Fuck Johnny Cash

 
I’ve been everywhere,
he boasts.

Big fucking deal.

I’ve been everywhere
and everyone, man . . .

Donnie T., Toledo, OH
Larry E., St. Louis, MO
Winston F., Andersen, IN
Samuel K., Washington, DC
Fred J., Miami, FL
Sylvester S., New York, NY
Alfred N., Spokane, WA

Hell, I was even a woman,
one Jana W., Tyler, TX

And this—well, this could
be your life, my friend.

If you stop submitting poems
to The New Yorker
and start sending dirty letters
to Wild MILFS.


 

 
Watersports

 
Working
as a bookseller
can be awfully disorienting.

Just the other day
a woman asked me if we had anything
on watersports.

It took a moment
to clear my head of filth
before showing her the books on
waterskiing, jet skiing, wakeboarding,
skimboarding, surfing . . . 

But no sooner
did she make a purchase
and exit the store
than the filth returned
with a vengeance.

Returned
in all its free flowing
golden glory.

 

 
 

The Pledge

In the dead of night,
We sit on a mound of dirt
Blitzed outta our minds.
Me, some 'shine in a jar.
Bill, a tab of something.
Willows sway in the
Half-moon moonlight.
We're honoring a pledge
That we'd made years ago.
It's the watch we swore to do.
And we're here till sunrise.
Ya never know when a buddy
Needs help crawling outta a hole.
Nothing happening, I guess he's
Planted real good, buried to last.
Sun up, we stagger on home
Brushing off the dust from
The cemetery.  Bye, Sam.  



Morning

Ah, morning at last.
The crisp cool air,
Dew and sunshine.
Birds all chirping.
Squirrels playing.
My trusty shotgun
Will take care of
All that and let me
Go back to sleep.
Don't nobody dare
Ring my doorbell.

The Last Chapter of Me

When I at last return to the soil
After the final gasp of my most mortal coil—
And am buried or burned with my remains
In a coffin or urn: let the world not be the same.
Let it be better. And may the mourners exclaim:
“This life was a luscious love letter!”
And as for the author, who was often absurd,
Grant him the grace of an ever Afterword.

 

requiem for a middleweight

slumped against
the bar room wall
her good eye
mostly swollen
shut lips puffed
out, shiners
new and old,
multi-colored
nostrils thick
with rolled
cotton. She drinks
shots of ten
high through
a straw, nine
rounds into
a championship
fight set to go
15, no matter
what the outcome
she was determined
to go all the way

Beholding the Game

I wake up to behold
Yet losing a game
Intensifies the desire to win.
I am like the first battle
Of winter
Against the warmth seeking
Love and flower-cracks
In the soul.
I wear an artistic coat
And give away
The lonely notes
Of stone hearted
Richness.
My soul is my sun
I am its bearer.
When the dew kissed your lips
I was the spring rain.
A flower blooms
In my soul,
I am a painting
That steals every busy glance
From the streets of luxury.
I am an art,
Life is priceless
Until death is our poem
Of loss.
Read a poem
At my grave. 

Heartfelt Offer 

 
The day they drag you across 
the room by your hair, lean  
you up slumped over on a chair  
and thrust a bayonet through  
your broken hand into the  
wooden table in front of you  
before then taking hat pins and 
slowly forcing them under your 
fingernails, one at a time over 
and over relentlessly, is what  
I wake to - every fucking day. 

This is the most basic of 
the tortures available 
and 
I’ve got plenty more  
nightmares you can  
borrow any time 
you want. 

  
---------------------------------------

Nightfalling 

 
She moaned, my face between her thighs.  
Outside, the sun grew dark, children left their  
playgrounds to go inside to bed, calico cats prowled 
alleyways, priests thought briefly of abusing the weak,  
drinks were drowned in bars and parlors, wagers were  
placed, nightmare screams were had, a tiny girl cried  
out for her mother, police cars roamed and pounced,  
hookers stood forlorn, junkies sold themselves for just  
one fix, televisions sputtered, kittens jumped the dog,  
old flames wondered and regretted without ceasing,  
smart phones begat Terminators, laughter brought  
peace to distant regions, honeybees cast about for  
stems, spouses huddled together in their unmade  
beds, sounds emerged, of smoldering liquid panting  
grunt sighs in delighted silence, unrestrained.  
She moaned, my face between her thighs. 

 

 

The End of My Jazz Era

 
In high school 
I would be alone 

in our dark garage 
at night 

practicing
my saxophone

when I’d notice 
police sirens.

Neighbors didn’t 
want to hear 

my honking scales 
and arpeggios

any more than 
my family did.

It’s a miracle 
I stayed off 

drugs and out 
of jail somehow. 

Worst of all,
I might’ve been 

famous by now.

of tomorrow and forever


the bitter cold of
pending death

the uncertainty of
what is to come

that fine fucking
line of tomorrow
and forever

broken souls know
only the pain

not everyone gets
to be loved

to be cherished

to be blessed

to be lifted up on high
and experience the joys
of what the other side
gets to call life

been over forty years
since your grandmother
told you to go pick the
switch you were going
to be beaten with

they never knew a
young child knew
the chaos of a butchers
knife and being pushed
to the absolute end

fine lines indeed

Stooping for Love

I forgot how
Love is pronounced
And now a lake
Has found its way
To drown me.
I look up to the world
And steal a shawl.
I lift
A shy cup
Of forgiveness
And remember that
One cannot
Seek forgiveness
Until it is willed.
Have I reached
Somewhere high above
To the world of love
Or has the world
Stooped for love?