​For Your Wedding Pinterest
 
Like a boozy bridesmaid wearing wine-soaked white   I’m
Drunk
in front of that wedding planner’s office near my Harlem apartment
 
My Manhattan mem(or man)ories during my crisis of a quarterlife are a quarter nice
And 75% libido in limbo
 
Heart v. penis
An inner-world war being waged by humans since before the birth of God
 
One time I brought some marriage-ready friends to Kleinfeld
The shiniest gownhouse in all of New York City
And I left the building too at peace to set off my arsenal of sexist jokes
So maybe heart wins

​How To Dream 

Pop your eyeballs
out your head
put ‘em in a jar
leave to soak overnight

plain water will bring you
plain dreams
shopping malls
and one-way traffic
but mix in crystal meth
coke or smack
you’ll dream wild
spaghetti roads 
pulling you down
into the dish

‘course you have to wake up
grow up
but pop those eyes
back into your head
come morning or night
whatever your shift

and you’ll see a world
even duller than the one
from the day before
when you couldn’t wait to get home
pop your eyeballs in a jar
and dream


Joey Boy 


The arsehole
at the end of the world
is here under the M6
waiting to be carved
from a concrete underflow
that was as soft as semen
in 1963
when Joey crossed
the wrong deal
or screwed the wrong hole
and was sent down here 
to sleep away his dreams
in a bed warmed with concrete
and softened with piss

until the city shakes him loose
like a dice in a fist
and he arises in the thirty-third century
arsehole first
and god-like they say

to spit out the light
of the sun.


Doubled Up


Been digging shit
from my own ass for so long
it’s a shock to be here
on the tide-line, not stranded
or washed-up, or feeling like
nails have been hammered
in my head. Four days bail
is four days free, a homeless man
waking up feeling well-fed.

Almost a shock to remember
that life doesn’t have to go
that sad old way; the un-natural
jerk at six a.m, lifetimes lost 
lifting telephones and tapping dead keys
folded away like a letter
in my pocket I’m in no real hurry 
to read. So is this how it’s supposed 
to be, or is this just how it is?

No rapture or judgement
will settle the score or pick up
the tab, I’ll just live what’s left
to life and suffer the rest
like an old drunk waking up
in a ditch with a hangover
the size of a car tyre hosanna’d
round his neck, telling himself
that four days can un-roll
like a sleeping bag whenever
he needs rest - though I know
they’ll feel more like an engine
lugged round on my back
when the alarm kicks me out
on Tuesday morning: 

a four-day sentence
till Saturday breaks cover
and I imagine I’m free again.


Epiphany


I’ve flirted with God
for fifty years
but we’ve never gone steady
or even held hands,
just longed across the street
like hooker and john
wondering which one
needs the other the most,

finding with sadness
maybe relief
that we both need to walk away.


20mg


Pancaked today;
flat as a wind
that bends the grass
but doesn’t touch
the trees. They’re fine
up there, facing their green heads
into a camera
whose exposure is so long
only the absent camera-man

will see the final picture
and wonder at the tapeworm
worming its way
through the long grass
on 20mg a day.

 Herald

Herald back herald back--
come hither now my beauteous slithering children
let the calls of the bellsman resound throughout this airy day
do not fear or stop or languish
for in those moments is where you will indeed face despair
you will face the demons that have haunted you
that have always held back beneath your shadow waiting
waiting so that they can plague you again with their memories,
do not fear the things that come naturally to you, do  not fear to
                    speak your mind
for you have never stopped from living this life, and now it is
                    the time to express them-
for as the sun does waver in the sky, and the clouds of deceit
                    have strangled the moon,
ever forth more then now is the time that you have been called
                    to action
 
In this new age of humanimality we must call forth our aching
                    archetypes and gods
Herald the Woodsmen who has crafted these furnishings and
                    boats left for shiprot!
Herald the Ironman who has crafted these old and rusty
                    blades!
Herald forth the Gunsman to lay lead into the rifling bursts of
                    anger!
Herald forward the Philosopher in a time of war with an arrow
                    in chest!
Herald the Prince in flowing gown that as a babe must take to
                    rule!
Herald the Miller who has ground down the wheat for our
                    bread on this glorious day!
Herald the Brewer to lay the wine upon our thirsty and
                    glorious tongues!
whose whispers and hungry breaths are trampling on this well
                   manicured path of lies,
an army of men who have a purpose, and I among them
                   singing there songs of revolt,
Herald the Archer, whos missiles shall sail into the night, strait
                   and true!
Herald the Oarsmen with their backs into the movement of
                   waves around our flight!
Herald the Nigger whose chains have only served to
                   strengthen his bonds of hate!
Herald the Miner who down within the caverns of hell is
                   gaining us ore!
Herald the Reaper to come and clean this battlefield of your
                    children!
Herald back! Herald forth! HERALD BE HEARD
THROUGH THE STREETS OF ALL OF THIS!
 
Herald back the days in which men were men and their desires
                    were that of what they have made
 
its rotting, this sham of an existence, this comfort that you
                      imbibe, these reality shows,
these reality travelling wagons of sex and laughter,
                     materialism and gluttony,
reality for sale!   reality for sale!             buying and bottling,                  
                     churning and spawning
eat your reality this day with a bit of sand from the ocean
 
drink your reality with no threat that it will cease,
for this bottle, this hard tack of reality is endless, for are
                   realities are set to collide
 
and this is the big bang youve been teaching, this is the last
                    sound of a hanged mans descent,
this is the boom that will finally make a difference in your life,
                    boom boom boom, the loud
brilliant bursts of iron and gunpowder, the glorious rebirth of a
                    chaos in motion,
to let the sagging earth bury the dead                                       bury
                    their secrets and social contracts,
bury the ideas and notion that have brought us this horrible
                    facade, bury this complacency,
bury all of our ideologues, bury all of our riches and our
                    failings,
reimagine the map we inherit
from the bones of these lesser sanctioned, from the bones of
                    the fallen wrongs,
for if truth is power, then our messages shall kill millions,
                    our truth will bury your fathers,
your brothers, you closest known ideas, but do not stop, if you
                    stop then you will be buried as well
 
Tied to the millstone of acceptance, we have now finally
                    crystallized that acceptance will not come.
It does not matter whether you do nothing, it does not matter if
                    you have doubted yourself,
it will not matter in the hunt for something new, something
                    chaotic, a burst, boom boom boom!
Aim high to the heavens our orbs and guns, level this
                    terrestrial mess with your tongues of righteousness
call forth all of those that seek to conquer, that seek to find a
                    good within this earth,
for we will never gain anything from the bones of hindus, we
                   shall never attain buddha in cash,
a flower will never see the light of day in these dark times as a
                   flower is supposed to be enjoyed,
destroy your television controlled mind, destroy your internet
                    masturbation sessions, destroy these children,
for these children will learn to destroy us, they will be
                    instructed to do so when we are old and feeble.
 
The new generation of children will not save us. The new
                    generations of this filth will do nothing to solve.
We the last few broken and wicked, the last tie to the older
                   days of humans, must destroy to save ourselves.
 
You cannot sleep enough to be rested for this battle, for sleep
                  will only succumb you to the violence.
You cannot prepare yourself ready for this oncoming
                 onslaught, because they will be heavily prepared.
 
Herald forth ! Herald back oh children of Adam !
We cannot lose our appendages more ferverently, we cannot
                    lose our minds if they inhabit them!
Cut now, Cut often, Cut down those realities around you till
                    there is only but one, you, meagre in survival,
breathing barely, hungry, tired, and staring at it, looking
                    directly at what we have come to create.
And we have only but one option now to save our souls from
their planned destruction, we must fight! raise up now,
high minded, in great numbers, and fight them to they are no
                    longer sharing the same breath we take.
 
You are screaming over the airwaves, you are screaming at the
                  bars, you are screaming at your young ones,
you are from the bottom of your heart tired used up and
                 disgusted with all of this around you.
You are not an irreplaceable cog until they have buried you.
You are a human until you die.
 
I am with you my beautiful brethren of this earth, I am with
                   you in the streets, in the pulpits, in the pits,
I am with you in America, for I sat up all night and talked to
                    her about you, and she hopes that you will listen,
I am here with you now in the solitude, in the dark burdens of
                    uncertainty, I am hear with you aching.
I am here with you in the mountains with your songbirds and
                    cold nights, I am here with you in the riverbeds
snaking around the burdens of coast, I am here with you on
                    the roads ongoing mileage, I am here.
I am here with your mother who wishes with all of her
 omnipotent milk, I am here with your brother hand in hand.
I am here in the lies that you swallow, in the information they
                   spoon feed you,
I am here to take back the spoon.
 
They have taken from you, They have stolen out your heart
                   and cursed it with their evil sorcery.
They have pissed in your throat and told you that it
was ambrosia, they have manufactured your angst, your love.
They have handcuffed you to new economies and titles, They
have convinced     you this is the best way to go.
 
Humans we must converge! We must assemble now! We must
discuss all that has been stolen, and seek to          tear it back.
We must not be worried about kindness, for they have been
                     unkind to you, to all that you possess.
We must not be burdened by the guilt laid upon us by the
supposed sin of the less civilized, WE ARE UNCIVIL.
Civil disobedience has been locked away into a prison state.
Gandhi was left for dead on the railroad tracks.
We must dispose of these tyrants that seek to pigeonhole you,
We must bury their uncontrolled power with ours.
 We have the arms to give, We have the means to destroy. We
                     are the destroyers renewed.
 
We are the hungry nucleus of a blackhole to swallow this
                    bullshit around us.
 
Herald forth ! Herald on ! Scream from your anonymous soul
                    loud that they will no longer control us!
 
 
 
 
                          now! It is time for the murder of control

Coffee Table Romanticisms 

​​Let us fall in love over coffee tables, mend our broken hearts - make hearts
out of coffee foam, bite into bitter chocolate, slip into talks of artsy men - who love wild and forlorn muses only to find themselves again in destitute art and coffee shops.

Let us do art , follow our hearts like teenagers in love who chase wild geese in the metaphorical gardens of Eden, as they break into the greenish aura of aurora skies and
fallback under the auburn trees to mirror themselves in epiphanic rivers like
Gods
in
love.

Let us pour our hearts out of coffee pots, make belief in the world, forget the undoings,
know the world is good, and sleep knowing the truth in words and art.


​

Photo Courtesy :  __lensun__  (Instagram)    

1. On a Manchester day in May

The barking gods humped the lunatic skies of Manchester in May
I sat solving riddles underneath the canopy and you were on the balcony all smirking and smoking
with mischievous dreams and hopeless romantic memories of the past that never was and a future that wouldn't ever come.
I knew it and you knew I knew too.
All choked up with sobbing and reading newspapers and candlelit vigils with pacifism.
Then you were different.
It was like you were born to change and be changed.
You had it in your heart.
All the blueprints and transcripts and text book ideologies.
All of it burned a big blue hole within you.
It didn't break you.
It became you.
In a good way.
On a Manchester day in May

FOR MY OUTLAW LADY

Your brains are beautiful
as the black hair over
those shoulders, a man’s leather jacket
toughening the nowhere night.
What’s next, outlaw lady?
When will you kill the bastard
who lied, shoot the fucker
with a double barrel?
Or kick him in the balls
until he dies? Forget him,
crazy cunt, come with me,
I have money--
we’ll make the day wish
it had wings, and
when the bullets are gone
we’ll steal the moon
and raise hell,
a holiday of lust named for us.



​BULLETS IN THE GARDEN

I hear guns outside the courtyard
and ignore sounds that violate my ears
as I gaze past the mountains.
Soldiers maneuver across
dirt roads and hollyhocks.
I run into the house,
look toward the pool and lawn,
and hope they’re not full of bodies.
I have insurance that I’ve imported
from a fairyland of blood and money:
my flowers that dazzle maimed children
who leap over my iron fence each day,
whose bandages are the color of jasmines.
I’ve welcomed these immigrants hundreds
of times as I’ve felt rifle smoke
dance with the orphan air.
When the soldiers seize me,
I’ll give them the flowers
that will outlive these
bullets in the garden.



I DON’T CARE ANYMORE
 
 Tonight I met a man obsessed with finding a true love.
His eyes gingered with Librium
and his voice cracked like walnut shells.
He rattled on, a windmill fool
with his mouth falling out of a mad heart.
We drank with two older women.
He sidled up to one like a jockey to a mare:
She smiled, a brunette Jayne Mansfield,
and I listened, wished I were in China.
I began to guzzle booze.
The drunks were louder than horn toads.
I had to leave but couldn’t.
The room was a fog of preachers
who recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards.
The cop cars wailed the night away.
I don’t care anymore.
I beg to define jealousy and kick its ass.
I don’t give a damn if I’m bitter as a Macbeth witch,
If every beauty is stained with battery acid.
Do you care if the snow is fallout?
Would you roll like a hubcap down an alley?
Shall I believe in number two any longer?
Whether taxicabs turn off their taillights?
Shall I pat the waitress on the butt and get the hell out of here,
Be the chrome of a chickenshit yellow Nomad,
Or remember sharks who drink blood like rosé?
Does anybody care anymore
about the leaning titties of a sweatered girl,
Paul Revere’s true destination, or Mona Lisa’s smile?
Do you care whether I’ll think
of my mother when she’s dead?
I’ll say to these strangers as I drift out of here,
Do you care?
Then I’ll beg myself to stop and yell,
Nobody cares anymore.
Yes, I’ll be the survivor who remembers
my ancestors didn’t care,
who whisper in my ears,
We don’t care anymore
until words are echoes
and I’m kidding myself
about finding a true love.



TERRITORY
 
 
When two assholes meet
collision is certain.
The man with a trimmed beard
and a swastika tattoo on his arm
argued with my friend
about a rider in a painting,
whether Mongol or Afghan.
Matthew, the artist, quietly disagreed,
but the man with the big belly
pressed his point,
and butted between the painter and me.
Who gives a fuck? I muttered
and he glared to answer, I do.
I told him that was his problem
and sat on a table.
He glared Who the fuck are you?
and his finger curled toward outside.
I replied I was a lover.
Too smart to tangle with a man
crazier than I am,
I told him, Go ahead, kill me,
chop my fingers into snacks,
I don’t give a damn.
He didn’t believe
the truth in my face, nodded,
We’ll see, we’ll see, yeah.
The owner pleaded for peace,
and the man with my name
asked, Who are you?
Before I walked away,
I glared into his eyes and calmly replied,
American Maniac.



TRUBO
 
 
Known as Mouth of the South,
he conducts interviews
with anybody who listens,
loving to hear the sound
of his voice reverberate
through Pitiful Hall.
A talented professional student,
Trubo discusses the length
of Rasputin’s prick, the number
of cadets in a military school,
or the shadows in film noir
with a flair and drawl so pronounced
only the deafest ears can’t hear.
The loudest voice dominates.
He doesn’t care that teachers
laugh about him behind his back,
dodge into johns
when they see him coming.
Fuck ‘em, he states
like a fired anchorman,
Let ‘em eat the sun’s asshole.
His gift of gab is especially handy
when he pursues a sweet young thing
with hair the color of baked carrots,
eyes blue as a new yacht,
and the charming parts of her body
No other definition of the holy grail.
Not to him: a trend-setter, he’ll
go after that pussy any way he can--
braid beads for ankle bracelets,
mix his latest concoction in the blender,
or walk the streets with trousers rolled
above bare feet. He rubs her shoulders.
He respects her as he holds court
in the duplex littered with books.
Younger than his baby sister,
she listens more intently than
the surly rivals who snicker
at his obvious perceptions
about Iraq Veterans or
the local English Department.
His latest obsession knows
less what to expect than he:
this is his hundredth déjà vu seduction.
He smiles behind busy lips
as he smirks about later that evening.
He’s full of himself,
ready, a kid on a spinning carousel.
The nickname fits him
like the rubber in his blue jean pockets.




THE MOONLIGHT’S GLOW
 
 
Journalists pegged me The Butcher
of Kosevo, but sniper buddies
preferred the rich moniker of Achilles
for no apparent reason. Now I’m a bus
driver in sealskin coat and racing gloves,
my hands steering the huge circle
behind the dashboard, and during passenger
pickups I puff on Pall Malls, my walrus
mustache hiding lips that beg for a beard,
that relax, then fidget before I swat a slow
fly. After the nightmare of my longshot
kills, I traveled to islands, lagoons,
swallowed vinegar and syrup for my
arthritis, quarreled with myself
whether to scuttle a wedding ring
and the woman who came with it,
and then I arrived in Fairbanks, searching
for new conquests. I tape my memoirs
in The Peach Pit Hotel downtown
with its shag carpets and blend in nicely,
like meat in a freezer. One day I’ll transcribe
my horrors into a book that’ll inspire
new warriors to shoot straight in drills,
never waver in battle, and fool
the cops all criminals hate. Then
I’ll bask in the moonlight’s
glow and gladly skip the next war.

​1. The Creation of Man
 
(after the painting by Marc Chagall)
 
 How to be a bird
or just a man
when there were no birds
or men before
no template to follow
no 3D copier
no DNA
no god to make us look
like him.
 
Did we and birds
emerge complete
with feathers, wings
and opposable thumbs
or metamorphosize
from ants and humble bees
or ever-so-slowly evolve
from dinosaurs
and anthropoids with tails?
 
I, for one,
would rather believe
that birds were always birds
and men were men
even as
the Big Bang echoed
through the universe
with the voice of angels
and then a thud.

***