Good For Nothing 

I’ve taken enough shit from you today. Listening all morning to you verbally attack me with the same agonizing torment of a Monday morning hangover. You’re fucking lucky I’m heavily sedated and not paying close attention to almost anything you say, otherwise I might take offense to your condescending soliloquy of derogatory comments concerning my character. It always seems to be complaints about something I didn’t do, rather than what I might have done. These rants of unsubstantiated grievances only lend proof of your self-righteous demeanor. You haven’t told me anything I haven’t heard before. You’re just an echo of all the women I’ve known in the past that didn’t last.

If this is an attempt to cause me emotional pain, you’re shit out of luck. You’re heading the wrong way down a one way street. You can’t hurt my feelings. I used to hold the flashlight for my father.

I would however like to inform you that your statement of being ‘good for nothing’ is an invalid premise. I don’t profess to be knowledgeable in the field of philosophy, I’m more of a Barstool Philosopher at best. 

Understand, by declaring me to be good for nothing proves that even being good for nothing is actually being good for something. Hope you’re able to grasp the concept.

There’s one swallow of patience left in the bottle, a cold shoulder of icy give a shit in the syringe. I was hoping to end this malicious prosecution with some type of profound quote. Unfortunately, all I can think of saying at this moment is; “Shut the fuck up.”

right before i wake up

 
early in the morning

i always had the dream

of you sitting on my face

right before i wake up

 
i have no clue if this is

sexual or you trying to

kill me

 
i'm sure you have read

my poems about the most

amazing ways to die

 
but my tongue still moves

fast enough that i'm not

dying just yet

 
although, i like the way

your brain operates at

four in the morning

Mon Paris

I gotta say that I love Paris.
France, itself, is cool but
Paris is full of the zanies.
I dig the women but most
Smell like the armpits they
Don’t shave.  Perfume?
Good scents too expensive
Like most of the stuff there.
I always shop at the hidden
Tourist-free areas for food
And anything else that costs.
My French is tres le crap but
Good enough that I get by.
Summer in the ville is insane.
Everything shuts down in
August, shops and factories.
People not having to work
Mill around like millionaires
Without enough money to
Actually do anything fun.
Nobody riots like Parisians.
I get off on building those
Barricades and tossing rocks
And cocktails…Molotov.  I
Guzzle wine like a fool doing
My part providing empties.
Makes for some rowdy ass
Nights alleviating boredom.
The boredom that always
Comes when you’ve stayed
In one place too damn long.

 

Suggestion

They
Suggested
That I
Should use
A pen name.
But, I
Never name
My pens.

Reliable Sources

 
Reliable sources say everyone is dying completely wrong, so now I do whatever the internet tells me to do. Although your blood may be too big for your body, you must try to keep it inside. Even at zero hour, all bodies fall to Earth at the same speed, like led feathers. As the universe expands, its emptiness can’t help but swell like puff pastry in a night-black oven. Say, I’ve noticed you’ve got a number of psychiatric knives stuffed into your desert camo adventure belt. Of course, I have to admit that living alone must have its advantages.

Desert Hairshirt


Cactus debris invades my clothing,
rubs against my body like sandpaper.

Prickly pear underwear,
cholla-filled leggings,
and a patterned shirt
stuffed with powdered thorns.

Sandals, encrusted with the dried silt
of desert plants. Each rake
of my nails sheds a little more.

Crone skin made tough by sediment.
Lotion for every body part.

Half-full plastic bottles perch
behind my bathroom sink,
protrude from shower stall crevices.

Those cacti want to eat me alive,
but I’m too stubborn
to let them have their way with me.

I dream of oceans
and tropical storms
in faraway countries,

while the desert
laughs at me behind my back.

It will snack on my bones someday.
Meanwhile, I can’t stop scratching.

June


June a mid afternoon slush
Whispers of synchronized harmony
A new era
Flowscape
Los Angeles's prized possession
The East is exotic
The fresh lime barn
Haiku ridden mosaic scoops
Fallen asleep
Mid day
June an aromatic floor
Flaky sunchildren are asleep
Tip toed motion roars
June a hummingbird's last escape
Monet's paradise in butterfly case
A new era
Kindred flames
Droplets
June rain down my sea scape
My portfolios fragrance musks
The amethyst I borrowed from
June my flaky midair day
Rain down on me.

DRAWN

 
I am getting blood drawn down in North Park, and
the young woman wearing a Beastie Boys t-shirt
across from me says to her phlebotomist that
she hates needles, which surprises her friends
as she has so many facial piercings. But piercing

needles are different, she does not mind those, she
says. I am scared of hypodermic needles too, which
is why I never tried heroin when I was young. “I
can’t believe that’s my blood!” says the young woman
as she leaves. I am wearing a Ramones t-shirt, as

befits my age, and I reflect that, more than the Beach
Boys, they are truly America’s band: conservative
Johnny, liberal Joey, drug addled Dee Dee (though
a genius song writer), and reclusive Tommy. My
phlebotomist puts my blood vials in a neat metal

tray and the procedure is done, so I drive to a
nearby McDonald’s to get my customary post-
blood draw hotcakes. Members of a church group in
matching t-shirts mill about the counter, two day
laborers in orange vests eat full breakfasts, and

a gay couple, one with a cane, study a kiosk.
The butter pats melt on my hotcakes, as I eat my
hashbrown like a furtive animal, and drizzle syrup
on the cakes. Three toy dogs on leashes scamper about
as I sip my Diet Coke. I consider that 

one guy on my neighborhood dog path remarked to
his girlfriend that people who wear Ramones t-shirts
are drug addicts. She protested the stereotype,
but he should have at least said former drug addicts.
My blood may be middle-aged, but it is squeaky clean.

 

FLUX


The incense stick flickers out, and in that brief mo-
ment, the flux of being’s fabric turns inside

out with a slight shriek, as the air gets sucked out of
the room, and I am left dangling in pure mental space.

Where do I go from here, with no aches and pains, or
trips to the physical therapist, or need to eat

feta cheese and olives, and stay strictly on the
Mediterranean Diet? Time is measured on

Earth by the tapping of keys, or is that too old-
fashioned in this age of voice commands and cable TV

cutting, binge-watching, streaming aficionados? I
just stay in my protective mental energy

bubble until a car alarm wails outside. Pop!
I notice the incense stick has gone out, so I put

the laptop down, get up from my chair, and light
another stick. 

Hitchhiker Circa 1969

He shivers by the side of the road,
thumb stuck out from a gloveless hand,
windbreaker collar pulled up to his ears.
No hood, duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.
 
Mr. Stevens looks at his wife of fifty-six years,
her nod imperceptible to anyone but him.
He pulls the Chevy Impala to the shoulder.
As his wife rolls down the window,
he leans across the seat. Hop in, son.
I’m Mr. Stevens. This here’s my wife.
 
The hitchhiker nods, opens a rear door, positions
himself behind Mrs. Stevens. She turns, asks
his name. John Doe. She glances at her husband.
One hand on the wheel, he reaches for hers with the other.
 
They drive in silence, stop at Betty’s Diner,
pay for his meal, request another plate lunch
to go, hand it to him on the way out.
Mr. Stevens pulls a jacket from his suitcase
in the trunk, hands it to the hitchhiker,
offers bills from his wallet. Take care now.
 
The hitchhiker nods, watches them
get into the car. Knocks on the window.
Mrs. Stevens rolls it down.
I had other plans when you picked me up,
but you were too kind.
He smacks the top of the car once, grins
then turns to go, thumb again
slicing air.

The Fish Thing

Give a man a fish
And he eats for a day.
Teach a man to fish
And he’s pissed off
‘Cause he’s gotta
Go to work.

My Apocalypse


The sun passes like a flaming sword overhead, and I feel it as a wound in my chest. Shingle roofs catch fire. Leaves on trees wither. Cars are soon covered in ash. In the days that follow, the sky when I dare to look is a dull orange, the ocean an unpropitious black. The smell of smoke spreads around the world and seeps into people’s food and sleep. “No gods, no masters / The revolution will be kingless,” someone has spray-painted on the bricks. Children on their hands and knees peck at the ground for seeds and insects and adults sniff around like dogs