it’s the little poisons she thought as he spoke about trials foisted upon him as a child by the needs of selfishness and delirious desires of unbridled women his skin pocked with stab wounds stitched up in classic county hospital overworked student staff he groaned in self pity he’d forgotten why he was there in the first place we spoke for 23 minutes more then parted as patient and professional
i have not felt well for years it seems i started to see the ghosts in the trees and broken lemons on the ground at midnight the welts in psyche begin to throb and i get up to walk in our great metropolitan cemetary for the crematorium cleaners don’t show up till noon my eyes cast a glance unto the sea only to witness the horsemen looking for the premature broken seals littered there by pissed off angels with head bowed James Dean style i wonder if Eve is in heaven i see helicopters pointing spotlights on the damned while with each new grave stone painted on these walls my scars form roots and i wander less each time i see the carnage
i’m feelin’ like a blue steel gun
with my fine determined sharp lines
my edges separate the somethin’ from the nothin’
and the come-hither handlin’ parts
sleek momma eye candy deluxe
making genitalia of all denomination shape and size
feel like a super daddy fuckin’ stud
i’m feeling like a blue steel gun
caught between your palm and thumb
a dialysis rig for your bad juice blood
my nuts bolts springs and inner workin’s
the physics and reasons in me aching
of no interest to you your heart or your mind
i’m feelin’ like a blue steel gun
remember in that case where you found me
promises dowries certificated truths
stroking of the barrels looking into soot
my trigger and your raging accusin’ fingers
you offered as my wedding band
i’m feelin’ like a blue steel gun
cast out after years of deeds gone wrong
silent spitting fire of your tongue
looking out my winda’ late at night
wonderin’ why you are the way you are
we chameleons tempering our feelin’s
showcased on a devil’s iron eye
cus we’re both rusted raw on the inside
revolutions will ultimately fail because we have an ego
Zimmy has an old soul
if you look at his eyes
they are other worldly
the color of Earth’s face
from up in space
it means just what is
but when i heard him this morning
while drinking my mud
these words telegraphed
out from Alexa .1
“Oh my name it ain’t nothin’
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I was taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side”
the shame i felt
rose to waterlines of my
green lined eyes
and the liquid it spilleth over
perhaps it’s the hormones
or the brow beat quarantine
and my cat she ate the dog’s food
but i couldn’t tell her to quit
shaking it off
turning the vacuum on
the dog he shakes his
fluffy white tail
and my thoughts run asunder
white hot sun beaming
brown wood flooring
a meeting of the titans
debacled by the cat
does God pick sides
Nutella
fruit
lavash
rye bread
ramen
and a good fuck while i’m on top
chewing on ice
these things that i like
why am i this way
could it be in black vain
that i ask these strange questions
a dandelion of thoughts
cast into the humidity
answers might or might not
germinate
does God get to decide
from where do i find
recourse for sinning
early i rise
eating my heart out
doing what’s right
one moment gets wasted
my faith goes in haste
my spirit is stuck wild horses help me am i on God’s side
good morning mother i’m inside of your womb this is
the first time that i’ve noticed it it’s blue with
gray cotton candy covering father Sun drenches me with Holy
Light and spindly arms grow strong my legs regenerated it feels good to be
my eyes held captive by the metamorphosis of the Cecil a born again building with the stench of human history between its concrete bones no longer a child not yet at the biological end the choices i’ve made dumbfound the soul but if viewed through a lens in the night that i’m alive is sheer bewilderment in the hustle of her of him of them i silently record fragments of life that are not my own if i do it long enough my old memories will be pushed out a tender girl walking her pink bellied pug is a better replacement for watching the forensics team rip open the rape kit or a child chasing a moth is better than being reminded of the day your mother died or when lovers kiss by the stop light is better than when the needle broke in the arm then my pupils chose to focus on a single mossy brick Artie in the 40’s swinging clarinets booze loosed women and ripoff con men coca cola lollipops the book says a time to laugh or cry to live or die the last is nonnegotiable
pain without reason you said i understood immediately but Hank aren’t we born into this situation
forever we seek to understand is pain the ultimate secret knowledge Hank you’re there with Buddha is that what he found
women understand but in the end we are all human what’s between our legs is incidental
i’ve stood on city sidewalks on the streets you’ve lived on and everything is the same the rat race is quiet in most places
i love watching the angels downtown we are a rainbow of gray brown and black
some in the name of ethics money and pretense call it trauma or grieving or processing events
to be beat raped tortured sodomized insulted belittled ignored and cast aside drugged whipped lied to and left to die some of us in shame and lies in the most dangerous of nuclear families
Hank you’ve been away from me remember DeLongpre i used to stay there too and how many more places we have been it’s been so very long
your thoughts and absolute surrender to the madness of our lives you painted beauty in it’s natural form although it wasn’t what they thought
hey baby since you’re up there in the clouds can you ask the Main Man for me when you aren’t too busy now
if the reason for our mortal pain is so we will seek Him out
the sun slides down
lays her golden head
on Dodger mountain
i look around the apartment
notice that i don’t have much
just a few books
electronic essentials
some cooking utensils
work files and water color trays
an old nonoperational
Bell and Howell
and i wonder
was it ever
my intention
to live like an old
widowed bitter sailor or
to be a neat little wife
to have douching schedules
and cook kosher Shabbat dinners
and worship at the west side Temple
roll with the punches like ladies do
claw at my chest with dignity
and gasp at the lukewarm horror
that Stanley cheated on Sherryl
while my praised dentist husband
works her very late most nights
or was it ever my intention
to be rich and famous
with lovers of all intersections
and gleefully snort exuberant amounts of blow
while getting handcuffed away to the station
wearing my sexy Nirvana ripped collar t shirt
now stuffed away in my mid week LA night
freckled with hoarse tooting car horns
and blinking half dead street lights
i breathe deeply and smile
wondering what my intentions
will be when i grow up
and painfully emancipate from this
spiritually bereft confusing mess
that squeezes me tight
as she coyly stands
quietly in front of
that old thrift store
Bell and Howell
Buk it’s 2020
my hero Hanky baby
and i’m still alive
these last few days
i’ve surveyed her face
our whore saint city
don’t fret she loves us still
these last few days
i’ve driven by
the schools i’ve been in
i don’t remember a damned thing
my first day of pre school
i was late
on account my dad had to wait
in the Mobil lines for five hours
hey Buk
do you remember
these last few days
every grade year the same old shit
the Pilgrims the marches the maths the farces
the Nina the Pinta the Santa Maria
Sesame Street Hee Haw Fat Albert and Lawrence Welk
and by the time Ronnie Raygun came around
i was branded diagnosed exposed and pigeonholed
the patina of fine psychobullshitary
casted on my soul
these last few days
intuitively speaking Buk
i don’t feel its right to blame
after all i have a conscience
id ego and a touch of naughtiness too
i don’t want to go down that way
remember the time over on Las Palmas Ave
when i called the principal
the devil’s panty liner
i had more class
than to just call her a knit wit
verbal theatrics have been
my little blue bird
these last few days
my bones hurt more
i linger by the antioxidants
and pay some attention
to the collagen talks
my hair line fractures
from the days of Face
are bald and angry
so i take turmeric supplements
during the day
these last few days
the stains of my sins
are rinsing away
leaving a fall hued patina
glazed on my spirit
these last few days Buk
the beer bottles on the streets
cigarette butts and paper sheets
blowing in the wind
make me feel sentimental
where has most of my life gone
is this what happiness is
to feel the bumps upon my skin
the knuckles of my hands
being cupped by my finger tips
as i walk under the bridge
where the many roads
to numbness took me
these days i swear Buk
i have felt
an orgasmic magnificence
flow through my veins
but there are still
some challenges
words less spoken 