Creep
Like I
can’t write but I
can hold this baggie with the pinkies
and the greenies
hold it like the bread of Christ
rub the smooth plastic
with my fingers
to feel the chalky grit
and pop em as I need em

envelope myself into
a white fuzzy
dim lit
dim wit
dense and loose
burdened with the fear
or the lack there of — if
baggie goes bye-bye
my heart stops

alone in my head
all the ghosts float back in
through the holes of my eyes
left open from shock waves
never fully closed since birth
lazy eye
fuck eye
touch my pocket – we are good
I feel the baggie
lips quiver
sigh of relief

endless need
for relief

Nocturne No. 15

When my son learned about this book, he wrote his own.
It’s titled “Nocturnal Animals.” In big and bold brown marker,
the “Contents” begin with “How do You live in the Dark?”

Honky-Tonk

Back in the proverbial ‘one horse town’,
I get stir crazy sittin’ in the house.
A man needs stimulation for the brain
Or, at least, some peter risin’ woman play.
Went to the honky-tonk of my runnin’ days.
Still pretty much the same smell of spilt beer.
The music’s still old-time country and loud.
Nobody really listens. We know all the songs.
Music’s nothin’ but a back drop for hollerin’
And feedin’ lines to the local ladies who are
More than capable of cold cockin’ ya
With a beer bottle or bootin’ groin on a whim.
Don’t see nobody I used to hang with.
Most of them Jimmy Jo’s and Billy Bob’s
Done got real jobs and settled down.
Might as well say the rest, including me,
Just ended up cowboys in the sunset.

July 4th, 2020, Itasca, Illinois (V3)
(Hamilton Lakes)

Stone caved dreams for men
past and gone, freedom fighters
blow past wind and storms.
Patriotism scared, etched in the face of cave walls.
There are no cemeteries here for the old,
vacancies for the new.
Americans incubate chunks
of patriotism over the few centuries,
a calling into the wild, a yell forked stab me.
Today happiness is a holiday.
Rest in peace warriors, freedom fighters,
those simply made a mistake.
I gaze out my window to Hamilton Lakes
half-drunk with sparkling wine,
seeing lightning strike ends,
sparklers, buckets full of fire.
Light up than dark sky, firecrackers.
Filmmakers, old rock players, fume-filled skies,
the butt of dragonflies.
Patriotism shakes, rocks, jerks
across my eye’s freedom locked
in chains, stone-carved dreams.

the bible said populate the earth

society breaking at the seams
every dumb fuck thinks their
opinion matters

imagine if they voted, imagine if
they understood what the powers
that be are actually doing to them

but effort doesn’t grow on that
money tree they hope they just
planted in their backyard

the bible said populate the
earth, i declined

i feel better about that every
day that passes

my luck, my kids would have
started this pandemic and
expected me to be proud

and sadly, that little fucker inside
of me that loves chaos would have

been beaming

other than a story no one wants to hear

whispers turn into wishes as the
moon fades into the dawn

i’m too old to yearn

too old to feel like anything good
is coming this way

misery has a way of leaving scars
on the body that never amount to
anything other than a story no one
wants to hear

it’s a corner seat in a bar

a bottle of rum and an old soul
watching a demon dressed in
red across the floor

each sip reminds you, you once thought

you only needed a chance

the last horizon of sin

embrace the pain
like a lost memory

an old song that
a lover took you
to the edge of the
world with

a match

a spoon

the endless depth
of the last horizon
of sin

the last dirty needle

you’ll ever need

CORONAVIRUS IS CALLED EUTHANASIUS

They say that Euthanasius, to whom people calls Coronavirus, came from China, after gorging on a bat as a first course; second: Pekingese dog, and as a dessert: grasshoppers and crickets, having a vast field in all the Continents where to spread out and peck at humans, especially to old age nursing homes or geriatrics, and battered by other type diseases, from ears to the tail.
Apparently, everything was at their disposal: their physique and their morale that dragged on the ground, or in wheelchairs, although, some, presented an abundance of straw ideas when they, the old women, put them in a state of overflowing scholarship peneal, or ass, patenting the beautiful qualities, the honors and the glories of the Donkeys so human.
Recalling, now, the presence of a pretty mine’s sister, Guapalupe, in the nursing home of Villaviciosa de Odón, in Madrid, I could only see her limited to her fallen mouth, drooling, screaming, noisy pain, a crash, the infirmary being very small where it could be expanded; being this spectacle a consideration that would have confused any doctor or health worker in his right mind.
Here was letting do, letting go, reflecting that some life is better than nothing, without wanting to deprive the elderly of the new diseases they deserve; until Coronavirus, Euthanasius, started the global world trip, back from Marco Polo’s in East Asia.
Anyway, Guapalupe died at the Rey Juan Carlos de Móstoles’ Hospital, before Eutanasius came to visit her; and, as the female doctor who signed her death told us: “Guapalupe died with a lot of shit.”
To the disappointment of men, who believe they are superior beings, Euthanasius, or Coronavirus, has now arrived, with the joy of having been able to dedicate to the good Death, called Euthanasia, more than eight hundred verses in any Nation or Continent, like a Jorge Manrique in the universality of his verses in his “Coplas a la Muerte”, Couplets to Death, both indicating to us that Life is nothing more than a great Shit punctured on a stick, without forgiving expenses or fatigue, of course, like any other plague, go.
Let us remember the famous poet from Palencia:
Remember the sleeping soul
Feed the brain and wake up
Watching
How life is spent
How death is coming
So quiet ”.
-And, I say- not so quiet ¡

the canning town kid

a kerosene lantern hung on the porch

a plaid western shirt with a tear

old wrangler jeans, denim not cord

dos equis or sin city beer

a brown leather belt with a buckle so fine

new shined up boots on my feet

willie nelson singing yesterday’s wine

a truck that’s both rusty and beat

take me away across to the rockies

let me spend time on the plains

don’t label me as an east london cockney

my look should say ‘home on the range’

it’s the land of the brave, the home of the free

where custer was once called a hero

just bury my heart down at old wounded knee

take my ashes to spread at ground zero

when I’m away baby write me a line

with sentiment kisses and sweetness

you know that I’m yours and you’re always mine

but cowboys sure are my weakness

Last Night
by Daniel S. Irwin

Last night,
I wrote the greatest
Poem ever written.
Last night,
I suddenly woke with it
Clear in my head.
Last night,
I was inspired
By this voluptuous Venus
In my bed.
This morning,
Venus seems more
A homely beast.
This morning,
My poem reads
Like crap.
By noon,
It’s deleted
And Venus is gone.
Tonight,
Like a fool,
I’ll probably
Do it all again.

Heaven on Earth
by Daniel S. Irwin

I was a nineteen year old
With 200 bucks in my pocket
And a dick so hard
The Viagra people would love
To use it in a misleading advertisement.
And there in Amsterdam,
Heaven on Earth.
The windows along the canals
Were filled with luscious women
In greater variety than
Forrest’s mama’s box of chocolates.
Up all night, the sampling
Was exquisitely extensive.
A lot of guys brag that they’ve
Never ‘paid for it’ in their life.
That’s fine, but as it saw it,
I wasn’t paying for pussy,
I was hiring a professional.

abuse

the sun branches out

its rays of light towards your throat

to burn away the traces of hope

left in you,

and the weeping moon

watches as you plunge the knife

into your chest

while the sun, still there,

watches over her back

to make sure she knows

who is the one

in charge.

Community Convalescence

Those abrasions on her cheeks

were said to be the result of being

fucked from behind and rammed

into the rough shag fibers en vogue

in 1978 by her father’s friends

in her own home on a school-year

weekend so full but empty

with the mother gone

through the decade’s attachment to divorce

and no mention of the mustachioed

father—looking like the era’s TV cops—

but Facebook heals all wounds

even to the face, all the way to the depths,

so she smiles with a daughter

as a “friend suggestion”

among the hundred possible pix

and opportunities to post

every mild success and hope for a toast

by the virtual audience

for whom deep-napped carpets

and their burns have cooled to ice

with a chuckle at a style so passé.