August Arriving

I only have words
To play with.
Others have flowers
Or gold, or time
To do whatever
They want. 

My hedges need shaving,
And my beard can wait.
Tomorrow is a day,
Or simply another day.
But words cannot wait—
Outcome determines my thinking.

Wear The Mess That You Are


Wear the mess that you are.
Consider it, and you, a work of art.

Picasso, Kandinsky, Pollock, Rothko
would respect that which you are.

Be it. That terrible you.
As gorgeous and vile

as any queen or king
that chopped off a head

or burned down a city.

nowhere to go


... nowhere to go. And I’m a breath away
from total exhaustion. Dead lights
of another dead evening spread silence
through the ice-bound streets,
and something moves, muted by the snow,
moves toward me, carrying in its beastly arms
another catastrophe, another shadow
of my reluctant self,
reminding me that I have …

数星星的女孩
夜空又划过一颗星，
窗边的女孩，
在数星星，
有星星的夜晚总是美的，
星星像钻石，
像未来那个梦中情人对自己的誓言，
直到遇到他，
是100颗星星终于缀满了天河，
他是梦中的白马王子，
为她单膝下跪，
可那只是星星们对女孩的想象，
女孩的眼里只有那个在生活里的勇者，
那个喝酒喝得烂醉还有点脾气的男人。


The Girl Counting Stars

Another star streaks across the night sky.
By the window stands a girl,
counting the stars one by one.
Nights dotted with stars are always beautiful.
Stars shine like diamonds,
like vows spoken by a dream lover yet to come.
Then she meets him,
and a hundred stars drape fully across the Milky Way.
He is the white prince of her childhood fantasies,
kneeling on one knee just for her.
Yet all of this is merely the stars’ fancy for the girl.
All she sees is a brave soul living among the mundane world—
a man who gets dead drunk and carries a temper all the same.

January 3rd, 2023- Drunk Again
Just watching ice melting
Just drunk to live
I'm watching her– smiling
What even is this?

We’re all here
And so empty
Filling up on whiskey
Tonight it hurts drinking
Tonight I just miss me

The whiskey won't go down
Quite as smooth as I’d hoped
And now,
Even right now
To drink is to cope

The whiskey just makes
My head hurt like fire
And it doesn't change
The fact that we’re liars

It hurts, and it hurts
And the weather almost helps
As I pour Jack in the rain
And try to fix myself

The kisses are empty
The heartache is full
And nothing anymore
Means anything at all

THE CHEERY LOOKIN DUDE AT THE GAS STATION 

you got wife…
apartment…
smoke…

he was saying
as I sat at 
the picnic table
looking forlorn
and even in
broken english
I could realize
how 
ungrateful a bastard
I was


BIG

I’m big now
I keep forgetting

catch a glance of my reflection
good Lord!
what am I doing in Dairy Queen?

women just look away
it’s depressing

who cares I think
and I eat like a thirteen year old

but there’s no metabolism anymore
I’m too damn big-

sitting here having a fit
cause some of my Reese’s chunks
fell off my sundae

BEST-LAID PLANS


Having lunch with my mom at the Riverdale Diner, NYC,
I wore my Agnostic Front T-shirt, red braces, and boots.
In time, American skinheads adopted their own style
different from Brits. Lots of tattooed muscles.
Just in time for the ‘80s skinhead/bonehead schism.

At the time, I was 16. A teenage blond girl about my age
approached me at the counter. She wanted me to take
her to a CBGBs Hardcore Matinee. Girl needed someone
to escort her through the testosterone maze.

But I was moving to San Diego in a few days! Too bad,
so sad. My future wife and I parted before I could grow
my hair long, do beer bong hits in college, get married
and have kids, become a well-intentioned, middle class
member of the community. Wonder where she is now?

Yeah, that’s the worst thing that ever happened to me.
As I sit here and type and wait for my Deluxe Quarter
Pounder to be delivered. Oh well, at least I don’t have
to worry about A.A. sponsors anymore. I took a different
route to recovery. I’ll smoke a Rocky Patel on the patio
later. Raise a Coke Zero to the one who got away!

Cruel Truth

Still in his usual drunken state,
Marvin realized he had forgotten
To pick up the Hello Kitty cup for
His wife's birthday.  So, inventive,
He tried the next best thing.
He took a plain coffee cup from
The cupboard and with a marker
Wrote on it the best he could.
It didn't quite get the reaction
That he'd hoped for.  Somehow,
Howdy Bitch didn't quite make it
And got his drunken ass kicked 
Out the house.  It's a cruel truth
That you can't please everyone.
Also a cruel truth that his own dog
Won't even share the old blanket
In the dog house on a cold night.

four voices at armageddon

coyote breaths are in

the sewers – scrambled

                        from plains

                        of burning kisses,

                        reticent

and

hairy. the

dress comes down

           her

legs as far as the sky and

                                      the

sky has mastered

animal sounds and made

                                   scorpions dance

to keep from sleeping

                        in the sand:

                        to keep their

venom ready

as a fire hose: to

float

        on the egg masses of frogs

        who’ve hopped away

after

clutching together for days.

 

i asked

the waitress about boiling leather shoes

when trees

           are stripped of color and

                                                 too

                                                 rooted to fly. i

asked

her about spinning toys that

                                   keep no one happy

and lead soldiers

                that warp and poison

                small minds but,

she patted my hand

and crawled away.

 

“goddamnit.

the killing is so perfunctory it’s

impossible

not to wet the bed. turn on

                                    the goddamn tv.

mute the sounds in the kitchen

and

       i’ll eat

like a hurricane.

dogs are

tasting

            better

            every

            day

without much cooking.

and the

        trees

sag leafless

in the wettest sun.

save some of that

cement for your house.

                              pile it.

and goddamnit, don’t

talk.”

 

minutes are stagnant

like stained glass

though they seem to mean

so much that dust

collected in the corner

is simply glue that won’t

brake movement anymore:

a religion without a story:

a crystal ball turned to

salt on a bird’s tail. 

GREED SONG


Greed pushes me down the street, 
whispering its litany of cheap needs in my ear. 

But what am I hoping for here in this life
when I already have so much? 

I address the trees, but they refuse to answer, 
not knowing enough about dreams to even comment. 

Even the pigeons and squirrels are silent, 
assessing me as they do from the branches above.