Foreskin Fluff

Like a torn foreskin
caught in Yahweh’s teeth
we bleeding babies cry
men, all of us, manful
carrying on bravely
acting whole, intact
pulled out a tad too late
snagged by canines divine
we complain endlessly
of our lot in life
when choosing our parents
we were out taking a whiz
isn’t that just so
doesn’t life just blow
immorally cut free
dandelions on the breeze

Fakery

I Get My News from Facebook Memes
World’s fallen apart at the seams
Keep my intellect underfed
worried ‘bout monsters under my bed
Ain’t concerned it’s fact or fiction
Long’s it fits my superstition
Click and share with you what I learned
That’s how another head gets turned

Self-Awareness is Hard

the organism
is lead to do
the same thing
day after day
or failing that
whenever the opportunity arises

the organism
cannot comprehend
why it does
what it does
actions performed
relentlessly repeated

the organism
is without question
asking nothing
of itself
of its motivations
content to be what it is

the organism; however, sadly
is not
what it is
it is something else
entirely concealed
by biology beyond

the organism

A Double Amputee’s Dream of Legs

Please be advised
your gender is in your head
your sex is between your legs
they may not match
they may not mix
but if they do
it’s one less problem for you

Talkin’ Bout Their Generation

For men of an age
all tales are ones of reminiscence
and too often, conquest
their current worth, perhaps
measured
in units of honies
penetrated
and trash cans of whopatooli
emptied
these are their manful tales
memories that help to fortify
a diminishing virility

I do not want to become
one of these men
of an age
for my value
to be wrapped up
in a kind of
masculine equity
once purchased in decaying desperation
whose value is now raised by gentrification
to be sold in stories parceled
to a younger generation

Los Angeles

Sun a torch beam
onto blue waters
underground I swim through
in silence on my back
under bats over fish
drifting inches below
nose to nose
with stalactites
and no muse touches me
to write a single line

In the woods
iguanas scurry in the brush
a millions squeaks and squawks
cheeps, chirps, tweets, gobbles
daylight breaking
setting on fire the pyramid
at Chichen Itza
history aglow
and no breath of inspiration
fills my lungs

I am an empty wreck
no heart beats
as I suck the soul
from cocoanuts and bottles
and so much more
diving, trying, into myself
where nothing is found
no word or tune
no verse or impromptu whistle
until when…

The loop into the sky
off the 105
descending to 110
my city there for me
my return
the welcome home to my home
and all the songs in me
begin to sing
every time we leave
‘regrasamos’ I say
because it’s a promise
this is where the end comes
after siesta
at about quarter to five

And the Weiner is…

“Walk the red carpet
and enjoy the Oscars,”
she said
she was talking about
her pubic hair
and vagina
to a certain mind
it might have been
sexy, certainly
but to another kind of mind
it conjures vacuuming
crumbs of food
held secure in the fibers
shampooing
to get out
the deeply ground in
grime
not to mention
the unappealing vision
various Oscars represent
the ‘grossly indecent’ Wilde one
the furry green and grouchy guy
who lives in a garbage can
of all places, a hole
one doesn’t want associated
with a lady’s most precious places
and wieners
because of course that bologna
it has a first name
it’s O-S-C-A-R
which leads, natural casing and all
to thoughts of penises
and although
there’s a hard one there
waiting to enjoy the Oscars
the realization comes
you are but a nominee
and the hall tomorrow
will be cleaned and rented out again

Lost Letter

Attention
people of the USS USA
please be advised
your lengthy holiday
is coming abruptly
to its end
the captain has abandoned the helm
to go suck his own dick
in the case of this
unfortunate event
you may kiss your own
corn-fed ass
goodbye
and in gratitude
it may serve as a flotation device
buoying you onward and outward
beyond the nuclear breakers
to your next election
even as the sharks beneath
and vultures overhead
circle and wait
contrary cogs turning
as above
so below
there you are
stuck in the middle
like the meat in a sandwich
bite down America
the time has come
this wallet jammed in your mouth
might save your tongue
your voice
and you may speak again
but the vacation’s over
and on the honeymoon
of 240 plus years
the only children conceived
are the unkind whores all too eager
to bury you
and take
joyfully triumphant
all the wealth
from off both the chest of drawers
and the wallet
leaving you
fucked to death
to rot

There They’re or Not There

We can say
consolingly
“there, there”
which is neither
here nor there
in relation to
the meat
of my matter
that we can also say
“they’re there”
to indicate
where a group
of them
are situated
but to say
“there they’re”
is definitely
verboten
therefore, now
I turn to German
to make sense
of my linguistic world

Without Bite

years back
unthinking
how fast
circumstances
can change
I wrote
a poem
if you want to
call it that
it was more
a jest
a meager barb
with very
little point
and in it
I wrote
how fortunate
the readers
of the poetry
super highway
website were
because
as poet of the month
for whatever month
of whatever year
that was
I had
only four
poetical assaults
on display
thanks to
the fact
that
I’d not had
one friend
or lover die
to fuel
my morbid muse
but fast forward
what’s close
to two decades
and I can only recall
fondly
back to when that was true
and wish
that toothless jape
hadn’t grown
at my expense
the long terrible fangs