat
as it erupts in sudden panicked flight
such a nervous little thing
I thought
the mourning dove was
but was wrong
all those generations of them
broods by the hundreds
all sorrowfully misjudged
by the whistling sonation
of wind through wing
a trill of the quill
a piccolo fluting of feathers
an accident of action
no more significant in intent
than the splutter and sizzle
of chicken fat dripped on hot coals

It’s Still There

Mustache flaps like a raven in flight
in counter-point
to the Barbie Doll triangle of cunt fuzz
under his lower lip
as arms tattooed in vines and leaves
wave like the branches they resemble
sprouting from his cerise tank-top
he orders a top-shelf whisky
Yellow-Spot
and over all his meritorious twenty-five years
he looks back, recollecting, gesticulating savagely
he recalls
so young and tender at seventeen
hanging at the frat house
of his much older friend
in disbelief of his own daring
he adjusts his Laurel & Hardy derby to a rakish angle
and tells of his first shot of booze
how that Black Velvet shit
“in a, get this, plastic bottle
can you believe it?”
shot straight back up
out his nose

I listen to this rubbish
missing days of L.A. lost
when the weirdness drank at noon
the mad, the pensioners, the junkies
disappointed with what my city’s become
I drain my beer, depart
await the Dash on the corner
when a blue sedan pulls up
antiquity in the form of man at the wheel
he stares straight ahead grinning madly
in the back: a young black woman – glossy, sexy
out the rear passenger window she looks
a broad smile on her round cherubic face
and says like a song
“Hola,” and I, startled out of my daydreams,
squeak, “Hello,”
to which she says, “Gayt Een,”
it’s an invitation
to where for what I’ll never know
as I stepped back a pace, displaying
no further words necessary
and like that
the old man
pulled out from the curb
tires squealing as they varoomed
around the corner and up the hill
taking it and all the possibilities away
but I was happy
insane Los Angeles is still there
waiting
to murder, rape or kidnap
the unwary
at any moment
and the city wanted to let me know