Ross Vassilev

go ask Alice

lazy as a caterpillar blowing smoke
into the curtains
I see a sky full of third eyes
and "hope" is the thing that flies away
and lays a white shit on my shoulder—
while the patriots fight and die
in Afghanistan
I'm lying on a bed of dreams
growing shoots and vines into the walls
wondering what it's like
to be a starving yogi,eating
only a palmful of grain every day
till you're all skin and bones
and beautiful brilliant shining eyes
that see the true reality—
and while the bodies pile up
to feed the madman's itch
while they throw saints and Buddhas
into the prison-industrial complex
I say to the old bearded fuck
with the stupid hat
Fuck you, Uncle Sam
you're an old whore
going blind
in the rich man's broken sunlight.

idle hands

I hear
the seconds
from my watch
on the nightstand
as I lie in bed
nothing at all.
doing nothing
is what I do best.
high school cheerleaders
are good
at bending over
and I'm good
at doing nothing.
I talk
to the faces on the walls.
or I sit
by the window
and stare
out at the parking lot.
sometimes I go
for a walk
and give the finger
to complete strangers.
so if you see me
wandering the streets
lost and lonely
be a good soul
and offer me
a goddam ride
outta this place.

cherry blossoms

don't know what I'm doing here
as the clouds swim through blue sky

it's good to drift through life
whether you're a cloud
a whale
or a Bodhisattva

and you can ponder the meaning of nothingness
till your eyes devour the Hiroshima sunrise

it helps when there's nothing around
but screaming insanity
and angels falling from the sky
on broken wings

and times like these
there's really nothing left to say but

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