Toby

Let me tell ya,
that Toby, 
he was a wiley one. 

He’d come running at the sight of you.
Ol’ Toby would lick your face as if it were covered in bacon grease. 
You’d have to pry that boy off ya, and whack him one to keep him from humpin’ your leg. 

Ol’ Toby’s gone now. I always figured his life would have been easier for him if he were born a dog and not a man.

The Bath

I examine my naked self,
the lines,
the pigmentation,
the scars of two operations, 
the grey mark on my stomach 
where Pablo Figueroa stabbed
me with a pencil in 8th grade.

My naked self,
submerged.

I push my palms firmly
against my eye sockets,
it’s 1978 again.

I’m scarless.

A raging hard on,
I want to jerk off,
ejaculate into the water,
watch the ghost like dance,
dance.

It’s 1978 again.

Angels

Angels.

Hardware

Do not try to go in through the “Out door” at the “Orange” hardware store.

They’ve got hired guns there to point you in the right direction.

Once inside I spoke to the girl in the electrical section.
She appeared to know less than I,
and I don’t know a pig’s ass from a beef and bacon burger.

Finally purchased some  energy savin’ lightbulbs.
Took ‘em home and duct taped them to an old dashboard I found in the landfill, hooked it up to a car battery, now I got a bona fide spaceship in my living room.

Goodbye Earth, you shithole!

The Stand-in

 

 

Wrapped in a black garbage bag,
poetry can be dangerous,
brutal, pure American hardcore.

 
This is my weapon,
you want some of this?
But damn,
I saw him do things,
that I couldn’t do,
my stand-in.
It’s all about cubic inches,
horsepower,
full throttle,
No holds barred, pure muscle.

 

 

 
Destruction!

 
Words mean shit to the cherries,
the soft girls,

with the buttery wings.

 

 

 

The Butterflies’ Graveyard

The voices whisper,
like the sound of butterfly wings,
swept up in a storm.

Hushed,
the fear of being too loud,
the sound of thousands,
shaking, in silence,
murmuring folk,
half the earth blown away.

Intoxicated,
I pour red wine upon white wings,
crush hues of yellow between my palms,
paint my face in colored dust,
revile in death,
a beauty undiminished.

Senseless, upon the sod,
emblazoned,
my breath disturbs their stillness.

The legions,
flightless on their own,
live once more,
if only in illusion.

Oblivion their realm,
Clothed in butterfly wings,

I have become their King.

An Oyster Shell

“The eyes”,

the drunken shaman,

choked,

black stumped teeth,

alligator breath,

shaking a bone,

“sing the song of misery,

rejoice in fire,

revive the ghosts,

of women twisted in ecstasy,

create the mythology.”

My eyes,

framed by deep creases,

like those on the underside of a rattlesnake,

cut from the corner of blood-shot milkiness,

to die among grey thistle.

Bathed in scorpion’s venom.

A thousand beers and sleepless nights,

piss weak,

a shaman’s curse.

All the print,

on everything,

these days is too small.

Damn.

To pluck a new pair,

from a sleeping baby.

Or scoop fresh,

with an oyster shell,

from the skull of a stone drunk indian.

War

War.

Cafe Lattes

The girls swept the porch
in a frenzied waltz,

while the ” touched” man,

stained and bruised,

clapped.

 

 

The spectacle that was the murdered dog,

shot through a dozen times,

dragged through town,

was politely discussed.

 

 

Hushed tones,  cracked lips ,

gnarled handed,  cafe lattes.

 
The ghost of Johnny Cash
passed through the room.

 
Ask the blind girl,

she saw it all.

Angels

Don’t poke him with a stick,

nor deny his sister.

photo by hungrybison

 

Beware those beyond the woods,
don’t go near them,
they will dump you into the mud by the river’s edge,
they will return to scatter your bones,
they’re angels.

Darken your homes,
mark your thresholds
with a wide brush,
He’s coming.