Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

A rough life on four legs

Posted: March 31, 2014 in Uncategorized

On the block over from the pioneer square
just opposite the meyer and franks sit
the gutter punks
and their dogs.

It’s the dogs that get me. I know I should
feel bad for the kids
but that’s not why I give them a few bucks.

They sit in the shade obediently. The lease
is slack. Only a few feet away are the
food carts.

Autumn is halfway through. And
MEAT AND RICE AND BEANS NOT HERE OVER THERE

Their bellies are gone and their
tongues are tired

MEAT AND RICE AND BEANS NOT HERE OVER THERE

Some guy gives you a brochure
about the GOOD NEWS
and keeps walking.

They sit there as if they know all
about it
but how could they with all that
MEAT AND RICE AND BEANS NOT HERE OVER THERE

I don’t see jesus
descending from the heavens
with a can
of ALPO

all

I see are the nicotine stained
fingers of children
holding tight to
a leash

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The sensitive poet

Posted: December 17, 2013 in Uncategorized

the sensitive poet takes narcotics
the sensitive poet hides behind abstraction
the sensitive poet becomes more literary when he drinks
the sensitive poet sells himself
the sensitive poet is offended when you don’t recognize his genius
the sensitive poet dreams of immortalizing himself through his verse
the sensitive poet is mindful of his purse
the sensitive poet is getting worse and worse
the sensitive poet reads all the other sensitive poets
the sensitive poet thinks he’s better than you
the sensitive poet steps on the tits of his muse
the sensitive poet is useless
the sensitive poet can’t even change a fuse
the sensitive poet is a sheep in wolf’s clothing
the sensitive poet likes your work because he wants you to like his
the sensitive poet is self-aggrandizing yet self-loathing
the sensitive poet is all that we are not
the sensitive poet is bilge, bile and rot
the sensitive poet hangs out in cafés
the sensitive poet hangs his MFA over his bookshelf
the sensitive poet makes sure he’s looking pretty
the sensitive poet always says something witty
the sensitive poet is always coifing and preening
but the sensitive poet never says anything worth believing
because all the sensitive poet really wants is a lay
and for some reason the sensitive poet gets away with it

Originally posted in Citizens for Decent Literature on March 17, 2013

A poem for D.H.

Posted: December 5, 2013 in Uncategorized

every weeknight during the summer
of 97 at about a quarter
after midnight me and D.H.
would catch the 17

we were both covered in soot and factory dirt
but me worse than him

(he had this way of keeping himself clean)

and it took longer to get home on friday nights
but at least we had all those pretty women to look at
and D.H., he looked harder than I did

and he wanted to get a car
a nice one
and he was going to join the marines
and become a navy seal

and when he’d get out
he’d have a car
a house
retired at 40
and a harem
and I wouldn’t
have shit

that is, of course,
if he hadn’t already
taken over a small
country by then

in that case
he’d give me a call
and offer me
the position
of personal butler

poor D.H.
was really a sad guy

his mom was
murdered
by the
green river killer

his father
probably was
the green river killer

he got kicked around
from foster home
to foster home

and the first time
I met him
he was trying to sell me
fake acid

and the last time
I saw him
he looked pretty strung
out after being
kicked out of
the marines

but, D.H., if you’re
still around
you’re about as close
to 40 as I am

and I just want to say
that if I had a car, a house and
a harem, I’d gladly
hand it over
to you

but the small country
is of course another matter
because let’s face it:
you’re fucking insane

Originally posted on Citizens for Decent Literature on March 17, 2013.

Who is that… digging at my grave? The wife?
She could never get enough of me.
Poor thing. Life will never be the same
for her…

No, she’s remarried. In fact she’s happier with
her new husband than she ever was with you.

Well someone’s up there. Could it be
my daughter… my only reason for living?
The only one I’m sad to never see again….

No, she’s getting along fine. As a matter of fact,
she was feeling pretty sad for a while.
She didn’t like
her new daddy at first, but she’s coming
around.

Mom? Don’t tell me it’s you…
haven’t you done enough?

I am not your mother. She is hundreds
and hundreds of miles away.

Then perhaps… it’s one of my friends?

Who are you kidding?
You have no friends.

Oh yah… now that I think about it…
you’re right… I guess that’s sad, isn’t it?
Then it must be an enemy….

Nope. You’re enemies are too distracted
by their successes in both love and money.

Then who the hell is it?

We have never met.

What are you… a grave robber?

Not exactly.

A pervert? As if I cared.
Do your worst.

You wish.

Then what the fuck
do you want?

Actually I’m with a collection agency.
I’m here to inform you that you still owe
a good 50k in student loans, your house
and car are no where near being paid off
and with your unpaid credit card bills
you owe yet another $20,000.

So what? I’m dead.

Yah. About that. I’m afraid Mr. Cloyd
that we’ll have to revoke your death
until your debts have been
paid in full.

But I have no money.

That’s ok, you can work it off.

How long will
That take?

Hmm. Let’s see… add it all up
plus 24% interest…
divided by minimum wage—
uh holy shit.

‘Uh holy shit’? What
does that mean?

It means that you
won’t be allowed to die
for
a long, long while dead man.

you know I don’t care
what hallmark and disney say;
it ain’t flowery…

it’s just one slab of
shit built beside another
slab of shit and then

when there’s no more room
they just start stacking new shit
on top of old shit

and the new shit has
even less soul than the old
but the stench remains…

not as gamey as
it used to be but a bit
stale and rancid, so

don’t let the old farts
fool you—it’s shit, shit, shit and
more shit all the way

down down down down down
down down down but then again,
mayby not always.

Back when I used
to work
at the hardware store I’d make
up my own gods
and name them after
power tools

everyone around me
was so miserable
but not me

j’étais heureux
(that means ‘I was happy’
in french)

because

while chucking around 80 pound bags
of concrete I dedicated
a good deal of
thought
into the myth of Dremel…

Dremel was
half god/half goat

the result of his father—
the mighty BlackanDecker—
having his way
with a young innocent virgin goat
named Dan

Dremel, therefore, became
the god of goats
and bestiality…

it is prophesied that he shall
die on a gigantic
pumpkin
for our
orgasms

naturally I told
everyone
the good news
and that NOW
they didn’t have
to be
SO FUCKIN’
sad

I’m starting to sketch again. Came up with this. Hope people like it. I do.