Ladies Room

July 31, 2010  :: 0 comments

The braille could have stopped me,
but I wasn’t blind, the door looked the same
and swung the same, and all I knew
was the aching of a begging bladder.

In and looking for the porcelain box
but instead saw stalls in rows like headstones.
And saw no pee spots or splatters on linoleum
just places to sit —

I stood, with the door open;
midstream, a shrill scream:
“Kiddo, you can’t do that here.
xxxThis is the ladies room!”

I flexed my abdomen
to make nature hurry
causing the arching stream
to stray wild and awry.

I washed my hands;
ladies waited.
no forgiveness was found
in their frowns.

While drying I saw the machine,
the wall-hung candy dispenser.
I walked towards it,
to see the flavors.
“No. That’s not for you.
xxxYou’ll find out one day.”

Being little, how little I knew
how lucky I was, not yet a
man.

Disaster Relief

featured in the poetry forum July 31, 2010  :: 0 comments

A cart of just bread and peanut butter is
all that’s claimed to calm an empty stomach.

A palm’s in a puddle of pocket lint, but I’m in good
company with great miracles & super market trinkets.

Leaflets sell-out which stars wear plastic tits, or
announce who’s dried in rehab: skinny addicts to fat-as-ticks.

Tabloids, the saviors of print,
sponsors selling miracles saving man.

Outside,
only criminals, thick puddles, and tough postmen
are on the streets, they each cross condom boxes,
on road sides pulled apart like cardstock crosses.

Inside,
the aisle advertises Low Calorie Lasagna for Me,
packets of chemicals and chocolate consumption
sugared morsels that invite ‘Vitis
as the line grows long, like a corpse’s cuticles.

Recession’s on our mind, and together
we forget how to laugh.
In the holy union of human togetherness,
we stare into what’s placed
in private baskets —
the gross miracle of man makes the line
a stain on our minds, as
shoppers seek assurance like
they select frozen peas.

Wisely, we know about nothing but information
Not a nugget in any noggin of wisdom.
Just information.

I flex my ass cheek to check if my
wallet’s still there—
It’s pulled out to pay; my money’s given to
a slick and soggy foreheaded kid, who quips,
a quick slightly mixed question and demand,
‘Would you like to donate $1 for Disaster Relief?’

Only the miracle
will save man.

So I save my dollar.

What A.A. Doesn’t Say.

May 8, 2010  :: 0 comments

Junior didn’t turn on fans in Summer, or coils in Winter.
He left lamps empty of bulbs and ate every other day.
Junior’s wall calendars still hung from a century ago.
His children took away his car keys and their mother
xxxdied years ago.

xxxJunior knew habits weren’t happiness;
so he shaved and dressed in his clothes his careless
xxxgrand children gave him on some Christmas, and
he grabbed all the cash hidden in his mattress:

Mostly quarters, but $9.50. He stuffed his bank account into his
xxxhis corduroy pants, and then tied his laces.

xxxThe closest bar was four miles of barking dogs
curious cops, blank street lights, and free to drive drivers.

Junior got to the bar, old and ugly, but safe.
His tolerance of solitude had shriveled. He craved
xxxBeer.

“Bartender, a pitcher, please.”
Junior dropped his baggie of loose change into a lake of lime juice; he
paid the tender, and got a napkin, a glass, and a bucket of brown frost:
xxxBeer.

xxxJunior poured and filled the fat frosted glass.
No one noticed the old geezer — he had to be a barfly.
Bitter mixture hacked at Junior’s taste buds:
de-licious

xxxJunior drained his handsome glass.
His brain fat relaxed and gelled under his white old man hair.
He filled, and kissed his second glass;
his shirt accrued new spots and spats.

Junior’s old organs and big white gut were forgot:
three beers to the wind, he had begun to float!
Junior’s knees anchored under the bar’s lip;
he hiccupped, ignored sensation, and poured one more — that made four.

The bartender gave Junior his change, all pennies.
Junior slid it all back, “Gin and Tonic, please.”
His saddlebag hands poured more from the pitcher.
He bony posterior hovered an inch above his stool. He grinned: he saw the Gin.

xxxThe iced liquid filled his cheeks,
and pulled out the wrinkles on his face.
His legs flew back, knocking over a stool: Junior felt like an air bubble,
with his liver full, he began to feel like a balloon — Junior poured one last glass.

The real barflies and winos and rummies were
dug too deep into decadence to notice all this.

Junior’s left hand dug its nails under the bar counter, and
xxxupside-down, chugged the last urn of lager.
His legs: all veins and paste shot their heels to the bar’s rafters.
xxxJunior—let go.

The ceiling couldn’t contain, he cubed his body
like a cannon ball, and left a crater in the roof.

xxxThe energies of experience
couldn’t ready Junior for this:

xxxcloud bound, Junior saw cars as
cracker crumbs and sesame seeds,
xxxhe chewed on cumulonimbus dust,
and danced on an airplane wings.
xxxHe began stripping in the stratosphere,
and hooted at astronauts. Junior
xxxhung his coat on the Hubble’s lens, then
shuffled across Armstrong’s foot prints, now
xxxthey won’t outlast Earth’s men and women.
He spun Soviet space probes like dreidels, and
tanned his cheeks on the sun’s surface.
xxxFinally —
Past all stars, and their lying astrology
where words Junior never wrote,
were written, and his thrown away paper airplanes
fly freely, and where meals that should have been better,
are better —
past countries of consumers, and
where, “I’m so sorry,” is never said,
where there’s no preferred photogenic “good side”—
free of the irresponsibility and contradictions
of men—

a 4-D solitude.

Back on earth, they’d all say,
“Junior fell off the wagon.”

La Po Wing never saw a thing.

May 8, 2010  :: 0 comments

La Po Wing never saw a thing, but
La Po Wing wandered about his city
with blind eyes and took in the sites.

Wing went to Toyama and tasted
okonomiyaki and listened
to children’s toys roll on tables.

In the romance of limitless aural pleasure,
La Po could hear flowers’ stems bend in the wind,
and feel his fray grey hair shiver in the breeze.

La knew where rain drops would splatter;
La could count the number of new childbirths—cry by cry
he heard shoelaces tie, and lingerie stretch.

Po heard birds sing and crickets creep in grass.
Po heard bad choirs practicing for miles beyond his drums,
but still La Po Wing couldn’t see a thing.

Ujina Port’s military loaded and locked
and sparked and ticked and tocked for war.
La Po Wing winched at the sound of war chimes, so

La Po hitched to the Urakami Valley;
La Po stood in a pumpkin field,
where seeds explode and bloom fruits.

La Po Wing heard propellers; the whistle of metal among clouds.
La Po Wing heard the sounds of atoms smashing his city.

The Valley encased La Po Wing and his frail frame.
The sweet orange seeds splattered and the
blast cleared the field of its fruit.

La Po Wing didn’t see a thing.
La Po Wing didn’t see the woman,
who had gazed into War’s light,
it charred the bulbs in her eye sockets.

Her gold tooth stuck smug in her jaw;
there in the dirt, with battered pumpkins
sat her head, it had flown from miles away—

La Po Wing didn’t see a thing,
just felt the radiation tingling.

Second Stringers in the Dugout

featured in the poetry forum May 8, 2010  :: 0 comments

Too cold for cheeks to sit on bleachers, so
the baseball dugout was our Confessional booth
—we worked things out, but there was nothing to confess
just bored bones

but

couplings were hard to come by — the
pickings were as thin as a small intestine — she
slid close to my coat, “do
xxxyou want to try it again?”

I cupped her left breast with
xxxmy right hand, and said,
“baby, we can try it again.”

We blew grey exhaust into
xxxeach other’s throats.

On the Pot

December 8, 2009  :: 0 comments

Three courses; of course
I’ve unrolled an entire
xxxxxroll of toilet paper

It took
groans, grunts; a clench—done!
But
Under my seat I heard one loud
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx“MOTHERFUCKER!”
I eyed the still spinning naked
xxxxxtube—then my white Loo,
after the slur caught my ear

xxxxxnot for fear or concern from
being called a “MOTHERFUCKER!”
But
that my toilet may be in rebellion!

A pinko porcelain; for
years we co-existed; I
consumed and it fed on
xxxxxcolon construction,
xxxxxsoggy cereal clumps, and
xxxxxany hang-over harvest.

But
now it calls me
“MOTHERFUCKER!—

I’M TIRED OF THIS SHIT!”
I bet.
Cold friend, you’ve been
an opened jawed seagull,
xxxxxfull on my guts.

“I’M SO FUCKING
SICK OF THIS SHIT
ALL OF IT!”

Needless to say, I don’t feel safe
like a Constipated Constantine
xxxxxunsafe on this Throne.

“GET YOUR ASS
xxxxxOUTTA HERE!”

I obliged; flexed my thighs,
xxxxxto shuffle
to safety with my pants
rumpled at my ankles

“DON’T YOU FUCKING
WALK AWAY!
I’M NOT DONE
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxWITH YOU!”—

A flash attack! I gave the handle
xxxxxa vicious jiggle—SWOOSSHH!

A gurgle of refuse
wasn’t refused; the pipes took
my intestine’s mottled paper
xxxxxand last night’s dinner.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx“I HATE YOU!”
“I HATE YOU TOO!”
“FUCK YOU, BITCH!”
“FUCK YOU, TOO
xxxxxASSHOLE!”

A child’s birthday balloon
xxxxxblue and yellow, set
free by my window;
a child bellowed, “no!”

A door, the apartment
xxxxxbelow and across—
xxxxxangled low
xxxxxfrom my refilling
xxxxxpotty
collided with its hinges;
in that instant—a family
xxxxxfell to pieces.
But
at least my toilet wasn’t
rebelling against me
and my anus.

Y2 O.K.

December 8, 2009  :: 0 comments

Midnight’s moon: the only ball that won’t drop. Music
TV’s Prince caroled, the hit could make the Mariner miss.
“Tomorrow’s tomorrow; as normal as piss!” some assume.

I wanted to meet, “tomorrow”—Jinx or just January and
see what the Milky Way had to say and Maybe I’d get
xxxxxto see the dead city lights of Doomsday.

Last century’s last winter was too warm for jackets or socks so
xxxxxgrass spears etched white spots; soles so comfortable in
Texas Decembers, a warm-coolness: an old man’s skin.

All I heard were (hopefully) my last two double A’s
as some spinning nightmare spaded brain cells; as
gypsy curses from pundits and safety nay-sayers sang
inside—
MTV didn’t captivate, so I went out to stare at midnight
to see satellites and civilization fall: anarchy’s alright
with me. “We’ll be fine at the end of ‘99”. I had to see.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe
kitchen clock’s pug faced ticks told me the Minutes to Midnight
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxOutside—
All the stars looked 2K Compliant; inhumanly calm. Me:
xxxxxwhite as headlights; as plump as a guinea; captivated
wide eyed for the end of everything—and it’d be alright with me.

Damn happy—I might not need to tie a tie, harass
Honesty, or worry about shaving or passing Driver’s
Ed. Tomorrow, we’re all going to be animals. Just

me and the cock roaches running the world. Everything
xxxxxevil, crazy, cozy, and easy—in just jeans and a tee.
Shoes laces and boring bondage would be last century.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxAlone Outside—
Drilling for soda in Styrofoam, watching
specks flux in darkness; wanting to catch
some airplanes or snowflakes—neither came.

….

waiting for Midnight, to see this “compliancy”
….

waiting for Twelve: Midnight— and maybe this “anarchy”

I checked the
kitchen clock
12:06

Civilization seemed to carry on: complacency
and all the lights streamed as steady as ‘01.

Diesel engines licked the curbs with black spit
xxxxxas high schoolers shot at mailboxes and
scattered pimples on STOP signs with shotguns.

We were still the apexes of humanity;
in perfect compliancy: complacency.
Only I was anarchy: I
wasn’t

even

wearing
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxshoes.

Seven 9/11’s (9/11 9/11…)

featured in the poetry forum December 8, 2009  :: 0 comments

34 Miles
squeezed from a quarter
of a Mitsubishi’s fuel-tank
from grey sun to no moon
for you and me: two Kamikazes

the road’s as flat as my cell’s
xxxxxreception; the hills sleep
xxxxxas lumps under sheets.

Our tragedy can be NO
less than irony—today is
xxxxxStone to Ash September.

It’s raining sideways, but the
sky’s not on fire…
anymore

wipers work too slow; they
don’t whisk away the terror

you call my name—like a murder
is called out in a crowd. I call it
love
as clouds flick at clueless trees
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxwith yellow finger tips.
Dear,
the rain’s getting worse here
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxwe do pass a dead deer; it lets
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe rain roll right off its back.

it’s not us—it’s today
and this goddamn rain
at least
xxxxxthere’s no city to see
xxxxxcollapse—catch glass
xxxxxwith our lips; see City Sky
xxxxxRain fathers and mothers.

A few more miles are squeezed out
xxxxxas my name rings out to
xxxxxthe hill’s: earth’s elbows and
xxxxxas no ring slips on her finger

for seven Years
earth’s shoulders shrugged
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxand only cared about
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe occasional cloud

they carry on as
Mitsubishi Kamikazes and
other immortal tragedies

we check service bars, beg God,
and scream as we’re riddled
with rain spats on windshields
that don’t stop

for 7 Years
34 Miles or

“A Moment
of Silence”

sexy Lexi

November 3, 2009  :: 0 comments

I slept in a room with dead men all
sea faring, ship wrecked men
with explosions for ear drums
and Nazis for thumbs. Casts

of democratic Dum-Dum
documentaries. A crew of
Buzzcut corpses, bloated
on buoyant mothballed—Battle stations!

I slept in an always alive
red lit room, with dead men as
comforting as a battleship’s
ping to a submarine.

Night was not alright under
Her deck; the smell was
the chamber of a revolver:
the Blue Ghost’s belly
— was
dozy in red blow and
hummmmmmmmm.

Her cozy rusty babes
birthed to sea while sleeping—drank in
by the blue deep reaper

born sailors wrinkled in oceans
drank in by tiny bits: ball sacks,
toe nails: debris, scalps driftwood to shores
buoyancy doesn’t comfort me. A call to all—Battle stations!

Without a Guppies’ chance
for a simple prayer.
Chance is a corpse for
the cod and crustaceans,

Those lucky ensigns
are graced with chance
to leave echoes: apparitions in
cock-pits; haunts that tap and
twist decommissioned doors. Arise—Battle stations!

& they’re still anchored by the hull’s hole
where they pick their teeth with torpedoes.
& plea for a mother’s help or yelp
to any god & haunt—Battle stations!

they slept in sheets like folded
flags; the fermented men now
sleep where only salt is safe
& with me & the Pacific’s Queen
cold, aground; a bloodied bitch
with corroded bunks & a banshee
crew
rattling chains & rehearsing solutes.

I guess… the past has passion; what luck
these men haunt place of importance
:
these places that only know death.
These lucky ensigns—so many
aren’t graced with such a grave—Battle stations!

Big Building

November 3, 2009  :: 0 comments

Once these vertical valleys were reserved
for mountains, Daredevil sparrows, Sons
failing from sun-stroke, evicted angels
meteorites; gaseous glow, stars and other
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxspecks of space spit

oh, no more—

rivets, sparkle, and man-power un-impress
pedestrians: staunch civilians walk the spirals;
stuff the elevators of the Sword of Civilization
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxximpressive
the spear stands and doesn’t spindle
to string: strands of DEATH FROM ABOVE

our heads. Praise to blueprints as
Phallic Man pleasures the sky. I’m Impressed
with the flower of this city. Sorry,

others who wish it’d be sucked into soil
with seeds and celebrity corpses. Sully
Inmates sick of the Sky’s Ulcer, pushing a spiked
shadow from the tall stall

sting and saline as eyes spy; skirt up God’s shimmering shin
:
tourists straining to catch pennies in their eye sockets

On a

congregation of mud, gelling on granite steps taken for granted
CLACK goes the hobo’s cups; germs jitterbugging on grunting
geriatrics and their spot stained mitts choke gracious railing
A CALL a cell call for all to hear; it makes another cell ring a call
such an early time to feed the energy of “You’ve missed me.”
acrylic sprinters are late to be laid off or lay into a CLACKING
keyboard. The tall stall is their stable; the clouds are a
cotton fable. And the blue sky that spreads over the glass
is a cotton picking lie.

Oh,
I Pity the proxies of productivity, this
pulse of industry: small spiders shuffle
in a mother’s sack.
:
inanimate inmates shuffle like penguins on fire
these are the brief stints of barely movement that they lament.
As they gaze over white specks scamper
like baby scorpions on their mother.

They don’t know the sun better than me
than any of the ten-thousands below;
they don’t feel superiority—those who swivel with the gods
they don’t feel anything up there just the

pigeons who gladly; cooly coo and clash
into the glass
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx:
produced by people; protects people
protects profits and prevents suicides

produced by people; filled by people
who had hoped for more. Except
for the window washer. Who
hopes for less.