Cloaked in a faded huntin’ coat,
from the tips of his fingers,
flames shoot out of his asshole.
His stench wakes the wet dogs sleeping in the alley,
makes the flies dance and the
maggots go crazy.
But he flys on golden wings,
right up to the Sun and back.
the blind see,
the crippled kids run in the street.
Love flows down
down his greasy chest,
onto the earth,
creating a shimmering river
where all the sinners swim.
the smell when I open the fridge,
the dreams in my toilet.
I could eat off the floor,
out of the dog’s dish.
No bath for a week,
It rained for two days,
and I passed out in the hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom.
There came a moment that I thought I wanted more;
just a little to help me get my “shit
Then, the moment I wanted nothing more than the absence of it;
to help me get my ” shit together”.
from the tailpipe,
A 1946 Ford Super Deluxe
placed on this highway by God.
There’s a thunder head on the horizon.
The young girl in the backseat
sweats in a sundress,
messed up hair and braless,
carelessly she spills her beer.
Forever tied down to a memory
of humidity, pelting rain, and the smell of pussy.
There’s a dance of bullets goin’ on,
pings on the sidewalk and all.
Performed, with an accompanying light show,
pure dinner theature.
I want in.
I want to blow out a case of ammunition,
take a bit of plaster out of the walls,
break a window or two,
To whirl blindly,
and squeeze her off.
Who cares if ya hit anything,
the people moved out years ago.
“Steak night” at “the Cuckoo Lounge”,
pajama clad refugees,
dance their food in slow motion
across their plates,
cut their porterhouses with a butter knife.
Heat blowing full-bore through the vents above their heads,
licks at their hair,
makes them almost look “alive”.
The wisps create the illusion of being outside,
under the clouded skies.
There’s a full moon behind those clouds,
big and bright,
they just can’t see it.
I had just finished piercing the snow with a warm stream of piss.
when she arrived in her death trap.
from the dash,
’75 Ford Bronco,
she rescued me.
In possession of nothing more than ten bucks fifty , and a couple of beers,
I was the wealthiest man alive.
I’m sick of boxes, boxes, boxes everywhere. Comin’ back in military planes, in the darkness,
I pick flowers, right out of other people’s gardens.
I look at their beauty for a while,
then take them home.
I put them in a box under my bed.
There are hundreds of them in a box that once contained a pair of Converse All Stars.
Hundreds of them, all in one box.
Hundreds of them.
Some nights I just want some eggs.
Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee.
I want to sit in a Big Boy’s or some old Howard Johnson’s from the ’70′s
I actually want to be there,
in the past,
not as I was then but as I am now.
I want to,
eat off of orange tables,
disturb the waitresses with stories on what the future holds,
drink pots of coffee from a bottomless cup.
Look at my reflection in the window, and consider never leaving.
Filed under History, poetry
I wish I were a cowboy,
well you know,
big silver buckle above my ” weapon”.
hand tooled Mexican bastards.
Sittin’ in some Parisian ” nickel bar”
smellin’ of cow shit
while young girls eye me and contemplate makin’ a move.
the size of smoke,