chalk lines of bodies in the schoolyard
 
i feel like an old whore
 
out of luck
out of time
 
out of any useful thoughts
needed for what this world
has become
 
broken rainbows
 
chalk lines of bodies
in the schoolyard
 
the first hit is for the pain
 
next is the chase for the
elusive dream that brings
relief
 
the poor are more likely
to die from attrition
 
yet it is easier to swallow
that we're all junkies
 
wastes of flesh
 
the excuse for the rich
to get away with never
paying taxes
 
we'll go dancing under
the bridge near the
great river
 
with any bit of life left
 
we'll slip into the cold
water of tomorrow and
never be heard from
again
------------------------------------------------------------------
three or four days later
 
i remember dreams
when i was younger
and i always had a
woman by my side
 
some tantalizing muse
that would whisper the
most evil shit in my ear
to make me laugh
 
and we would write
and paint and drink
until the sun came up
three or four days later
 
and every time i thought
i found that dream woman
something always got in
the way
 
be it life
 
be it my fragile ego
 
be it the inability to
ever be good enough
for something other
than my hand
 
the nights i drink myself
to sleep increase with
every passing year
 
eventually,
 
the clock will
run out

The Wire

Come on out of your shell,
Take a walk upon the wire,
Watch that you don’t fall,
Beware of the fire.

Look down at the abyss,
Fire down below,
Careful as you move along,
Take it nice and slow.

Fire down below you,
No way to ascend,
No way to know what is ahead,
When the wire has reached its end.

Don’t think about the abyss,
Pay no attention to the fire,
Dig each righteous step you take,
As you travel on the wire.

No way to go backward,
Back into your shell,
The wire is now your home,
Your shell has served you well.

But the wire might lead to heaven,
Or the wire might lead to hell,
But it’s your wire to travel,
Pity if you fell.

To Those I’ve Wounded
 
What I didn’t do
I should’ve done, 
and what I did do, 
I shouldn’t have,  
and now I can’t 
escape my own 
history, a stench 
like dead-flower
water in a vase.

The Many Depressions of Life


One of my grandmothers
had dementia toward the end.
A ten-year old end.
My other grandmother
who is still alive has schizophrenia.
Not good to have so much
mental illness in your family DNA.

I don’t bring that shit up on dates.

I went to meet the dementia one
because this time, 
she was way too close
to the end.

She didn’t recognize me at all,
nor my father and worse yet
she wasn’t herself anymore, either.
Everything that made her my grandmother 
was no longer there.

We could as well be two strangers
communicating through two different 
languages 
while suffering from different mental illnesses.

Five months before she was diagnosed
they’d flown her to the USA
for a very expensive eye laser therapy.
This old husk of a woman could see
as well as a cyborg.

“ What a waste” I had told the room 
after I’ve given up getting through to her 
“ such a waste of money just for her
  to turn Ike this now.”

My relatives has scolded my thinking.
My father had put both his hands
in his pants pockets and said:
As much as good timing can help
bad timing can harm.

They scolded him, too.
They didn’t understand 
that my fathers pants pockets
were once full of money and relief 
but were now empty.
My relatives hadn’t counted coins
on the palms of their hands
anxious that they’re adequate for
whatever sad purchase you might
need to make in decades.

I never saw that old lady again.
I got a picture some months later
of my father leaning over the open 
casket of his mother
and planting a kiss on her forehead.
She looked peaceful. Done with it all.
The sadness of my father’s face
baffled me. 

He always had a great disdain for his mother,
for her intellect or lack thereof 
and the fact that she never helped him once
in an essential way, or at least
that’s what he maintained. 

“Put the smartest man in the world
To live with the dumbest person of the world
and I guarantee you the dumb one will win.”
Addressed to his mother for when they lived together.

But family is family.
I guess.
There’s a biological factor
in the stubborn love
of a relative you would never 
befriend in your life.

That old lady was once
my grandmother
washed my baby butt
tought me how to take a dumb
in a Turkish toilet.
Kissed my tiny weenie when we were done washing
and always told me
that I’ll become a lover boy.
That I would see, some day.

What can you say?
Plenty of reasons to get depressed
while in the joy ride
no matter the joy— the fleeting joy.
It’s a game of turns.
In time, I’ll be leaning over my dead father 
thinking of all the time we wasted not talking
about art or women or anything at all
and I’ll wipe my tears over his forehead 
and soon enough
it’ll be my time to be weeped over
and who knows 
I might finally look peaceful then.

Pinch

You stretch, getting out of bed, and I’m as tightfisted as the trees with my love. I could cut you but that would hurt too much, so I smile at you instead, my gainful governor. See, I’ve given up so much territory already, given you my hopes for some kind of trip to the sky. But we can’t afford it, you say and shrug.

Here’s payment, I say, jaded but educated in what turns your body on. You don your protective suit, shy but exultant as I’m busy fumbling with your parts, making slow but tidy love. You enter my halls with enough force for four as the naked nymphs of the past bathe in a fountain beside where the poets educate and the fairies are lying, waiting for various forms of approval from the romantic Gods.

My main interest is to toy with you, but don’t be concerned, I’m deranged. I want to rule you and obey you and maybe that’s why I’m upset, filled with worry for the daily. It’s a great morning though and I promise I won’t be so aloof and overwrought. I don’t tell you these things I’m thinking for fear of your reaction. You’ll just have to split my legs and wait for the result. 

Author Bio
 
I could advertise the network of scars I bear 
from a neurotic upbringing, or say I live mostly 
 
in my head, or even joke that I am a noted writer 
of blurbs for other people’s poetry books, and 
 
I could do it, just as required by your submission 
guidelines, in “50 words or less,” but it wouldn’t 
 
be the whole truth, more like the article of clothing
given to a search dog to learn the scent of a person 
 
who has gone missing.

What the Billboards Say
 
They say, NO DREAMING.
It’s true the world has fallen
through the looking glass,
but no dreams?
Just last night
I dreamed about a truck, a dog,
and a field of poppies
growing near my house.
Tonight, they’ve brought search lights
shining them into my windows
as if to say, Hand them over.
What will they do with my dreams
of armored trucks, brave dogs,
and a field full of soldiers
fighting to save us?
Now they’ve finished with our land,
they’re searching deep into the heavens.
Now it’s up to the stars,
so far failing to shoot them down.
 

Good Book

this book makes me uncomfortable
with each page crackling
like whips at each turn
there’s too much rape and slavery
along with a few pinches of incest
the slaveowner has no redemptive quality
 there’s no Morgan Freeman to narrate
and soothe me. there’s no real conclusion
just more death and rape
let’s read romance
yeah, the hunk is a misogynistic asshole
with ripped shirts, disguising commandments as chocolate tones
and he always appears out of nowhere
but the sex is so good and consensual
and they live happily ever after
now that’s a book

Guillotine
 
After reading the work; upon finishing the last of the editing
A certain feeling, a feeling of despair
A feeling of inadequacy,
A feeling of impotence,
Makes its way into the room.
A realization that has taken 250 plus poems to come to:
I have written nothing
Notebook upon notebook of words ill conceived
The artistic endeavor prematurely executed
Now witness the art execute the artist.



Seashells?

I’ve invested stocks in Taco Bell
I am not a financial expert of any kind, but after watching 
Demolition Man, I figure Hollywood must know something, right?
Taco bell, the future of fine dining… my fortune is secured like the criminals of the future
Now, the real mystery, how do you use the seashells?



Royal Guard

Maria,
Here I am 
a janitor now,
A raw thespian in the custodial arts
But I can’t help but think,
Do you still find me attractive?
Me and my mop and bucket, 
Do I still give you butterflies coming home smelling like
Cleaning solution?
Maria, I have weekends off now just like you.
On Saturday mornings we can make love in the early morning
With the door open and sleep on into the afternoon
Plan what we will make to eat in evening
And nestle ourselves in front of the TV
Maria, I hope you aren’t embarrassed
But I am a janitor now,
A royal guard of the latrine
Mighty with the mop and imperial with the broom
Now, watch this figure eight technique. 

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
tick
from my watch
on the nightstand
as I lie in bed
doing
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.
sometimes
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
OM.