THE OPPRESSIVE ONE

‘I find it oppressive  when you
don’t talk to me, I mean, 20
miles and you’ve barely said
a word to me, it’s uncomfortable’
she tells me, driving to work,
it’s just 07:30, my medication
hasn’t yet kicked in and
smoked just one joint and
drank one cup of tea and
talking bullshit small talk
isn’t my kick anyways but
at this hour it’s way beyond
my interest or energy, even
from the one closest to me
in this world:
‘What shall I talk about?’
I ask her:
‘I don’t know, something’
she replies:
‘Did you know that the
Ostrich is the only bird
that shits and pisses
separately’ I said:
‘Fuck-me!’ she screamed,
shaking her head and
welcoming the silence
that followed.

THE PUNCHES

I’ve thrown punches all my life,
at parents, schools and colleges,
employers, friends and lovers,
rules and regulations
which didn’t make for a good
soldier:
I’ve thrown punches at the sky,
into water and punched straight
through them,
causing no damage, no sign of
hurt, a shift of pattern upon
the water’s surface, a broken
rhythm but nothing more,
a natural reaction to an
incoming force that becomes
that surge without
resistance,
honest self-expression,
taking it’s shape
as it happens.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN SUBURBIA

The grass is like a dull brown corpse.

The mower’s spinning blade is the final insult.

Up and down the street, a father trains his son to drive.

I can recognize the learning curve.

The wheels flattening on asphalt.

Hubcaps glistening in the sun.

They’ve been doing that for as long

as some songs have stayed in my head.

There is purpose to this afternoon after all.

Going back and forth over the same landscape

is not as pointless as it as first seems.

Up from the west is the wind itself,

struggling to find something in my yard worth puffing at.

What can I say? There’s been a drought?

The truth is that people around here

have their own way of blowing stuff around.

It’s suburbia.

A kid is making the most of the time his father’s still around.

I am going over something that doesn’t need going over.

                     How’s it going, Ray.

                     Your boy looks ready for the Indy 500.

                     We could sure use some rain.

                     You know me. I hate being cooped up inside.

                     Oh that. Just some song I can’t stop humming.

                     Can’t even remember the name of it.

Not for us, the lights of galaxies.

We have our own bulbs to turn on.

Violet on the Periphery

the world

is worn

bust

blown out

vacant fires

flair softly

against

saturated

shades of

blue

 

Skin Suit Lies

a star lost

behind a cloud

too poor

to look cheap

hot brew

cold blood

a sunset

over the bridge

burning water

busted boots

stomping

the teeth

from a black hole’s

mouth

yellow and green

headlight eyes

trying to be friends

walking to church

they clean up nice

in skin suit lies

pulling down

stars

stickers

for their charts

time off

for good behavior

the cloud

sad

to lose its

only friend

to a heavy hand

belonging

to a heavy heart

with hot brew breath

strong as kerosene

everyone

roots for the

underdogs

the black holes

losing the fight

tired

of being lied to

it doesn’t matter

how many stars

are on your chart

what matters

is how hard

you fought

to earn them

 

 

Don’t Panic

wake up the ocean

walk on the clouds

smile

a crooked

smile

love the light that shines

above the brightest star

piercing the darkest

of hearts

killing the inner

demon

don’t panic

it will all

be over

soon

Loopy

Got back with an old girlfriend

the blonde

she came over to my place and

we wound-up making-out on the

bed, her

tits still big, one tit still bigger than the

other; she started to talk crazy,

a paranoid rap that scared me

and I got up, out of bed

no longer interested in sex

and asked her to leave

(told her get a therapist)

and she did leave:

the next day she called me five times

but I did not answer;

she lives alone in a house her ex-husband

left half-done while remodeling,

a real mess, no heat

because the furnace broken;

I gave her my space heater,

and this morning

it snowed

but the snow

did not stick.

 

 

Bat Man

No one wanted to be a dirty

Jap or

Kraut

except Dickie Heller who

wanted to be

Kraut

because he was German

and his uncle had been in the S.S.

(Dickie had a German Lugar replica

and a helmet he kept on the desk

in his bedroom)

the rest of us were

Americans

Army, Navy, Marine, Green Beret

we fought it out in the woods and

died a dozen times a night

but came alive

for the next fight,

only Stevie Critelli never died,

not even after shot

point-blank

“you missed” he’d say

and dance away

or

“I shot you first”

he pissed everyone off

and some started to plot

his real demise or

something close to it

and he must have got word

because

he stopped coming around,

stayed home at night

and watched Bat Man

on TV.

Dinosaurs Too

 

 

you used to download porn on LimeWire

using a dial up internet connection,

watch wrestling when the WWE was still the WWF,

use a Zenith VCR to record movies

off of your gigantic television set,

own a Walkman and after that a Discman;

there are kids out there who have forgotten more

about technology than you have ever known,

you get tired for no reason,

your hangovers are much worse now,

it takes you longer to piss,

and you have grey’s in your pubic hair;

you can’t get up without having a cup of coffee

or two or three,

sometimes your back hurts

and

according to WebMD

you’re completely fucked;

plus,

you’re old enough to be

a father —

to a teenager,

and one time a woman

at a bar replied

‘wow that’s old’

after you told her your age

but that’s ok;

cause one day

she’ll be a fucking

dinosaur

too.

 

AUTUMN MELODIES

Three Arts

TIME TRAVEL

BREAKFAST FOR THE SOUL OF THE DIRTY OLD MAN

 

I’m going to come clean now, it’s true

I am a dirty old man, it’s one of the reasons

I dig my job for the 16 hour minimum wage

Weeks I tend to do but this morning a new

Revelation appeared.  The prospect of a 7am

Start left me feeling nothing but cold and

Tired before I’d even begun but then she

Breezed in and I couldn’t believe my eyes

A stunning beauty wearing a revealing

Dazzling nightie with slippers under a coat

Leaving little to the imagination as I stood

Taking in that miraculous face but then my

Eyes turned to her shopping and couldn’t

Resist, the pertest most beautiful pair I’ve

Seen in a very long time and as she left

With me, for the first time ever meaning it,

Saying ‘come again soon…’ I almost did as

My loins erupted giving me the boner from

Hell, dreaming of getting in that nightie

As the next shopper approached my

Checkout he caught my eye and reciprocated

The twinkle as we’d both caught an eye.

“This job ain’t all bad” I hear myself say and

All he can say is “bleeding hell, I can’t

Believe that!”

 

DISEASED MINDS

 

The night turned dark in the shade

Of a Coen brothers movie,

Home alone on a Saturday night again

Waiting for sleep to take me away

Cos this has got to beat being out there

In the disease-riven heart of this city

By the sea.

 

I stalk the streets everyday looking,

Observing the lives people lead and

The madness it causes them, watching

It take hold even if for only a second.

But tonight I sit quietly studying my

Own form of insanity as outside the

Night goes loudly about its own

Examination.

you

 

you’re yappy

as a drooling

sack of dogs

and as happy

as a vietnam

bombing.

you’re trashy

as downtown

new orleans

pretentious

as banksy

unlikeable

as amy schumer

worn and round

as a linkin

park CD

and yet

you’re lovely as

a dumb bitch

could be.

the world is out there

the world is out there

but few live in it.

only those who tire

their families to the point

of no return will

ever see it.

you may find yourself

in this exclusive club

without even signing up.

you may find yourself

amongst a crowd, thinking:

“why, any one of

these strangers could save me,”

but they will

never dare.

the world is not fair.

fairness is a farce

constructed by the rich

and the weak minded,

so strap up your boots

and get rich

or weak

or don’t;

the world does not care.

the world’s horror

empathy’s a skill to kill

as quickly as

you can

watch folks’ heads fall

off their necks in

the fissures of

the net.

if you want no tears, no fear,

you first must become numb

some folk will cry, ‘insensitive!’

but some folk are fucking dumb.

(in order for your life to start

cut the cord from your heart

to the net and fall apart.)