every
time that you
walk into my realm,
you pick up
the pieces of gold that
fell from my jacket.
oh yes you do.
and you show me
where to hide
from the corporate
piggies
and their
counterparts
that never
walk the talk.
no they don’t.
the mementos
on the shelves
and the ales awaiting
in the fridge.
and the towns look
so close together
when i look at them
on the map
that you gave me.
blue jeans…i sleep in them…i come in them.
blue jeans…they hold my secret stash.
blue jeans…hold my hands when i’m alone.
blue jeans…stained with honey and resin.
blue jeans…man, she looks so fine in them.
blue jeans…walk me around the bend.
blue jeans…fading and ripping and dipping me into a
blue lost soul snug onto my weary legs.
i returned for a token Eucharist
during the Christmas guilt trip,
for it was hard to attend during
that college year when i
launched religion to the skyline
so it could be shot down like
a clay pigeon…i saw the Bible
as a text of magic shows where
the invisible string was made of
dollar bills…so, there i sat on
Christmas Eve, dipping holy water
and kneeling down to pray for
the homeless and AIDS victims,
but the eyes of the parish kept
staring at me and muttering at
my shredded blue jean faith and
unkempt hair and dirty face of zits
and i suddenly felt like i was
at the annual gala fashion show
in which i received no votes and
i was hoping the priest would
point at them and ask them to
state the ways of Jesus, for i
know they didn’t care and
i wondered if they even
knew what it was.
they all looked so good,
an hour later at the bazaar,
sipping hot cider, buying local crafts,
strutting the catwalk for God’s applause.
i’m gonna pop-a-wheely over Route 222 deer carcasses
and mutter a prayer
with engine reggae smoking…
to the Bodhi tree beyond
Burger King where i and Nesta had ta’ hitchhike through
the Blizzard of ’96 to the bar-bull tricks
where i was dropped off at a
trapezoid spaceship that
flew me to an angel who doesn’t call back–but there’s
a Zion behind the cemetery where i picked raspberries
and had falafel-to-go beneath telephone wires of telemarketers
disturbing dinners while
alarm clocks & fire alarms
tick off each day…
and hugs feel so warm when you mean it after eating a $5 pie and are
walkin’ the
blinking midnight yellow traffic lights that
warn ya to slow down
on the sidewalk where
the cement’s now dry and yesterday’s writings can’t be erased–only thing left are Oreo crumbs
and her maize hair
waiting to be vacuumed.
Robert Wallace said
writers should
get high off of
what they write,
and that’s what
i’ve been doing,
holding the needle,
tattooing the paper with
siphoned ink.
words and their
boundless possibilities.
watch me rape, assassinate,
and plunder the
adversary’s mainland with
steel font Americano.
i’m so high right now,
and i have 5 ink cartridges left
for my Brother word processor.
my body is tasseled with
dripping typing ribbon.
give me a hug.
i’ll smear on you a
permanent haunting.
injured civilians
wait in the ER waiting room,
waiting to hear their
name or number called,
like at the supermarket
waiting for a pound of
peppered ham…
deep lacerations and
fractured ribs
sympathize with each other,
waiting to be saved,
waiting to go back to work
and wait for the next paycheck
so they can go to a
Chinese restaurant
and wait 20 minutes
for flashy sustenance,
waiting to see if health
can make death
wait another day.
i haven’t learned
how to swim,
and i haven’t flown
on a plane.
beer cans and breasts…
things to grasp and
saunter with.
that’s what i can handle…
anything from the land
of mother’s milk.
i’ll die on
this land,
and be buried
in its dirt.
sitting on concrete
with my woman,
i am not falling or floating…
i am still…
metorites and octopuses,
come and get me
if you can.
sloppy wind
butchers the leaves
to a bloody maroon…
chlorophyll and sobriety
seem continents away.
a jack o’ lantern
grins at me while i
wink at a scarecrow
whose summer task of
warding off black birds
is over with.
the scarecrow
stumbles over with a bottle
of spiked cider.
off we go,
sipping and bobbing
for women in the
Main Street barrel
of frat sweatshirts
and slurred lingo.
my candy corn teeth
leak fake blood as
nothing really dies
tonight besides
the splattered pumpkins.
walking on blades
of grass
with a pocketed
stash of cash,
we entered a lime green Torino
and drove to a backyard
where privacy hedges
hid green smoke and
clanking green bottles…
cheers to Greenpeace…
heads as light as heads
of lettuce floating a green sea,
like pines about to be
decorated on Christmas Eve…
last night i talked to a
woman of emerald eyes
until the green digital numerals
on the clock
blinked goodnight…
now, at an intersection,
i wait for the green light
to continue.
Flooring The Gas
drivin’ in my ’86 Ford
that’s the color of phlegm,
lookin’ for my main man, Glenn…
’cause it’s Friday afternoon
and we’re rolling up our sleeves,
and we’re rolling up our joints,
and we’re rolling the dice, please…
please tell me that she’s comin’…
green Puma suede everglade…
dancin’ paycheck paid.
so, turn off the boob-tube for good,
and raise your antenna to
pick up our signals.
slaughtering your time,
you’re just a mime mimicking the TV,
so skeezy.
yeah, we can’t hear you,
’cause we ain’t listening,
unless you’re glistening.
flooring the gas,
trying to get past
all the things that never seem to last.
just because it didn’t work out at first
just gives us more of a yearning,
a thirst.
is it just a slow bad streak
or are we cursed?
or is it something really worse?
fuck it,
’cause everyday’s a new verse
and increased is the purse
that we’re fighting for.
so, bring on the new faces and laces…
i need a house party of
a dozen different races.
i need a whirlwind of wassup brother,
a mixed breed bred on truth seeds.
come and plant them in our open minds
where stalks grow high in the shrine.
go ahead, go drop the dime…
never ever clever shady.
she whispered in my ear just maybe.
flooring the gas,
trying to get past
all the things that never seem to last.