it took me 12 years

to figure out
that the prescriptions
my doctor was giving me
were poisoning me.

I stopped taking them
without telling her.

I guess 12 years is nothing
in a universe almost
30 billion years old.

nevertheless,
it’s yet another crow
on the horizon

another little thing
pushing me ever closer
to the edge

LIGHTS

i am god
i mean i’m not
gonna go and start
a cult or nothing but
i am god and so are you
we’re all fucking miracles
we’re all made of stars
we are the universe
we are aglow
born from
infinite
light

now

time

to start acting like it.
_____

THE WHYS & HOWS OF IT

Why sunscreen smells like summer vacation.

How a smile can change a life.

Why your children are the most important people in the world.

How I spend half my day petting my dog telling her how pretty she is and consider it time well spent.

Why when hungover french fries taste like heaven.

How when you hear a favorite song time travel is possible and instantaneous.

Why endings are intimidating.

How many ways to live a life.

Now is how and you are why

Misery

How pathetic am I?
I'll tell you.
I'd get so lonely,
so depressed reading
all those deadly lady poets,
you know the ones:
Sylvia, Sexton, that crew.
I'd be sitting on the couch
with one of Anne's books,
more than likely the fairy
tale one, or the awful rowing
thing, whatever, and I'd get
so blocked I couldn't even
write my own suicide note.
I'd decided to end it all
the way Anne did: in the garage,
with the car on and a shaker full
of bone-dry martinis; my own
little Doesn't Have a Clue game.
So don't I try it, and doesn't
the car run out of gas.
I pass out all right but don't I
wake up with a killer hangover,
one so bad that if I could have
dragged my sorry ass back inside
the house, I would have fallen on
a carving knife just to put myself
out of that misery.
No such luck.
What I get instead is this bunch of
misguided Angels of Mercy,
holding my hand and directing me toward
a righteous path to recovery.
Let me tell you, that scene is
a hell of a lot worse than dying
thoroughly liquored in the garage.

Grovetide


Little did I know how it could go
Although I should have known
How it would grow when planted.
I planted a weed, tree weed, that would
Wash up everywhere. There appears
No way to shore up the onslaught.
At root, the problem is roots.
The trees will send out runners
Sprouting from the earth to attack
Me like alien clones invading my space.
Suckers to the assault! Offspring of
Aspen incest run and shoot
Metastasizing, the lawn long-gone.
Mowing incites, it seems, a reflex
To procreate, spurring roots, shoots,
And leaves until the only thing left
To do is apply herbicide, chemotherapy—
Kill the root, kill the earth. Or perhaps
I might burn them three ways to
Wednesday. It has been said that
The largest living organism is an aspen
Grove somewhere in the Rockies. A single
Tree that has propagated to a hundred
Something acres. So now I know what I did
Not know those years ago. From a tree
A forest will grow. Yes, in the fall I am
Rich when the aspen turn to gold,
Until winter wind blows hard and cold
Sharing my wealth with neighbors
Then I am again poor me left with roots
Dormant, waiting to spring to run
And shoot at the sucker who planted them.
When the world ends, I expect that then
An aspen will shade the last cockroach.    

Perhaps I'm Stupid


Perhaps I really am

stupid, but it seems

obvious to me.

We are all stuck on

a rock, hurtling through

space.

Wouldn't it make more

sense to try to look after

each other ?

The animals, and the Earth, too.

Instead of trying to destroy
everything we find ?

This is the only chance

we will get.

How fucking dumb are we ?

I Remember Kneeling 


I've just remembered
a really fucking crazy, and funny
thing that happened
back in the day.
Back when I was a proper junkie.

My mate was homeless,
and as I'd known him for 
most of my life,
I felt for him.

So, Nick, and I went
to my mum's house.
I reckoned she'd cough up
enough for us to score.
For perhaps the first time,
she was stern and unbending.

Unfortunately,
I remember kneeling
in front of her in the kitchen.
Begging.

Please, Mum.
I'm in really bad pain.

Have a couple of
paracetamol, and
get in bed.

That was her response,
I couldn't believe it.

The next morning,
after a pain-filled,
sleepless night,
my mum said she'd
take us both to the
local doctors to make
appointments to get help.

It was also the day
that my monthly supply
of sleeping pills was 
dispensed.

I begged my mum for 
money that morning, 
but still nothing was 
happening.

I got 28 sleepers , and Nicky,
and I ate them between us
in seconds.
Anything to stop the pain.

A couple of hours later,
another mate turned up, 
looking to score.
We were fucking thrilled.

But, by then the pills.
had really kicked in.
We made it to the nearest
phone box.

This was years pre-mobile.

I was so out of it
on downers, and being on 
the second day of a really
bad withdrawal .

I couldn't remember a
single phone number, 
these were people we called
several times a day, every day.

But 14 sleeping pills
are bound to take effect.

Also neither of my friends 
were any help.

Anyway, me, and Nicky
went back to my house
to find where I had written
the numbers down.
We couldn't even walk.

We stumbled, and fell
down the street.

As soon as my poor mum
laid eyes upon us, 
she locked us in.

" You pair are in
no fit state to go out. "

She was right.

We lay there, 
going through real 
bad withdrawals, 
unable to move, 
but at least 
half asleep.

It's these things that cement a friendship. 

Thank You For Your Service

So the VA gives this guy
100% disability rating as
A disabled war vet with
Post traumatic syndrome.
Not surprising he got that
In a hot war where some
Buddies were blown to bits,
Others were found hands tied,
Throats slit with severed dicks
Stuffed in their mouths.
This is the stuff of nightmares
And the root of screaming
In the night, waking in a sweat.
Kinda messes with the head.
Well justified granting 100%
For military service in Hell.
But then, years later, it gets
Chopped back down to 90%. 
90%?  He hasn't changed, still
Lives in a mental, emotional
State.  But, they figure that his
PTS couldn't be all that bad 
Considering that he hasn't 
Killed himself yet.

Advice to a Budding Literary Critic:
Start with Edgar Allen Poe.
End with Edgar Allen Poe.
Hire a detective to track down your real father.
Once your adult teeth have set in, floss first and then brush.
Lick a speeding train.
Survive crossing the Gobi on foot.
Fuck, then extort, James Woods, Michiko Kakutani, or Zadie Smith.
Alternatively, necromance Charles Baudelaire.
Forget angels don’t visit graveyards.
Frequent them anyways.
Recall everything is permitted because nothing endures.
Start with us.
End with us.



minutes, times, hours:
if a poem fails
no one is squashed
no one goes bankrupt
no dies of syphilis or cancer
no milk curdles

it's worse—
time
is wasted

on top


life

will constantly

pull at the seams

trying to

break you

and it does

some.

every time

you feel

a tear

you have to

sew it

back together

by replenishing

your soul.

make

the opposition

quiver.

write a poem.

read a book.

dance

and make love.

snort a line

of the sun.

burst thru

the fire

like a

bowling ball.

jump on

the opposition

like a trampoline

and swing

from the stars

like monkey bars

to inform life

that you

are on top.

give life

a swift kick

in the balls

and laugh 

at it

keeled over.

Period cramps. 

 
she wakes up at 1am 
flipping like a dolphin 
exiting the white  
of a bay. doubled  
over, creasing; a book 
bought second-hand, 
and screaming so loudly 
she rattles dead flies  
from the windowsill. 

I snooze over sideways 
in my wine-tired slumber 
and quietly mumble 
"you awake? 
are you ok?" 

endless poems about regret

 
waiting for the snow

all the threats from my dead relatives

from what i remember, the doctor
told me i would be dead by now

i'm sure he got into just for the money

i often dream of kissing you and
then never seeing you again

endless poems about regret
and what could have been

instead, i'm facing the likely
possibility of never kissing
you at all

those poems hit a little fucking harder

find the rare moment to share a laugh
tucked away between the murders
and endless tragedies on the news

how does one find a romance
in the middle of hell

not afraid to be alone,
just hate being lonely

the scotch punches a little harder
on these nights

like the woman of your dreams
texting you to fuck off instead
of thinking that you deserved
to hear it from her lovely voice
----------------------------------------------------
thirty years younger

 
she had the feel
of an old jazz club

cigarette smoke
hanging in the air

everyone wearing
sunglasses

i'd playfully slide
my hand up her leg
and she would blush
open just enough
to tease me

a saxophone would
cut through the tension
like a machine gun

we'll go home that night
and make love like we
were thirty years younger

bite my lip just hard enough
to let me know i'm alive
and she loves me

these are the nights i want
to think of on a front porch
in the rain

slipping a little whiskey
in the coffee

watching a cat chase
a butterfly
------------------------------------------------
for nickels and pennies

 
sometimes in my mind
i'm still that teenager
hanging out downtown

listening to frank play
the saxophone for nickels
and pennies

i'd go buy him a sandwich
so he would actually get
something to eat that didn't
come from a brown bag

if my memory is correct
frank drank himself to death
years after we first met

he's the one that would
tell me stories about coltrane,
charlie parker

how he once did cocaine
with miles davis

he would read the poems
i would write, tell me i was
getting better

give me a few sips
when i would get
published

i still hear that saxophone
when it gets quiet at night

a much simpler time

all the demons still
to come