America,
I love you. I
just want you to be for
my kids to see and live
free without me.
I love you. I
just want you to be for
my kids to see and live
free without me.
America
rolls toward a cliff
in Marin County north
of the gay district of
San Francisco.
American
radio hurts
to listen to. You can't
say "shit," "piss," "goddamn"
or "fuck you, Lou."
America
beguiles you
and me. Land of the free
and home of the brave and
newly depraved.
American
cherry pie in
a glass case behind the
counter at Miner Dunn
in north Highland.
America,
leave me alone.
Your bickering keeps me
up watching reruns of
I Love Lucy.
America,
why don't you go
look at your beauty as
once did Amerigo
Vespucci, eh?
American
trash piles up
in lands far from the red,
white and blue. I blame me,
my kids, and you.
American
farm fields stretch
pretty on a drive
down I-65 for
a Dead concert.
American
guns taste better
than Russian ones when the
barrel's in your mouth and
you want a lawyer.
America
won't let you smoke
pot but we'll tax your dead
body for everything
you got. Why not?
America,
fruit cut in two
has no core. Might as well
be a cheat, a thief, or
Uncle Sam’s whore.
America,
it has happened
before in days of yore,
Kingdoms die without a
clue as to why.
America,
hand me one more
happy pill to soothe the
soul away. If you’re out,
how ‘bout a J?
America,
smokestacks can be
beautiful when the wind
is orange and purple right
before sunset.
America,
soap can wash your
body. But nothing can
wash your soul right now, not
even Pilate.
America
by the Bay. You
want me back, you say? No
way. Some things you just can't
unsay. Nice freeway.
Trapped in the Now
of holy cow
and wow. Things are boring,
so when you find something
that’s not – lick it.
Stuck in a big
hall listening
to a long speech by a
lawyer is like shoving
salt up your ass.
The politics
of getting a
judgeship is as dirty
as it gets. Put gloves on
and hold your nose.
I’m as fake as
the next guy. I
still think I’m better than
everyone else because
I create things.
Laying in bed
on Saturday
morning listening to
the backyard birds chirp their
asses off. Why?
Careening toward
a black hole of
computer software and
Tinker Toys in a
discotech fog.
Same old dark at
3am with
it raining out and the
dog snoring yelps at the
edge of the room.
Start your day with
poetry and
you'll be thinking til noon
about nightingales,
love, and the moon.
Bud Light bottle
on a plastic
table waits patiently
as I piss in a john
that smells like coke.
I've loved you since
the first time I
rubbed the back of my hand
on your beautiful brown
butt. Don’t forget.
This endless search
for truth gets a
little old as whiffle
balls whiz by filled with lies
headed for Mars.
Just like that I
want order in
the world. I stop my
rebelling forthwith and
buy an old Ford.
Sit on the john
and write a poem.
Stand on your head and fart
out a tune all alone.
Same fucking thing.
I can't believe
that she is still
with me. I feel like I'm
the most boring person
in the whole world.
I'm down with brown,
if it's okay
to say that. I was once
a real chubby chaser.
I don't mind fat.
Your fiance
is calling you.
What you gonna do? We
could continue this. Or
you could answer.
Thump thump thump thump
thump thump footsteps.
I can hear them coming.
So can you. Getting closer.
Hope it don't hurt.
Hard to take. Still
miserable.
It's been four long weeks of
tissues on the nightstand.
I'd hate me too.
Stabilize me.
Find a damn plan.
The din of voices below
won't tell me where to go.
A writer's search.
You gotta watch.
Make enough dough
and you're 50 years old
sitting on a bar stool.
Don't wanna work.
You can play nine
whores with one club
and remain disease free.
Take a shower after.
That is the key.
Life is what you
make it. If not,
just freaking fake it. When
the clock strikes two, it is
probably you.
As we hurry
toward paradise,
a lonely flagpole stands
at attention for the
next holocaust.
Same black suit for
formal weddings
and funerals. Same bland food
at phony tribunals.
Same black suit for...
I want to wake
up and have a
cup of coffee for the
men and women who served
for us and died.
I hope that you
never lied or
cried or walked into
a bakery bleary-eyed for
some cyanide.
Speeding toward the
end of radio,
I stop to kiss a gray
spaceship parked by a blue
Amazon truck.
Bukowski farts,
and the entire
Norton Anthology
of Poetry scoffs at
once, on cue.
Tell me about
your rejection
of the human race and
I'll call you a liar
right to your face.
Held together
by yoga pants,
the midnight hum of the
Borman Expressway, and
cookies and milk.
The backyard creek
of hell flows past
with the resolve of a
ninth-grader holding a
new glass beaker.
The dilettante
Michelle goes forth
with the idea that of all
the people on Earth, she's
the last speaker.
Poem won't stop, won't
let me sleep. Word
won't cease, won't let me creep
into bed next to the
wife for a snore.
rolls toward a cliff
in Marin County north
of the gay district of
San Francisco.
American
radio hurts
to listen to. You can't
say "shit," "piss," "goddamn"
or "fuck you, Lou."
America
beguiles you
and me. Land of the free
and home of the brave and
newly depraved.
American
cherry pie in
a glass case behind the
counter at Miner Dunn
in north Highland.
America,
leave me alone.
Your bickering keeps me
up watching reruns of
I Love Lucy.
America,
why don't you go
look at your beauty as
once did Amerigo
Vespucci, eh?
American
trash piles up
in lands far from the red,
white and blue. I blame me,
my kids, and you.
American
farm fields stretch
pretty on a drive
down I-65 for
a Dead concert.
American
guns taste better
than Russian ones when the
barrel's in your mouth and
you want a lawyer.
America
won't let you smoke
pot but we'll tax your dead
body for everything
you got. Why not?
America,
fruit cut in two
has no core. Might as well
be a cheat, a thief, or
Uncle Sam’s whore.
America,
it has happened
before in days of yore,
Kingdoms die without a
clue as to why.
America,
hand me one more
happy pill to soothe the
soul away. If you’re out,
how ‘bout a J?
America,
smokestacks can be
beautiful when the wind
is orange and purple right
before sunset.
America,
soap can wash your
body. But nothing can
wash your soul right now, not
even Pilate.
America
by the Bay. You
want me back, you say? No
way. Some things you just can't
unsay. Nice freeway.
Trapped in the Now
of holy cow
and wow. Things are boring,
so when you find something
that’s not – lick it.
Stuck in a big
hall listening
to a long speech by a
lawyer is like shoving
salt up your ass.
The politics
of getting a
judgeship is as dirty
as it gets. Put gloves on
and hold your nose.
I’m as fake as
the next guy. I
still think I’m better than
everyone else because
I create things.
Laying in bed
on Saturday
morning listening to
the backyard birds chirp their
asses off. Why?
Careening toward
a black hole of
computer software and
Tinker Toys in a
discotech fog.
Same old dark at
3am with
it raining out and the
dog snoring yelps at the
edge of the room.
Start your day with
poetry and
you'll be thinking til noon
about nightingales,
love, and the moon.
Bud Light bottle
on a plastic
table waits patiently
as I piss in a john
that smells like coke.
I've loved you since
the first time I
rubbed the back of my hand
on your beautiful brown
butt. Don’t forget.
This endless search
for truth gets a
little old as whiffle
balls whiz by filled with lies
headed for Mars.
Just like that I
want order in
the world. I stop my
rebelling forthwith and
buy an old Ford.
Sit on the john
and write a poem.
Stand on your head and fart
out a tune all alone.
Same fucking thing.
I can't believe
that she is still
with me. I feel like I'm
the most boring person
in the whole world.
I'm down with brown,
if it's okay
to say that. I was once
a real chubby chaser.
I don't mind fat.
Your fiance
is calling you.
What you gonna do? We
could continue this. Or
you could answer.
Thump thump thump thump
thump thump footsteps.
I can hear them coming.
So can you. Getting closer.
Hope it don't hurt.
Hard to take. Still
miserable.
It's been four long weeks of
tissues on the nightstand.
I'd hate me too.
Stabilize me.
Find a damn plan.
The din of voices below
won't tell me where to go.
A writer's search.
You gotta watch.
Make enough dough
and you're 50 years old
sitting on a bar stool.
Don't wanna work.
You can play nine
whores with one club
and remain disease free.
Take a shower after.
That is the key.
Life is what you
make it. If not,
just freaking fake it. When
the clock strikes two, it is
probably you.
As we hurry
toward paradise,
a lonely flagpole stands
at attention for the
next holocaust.
Same black suit for
formal weddings
and funerals. Same bland food
at phony tribunals.
Same black suit for...
I want to wake
up and have a
cup of coffee for the
men and women who served
for us and died.
I hope that you
never lied or
cried or walked into
a bakery bleary-eyed for
some cyanide.
Speeding toward the
end of radio,
I stop to kiss a gray
spaceship parked by a blue
Amazon truck.
Bukowski farts,
and the entire
Norton Anthology
of Poetry scoffs at
once, on cue.
Tell me about
your rejection
of the human race and
I'll call you a liar
right to your face.
Held together
by yoga pants,
the midnight hum of the
Borman Expressway, and
cookies and milk.
The backyard creek
of hell flows past
with the resolve of a
ninth-grader holding a
new glass beaker.
The dilettante
Michelle goes forth
with the idea that of all
the people on Earth, she's
the last speaker.
Poem won't stop, won't
let me sleep. Word
won't cease, won't let me creep
into bed next to the
wife for a snore.
RSS Feed
