Final byes to
friends and family
should begin already.
Death is unexpected.
It could be now.
friends and family
should begin already.
Death is unexpected.
It could be now.
Jacklyn Zeera
will always fear
a man under her bed
wanting to kill her dead
for what she said.
Brand new tire,
chrome wheel spokes,
shiny exterior,
black, alone atop the
planet's food chain.
Leaf on a branch
high in the sky
by NIPSCO wires that
that carry power to
chop down that tree.
Pipe in the ground
under a bush
that will disintegrate
into the earth to make
more fricking oil.
Rock on a beach
sunning itself
with the warmth of the most
powerful force in the
whole universe.
Ours is a love
story. Cheese lines
and funerals, diamonds and
decay. Our road winds through
cattails singing.
I don't know you.
You float above
fields of grass and thorns.
You are a mystery
to all that squirms.
A salute to
the spirits that
guide and restrengthen
America. Obey
the wanderer.
They're all low points.
The troughs of the
universe, wet bog on
a Saturday night. How
low can you go?
Windmill, my dear,
are you still a
heterosexual?
Or are you now queer? I
just wanna know.
Here I am all
strung out in a
strange room. As long as I
find my wallet, it's cool.
Do it again.
She tamed a wild
animal. And
I'm still pissed. There's nothing
like waking up broke and
hungover, pal.
It's another
droopy drive down
I-65. Purdue
and nephew in dismal
defeat. Corn kills.
Rollin' tasty
across pavement
and people. Beauty, fear,
sadness - They're all right here.
Plus a steeple.
Little Jo told
me a story
of a one-armed go-go
dancer she knew. Haven't
slept well since.
Hate sex works in
a pinch. Drug dens
do too... for a while.
Beer, weed, porn and popcorn
endure. And love.
Since we're all
spiraling toward
death anyway, why don't
we just have a drink at
the corner bar?
The Lord gave me
a day, and I
wasted it. Lawn's uncut,
dishes in the sink. And
dirty laundry.
Circular sun
whipping across
the sky day after day
as a reminder of
caskets and dirt.
Creeping Charlie
takes over the
back yard with the purpose
and strength of a Baptist
on the doorstep.
As you fill with
emotional
and spiritual dual
deities, remember this -
you are a fool.
My legs have been
cut off by love.
What was sad and lonely
now hears glorious hymns
from high above.
Let the hate leave.
It's not doing
anyone any good
anyhows. Lonely times
can fuck off too.
Sparkly cinder
blocks stop all sound.
They insulate us, keep
us alone... heavy heaps
of sand and stone.
Your exhale
blows out bad breath
like a blast furnace at
noon. Your inhale breathes
it in again.
Hell is playing
golf for a loan,
having lunch for a sale,
selling your soul for a
new dishwasher.
Shame pops up at
inopportune
times. In line at Target,
pushing a stroller, you
shudder again.
It is not your
final breath but
your last sunny day. Look,
the sun's out. No clouds. It
could be today.
Maidens meatheads
and Marmaduke
the mutt met at Mother
Mary Medical Center
in mid-May, Ma.
School busses bathe
in a rainstorm
meant for another city.
Steakhouse brush and long green
grass guard the rims.
All the way to
Logansport, the
passenger pouted, too
forlorn to have enjoyed
the fields of corn.
The battle of
south Schererville
took place on a windy
evening in June. No clouds,
no stars, no moon.
We are scolding
mom for holding
on to an ocean dream
of safe passage seen
from a ship's window.
Let’s blow ourselves
up with bombs made
of Uranium mined
by a 16-year-old
in Kazakhstan.
Nothing changes
at Chapel Lawn
Cemetery. It’s still
the same ole’ grassy place
where my mom is.
People just keep
coming all the
time. Bills and Bettys and
Barbaras, too. I just want
to get stoned now.
Open season
on Hispanic
women. There is hate in
our words and in our hearts.
Shame on us all.
Clocks can't keep time
when there's no one
left to eat nuclear
corn or chase 94
wild buffaloes.
I am sorry
for so many
things. Baseball bats, bottles,
underwear, screams. Yet the
gray bird still sings.
Her dresses are
mostly yellow,
which is good enough for
me. Branches off a trunk,
leaves off a tree.
will always fear
a man under her bed
wanting to kill her dead
for what she said.
Brand new tire,
chrome wheel spokes,
shiny exterior,
black, alone atop the
planet's food chain.
Leaf on a branch
high in the sky
by NIPSCO wires that
that carry power to
chop down that tree.
Pipe in the ground
under a bush
that will disintegrate
into the earth to make
more fricking oil.
Rock on a beach
sunning itself
with the warmth of the most
powerful force in the
whole universe.
Ours is a love
story. Cheese lines
and funerals, diamonds and
decay. Our road winds through
cattails singing.
I don't know you.
You float above
fields of grass and thorns.
You are a mystery
to all that squirms.
A salute to
the spirits that
guide and restrengthen
America. Obey
the wanderer.
They're all low points.
The troughs of the
universe, wet bog on
a Saturday night. How
low can you go?
Windmill, my dear,
are you still a
heterosexual?
Or are you now queer? I
just wanna know.
Here I am all
strung out in a
strange room. As long as I
find my wallet, it's cool.
Do it again.
She tamed a wild
animal. And
I'm still pissed. There's nothing
like waking up broke and
hungover, pal.
It's another
droopy drive down
I-65. Purdue
and nephew in dismal
defeat. Corn kills.
Rollin' tasty
across pavement
and people. Beauty, fear,
sadness - They're all right here.
Plus a steeple.
Little Jo told
me a story
of a one-armed go-go
dancer she knew. Haven't
slept well since.
Hate sex works in
a pinch. Drug dens
do too... for a while.
Beer, weed, porn and popcorn
endure. And love.
Since we're all
spiraling toward
death anyway, why don't
we just have a drink at
the corner bar?
The Lord gave me
a day, and I
wasted it. Lawn's uncut,
dishes in the sink. And
dirty laundry.
Circular sun
whipping across
the sky day after day
as a reminder of
caskets and dirt.
Creeping Charlie
takes over the
back yard with the purpose
and strength of a Baptist
on the doorstep.
As you fill with
emotional
and spiritual dual
deities, remember this -
you are a fool.
My legs have been
cut off by love.
What was sad and lonely
now hears glorious hymns
from high above.
Let the hate leave.
It's not doing
anyone any good
anyhows. Lonely times
can fuck off too.
Sparkly cinder
blocks stop all sound.
They insulate us, keep
us alone... heavy heaps
of sand and stone.
Your exhale
blows out bad breath
like a blast furnace at
noon. Your inhale breathes
it in again.
Hell is playing
golf for a loan,
having lunch for a sale,
selling your soul for a
new dishwasher.
Shame pops up at
inopportune
times. In line at Target,
pushing a stroller, you
shudder again.
It is not your
final breath but
your last sunny day. Look,
the sun's out. No clouds. It
could be today.
Maidens meatheads
and Marmaduke
the mutt met at Mother
Mary Medical Center
in mid-May, Ma.
School busses bathe
in a rainstorm
meant for another city.
Steakhouse brush and long green
grass guard the rims.
All the way to
Logansport, the
passenger pouted, too
forlorn to have enjoyed
the fields of corn.
The battle of
south Schererville
took place on a windy
evening in June. No clouds,
no stars, no moon.
We are scolding
mom for holding
on to an ocean dream
of safe passage seen
from a ship's window.
Let’s blow ourselves
up with bombs made
of Uranium mined
by a 16-year-old
in Kazakhstan.
Nothing changes
at Chapel Lawn
Cemetery. It’s still
the same ole’ grassy place
where my mom is.
People just keep
coming all the
time. Bills and Bettys and
Barbaras, too. I just want
to get stoned now.
Open season
on Hispanic
women. There is hate in
our words and in our hearts.
Shame on us all.
Clocks can't keep time
when there's no one
left to eat nuclear
corn or chase 94
wild buffaloes.
I am sorry
for so many
things. Baseball bats, bottles,
underwear, screams. Yet the
gray bird still sings.
Her dresses are
mostly yellow,
which is good enough for
me. Branches off a trunk,
leaves off a tree.