In a bar I call home

In a bar I call home

the Cyclone Kids have been gagged.

A Whig party spokesman

loiters too long

and doesn’t kickback.
In a bar I call home

the violence of victims

is good for a laugh.

The sermons of sacrifice

have lost their shine.
In a bar I call home

times reels its endless scrim

of monkey and dope.

The armored police

are setting up shop.
In a bar I call home

no one cares if I piss my pants.

The vinyl is worn. Unrest roils.

The shooting lists

are selling well.
In a bar I call home

the ugliest priest annuls 

confessions. Makes plans to blow up 

the meat truck. Swaps old bread 

for zeal.
In a bar I call home

the sun repels off Indian Point.

I steal the pens. Apprehend mercy.

Mock salute. Trade in

my carrots and coin.      

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they march in time

The People’s March
is a lot harder to keep
pace w/these days 

w/everyone bumbling 

into each other while

sharing the human damage.
Armies don’t sashay, people.

They march in time. Shoulder to shoulder

reclaiming lost ground.

A Poet’s History of the United States

No one needs my shit right now
but I’m the squeakiest wheel

so listen up: A bastard tribe of tonic salesman 

take office. The people are not relieved

but they’re lazy. So their children toe the line. 
Food. Fossil. Pantaloons. Who to fuck and when.

Forced to fight fine-tuned dogs 

for mites. Sniffing the Queen’s feet 

w/o lust. Just hunger. A pit so deep

the devil can’t climb. 
Our anthems carry

their own indictment. 

Laggard and racist

we coin our own rules.

No one cares the Earth is dying. 

Geppetto’s String

God’s one fuck up

is assholes. Not your full moon

but the two

sitting beside you. 

And the one behind 

the invisible one

coming towards you

with a sword.
Literally all over 

the landscape. Asshole City.

Asshole Mountain. 

The Town of Asshole. 

The Hamlet. The hostel.

The hordes from the Asshole Mall

inked to the tits w/butt-cheeks.
Your sphincter tightens in self-defense.

You brace yourself

for the onslaught of shit

that follows the wake of these assholes.

Big. Tall. Doesn’t matter.

Cute ‘n pretty sells you stock.
Or tries. And in your least discernible moment

you’re tempted to buy but why be an asshole?

We mock ourselves enough. Do we need that brand too?

I guess. Seems like the whole team’s buying into

the dumb-down. The super-sized soda and fries.

The weekend license to watch w/o charge

all your favorite asshole shows. One after the other.

Like a marathon. Like the march of the wooden soldiers

w/o Geppetto’s string this time,

but chains. Links of ignorance and vice.

Unclean Hands

Unclean Hands
emerging from a porta-potty

the poet is greeted 

by seven peers

pondering 

his hygiene.

“What hand?”one wonders.

“And why?”one woes.

“I’m skeeved,” one grieves 

staring idly at the sun.

Two others go gradually

on their way. 

One stops to chat

the other to listen.

The two gradually walking

wave from a distance. 

The blind one feels

his way back home

to the business of spying

great moments w/unclean hands.

Shit. Piss. Blood. Ink.

Screamin’ Jay Hawkins and Me in Our Prime

 

I’m lost in a parking lot\

on the left coast

w/an Afghan Kush
and Grey Goose buzz
when Screamin’ Jay Hawkins
jumps from the Sierra’s screaming:
“What can I do w/eighty-six kids
‘n each of their momma’s
wants my jam?!”

“Get in motherfucker!”
I shout, kicking down the pedal
like a mule vs. gravity.

Knowing I have
a run-away legend in my car
doesn’t un-nerve me.
I expect these things
from time to time, considering how crazy
the world is. How co-dependent
each moment is to another.
How we lose our lives planning
as if we control.

Cookies and Bosom

Blondie’s tits diminished 
Dagwood’s dreams of fortune 

but Dag didn’t care.Take the money!

Fuck it! Give him the girl

and come what may.
But that was then

and Cookie’s a Coulter.

Alexander trades weapons.

Herb pins his nipples.

Elmo’s doing time 

for fire-bombing Cora’s

Duplex of Happy Endings.

Where Tootsie worked the trampoline

for Beasley’s thug militia.
But Blondie’s tits

don’t sag like stars

on a loveless night.

Or like his nuts

all wrinkled blue.
She’s always the blonde

in love w/the boy.

All cookies and bosom

and dressed to the nines.