4 poems

*at Deuce Coupe

where empires go to die

waiting for progress in the human race
waiting for the Empire to fall while
Ho Chi Minh laughs from his mausoleum
Uncle Ho was one tough little shit
with a goatee
he told the Yanks
“We’ll fight one day longer than you will”
and goddam, he was right
what’s more
it seems the spirit of Westmoreland
has possessed the minds
of the American generals in Afghanistan
they keep repeating the same
old bullshit--
“Just a few thousand more troops
and we’ll win this thing.”




*3 at Eviscerator Heaven

you won’t read this in the papers

I shoulda been a 60s radical
throwing rocks and bombs
punching cops between acid trips
at the ‘68 Democratic Convention

my only weapon is my computer
the words I type
are Molotov cocktails
that I hurl through the windows
of the empty rancid skulls
of the American Right
(I know it ain’t much)

congenitally stupid nation
might-makes-right
kill-the-poor
social Darwinist fascism
iron-fisted police state
that woulda cracked even Lenin

this country needs a real revolution

not another Founding Fathers
bullshit revolution

but a real revolution
led by someone named
Castro or Chavez
or maybe even Trotsky.




turning on the light of learning

well, there were the dyke gym teachers
the dyke English teachers
and the ex-Marine who became a teacher
cuz he couldn't find a real job
most of them were unambitious
content to rot their lives away
surrounded by the dumb teenage mob
and the worst were the teachers
who tried to inspire the kids
but it's your parents and the kids
who'll crush you
the teachers don't count for shit
and to all my former teachers
all I have to say is:
you're less than the acne on my neck.




abstract art and the defeat of Socialism

old men walking down the street
walking towards death

lost in a country not my own
I'm walking towards something myself
but I don't know what it is

it ain't right to be led around
like a dog on a leash
(I should be so lucky)

the blackbirds cry
as the sun dances on cold white air
there's people walking down the street
in Russia
talking in Russian
(it seems unbelievable)

as the blackbirds tear their guts out
there's dark matter
swimming through my head

and for a moment
I can forget.

4 poems -- Dec. 2009

*2 at Black-Listed Magazine

snake

my hatred
like a black rose
twisted round my heart

my insanity
like barbed wire
tearing at my brain

I’ve got crooked legs
and diabetes too

I’ve got $20 in my wallet

I’ve got 33 years
smeared like shit on
a blank page

I’ve got a photo
of a pair of boobs someone
sent me by e-mail

no face, no name

I wonder who the fuck she is?




fuck everybody

my grandfather was
an asshole
even when sober
but when he got
drunk every night
on rakia
that’s when his
demons came out:
screaming at
everyone
his bald head with
a Hitler mustache
looking like
the Devil himself
till he finally
crawled into bed
round midnight
and slept. his inner
demons wouldn’t
let him be and
I wasn’t there when
he finally croaked
so I’m just guessing
what his
dying words were.




*in issue #11 of Calloused Hands

yellow eyes

my head dripping sweat
on the desk
my mind dripping
green bile
the nightmare flies
and the worms of my heart
maybe there’s other
lonely insane people who suffer
as much as I do
and I’m sure they’re all poets
I’m still fighting the Turks
kill the lights cuz
the Russians are coming
heed America’s
national paranoia doctrine
or they’ll throw you in prison
without trial
I’m a crazy person in a land
of loonies
feeling right at home.




Jerusalem is your holy land but not mine

I’m old enough to remember
when they were still putting out music
on cassettes
I’m even old enough to remember vinyl
and Dawn Wells in Gilligan’s Island reruns
back then
there was hope in the world
at least for most people
before America’s endless wars
and global economic crises
now I’ve given up trying
just lie on the couch all day
while the spiders wrap their victims
in the corners
I’ve given up on sunsets and rainbows
and basic human decency
just waiting for the monster
with the body of a lion
the head of a rat
and darkness pouring from its eyes.

4 poems -- Nov. 2009

*at Zygote in My Coffee

upon realizing things will never get any better

dusk falling through the windows
I’m half asleep
thinking of little girls jumping rope
of Hitler and his dog
pyramids of human skulls in Cambodia
and the dead rats in my head.
a wasted life
my screaming parents
the lousy jobs in warehouses and
supermarkets and restaurant kitchens
sitting in my room, the sunlight
dripping cancer from the walls.
I remember that time I had to walk home
in the rain down a broken discarded street
white litter everywhere
thinking maybe the Gods gave up
and quit trying.




*in Zygote in My Coffee "Special" print edition

brownstone jungle

I played
basketball
afterschool
with all the
Irish kids.

we’d watch
the Irish girls
walk home in
pairs from the
Catholic girls’
school in their
mini-skirts.

we’d go home
before night
fell cuz that’s
when all the
muggers came
out to hunt.

there’s parts
of Manhattan
that go empty
soon as night
falls.

New York is
the city that
never sleeps
and they turn
all their shit
into musicals.




*at Word Riot

brittle

nothing
to do but sit
in a chair and
look around
the room
as nothing
disturbs
the silence
not even the
maggots
in my head
and hope
no one is
looking in
through the
curtains
or through
the asshole
in the sky
as the walls
crash down
and the dogs
move in
for the kill.




*at Eviscerator Heaven

the proles

when I see
a white trash family
in the supermarket

worn-out old clothes
worn-out people

by the looks of their faces
not too well-read
no working-class
intellectuals

they look beat-up by life

I imagine how right-wing
and patriotic they must be

I feel both contempt
and pity for them

especially the kids
they won’t know any better
never had a chance
to start with

I imagine the trailer
they must live in

and I could laugh about it all
but I don’t.

4 poems -- Oct. 2009

*an excerpt from my short chap Threading the Eyeball at the back of Zygote in My Coffee print issue #7

the Arthur Bremer poem

a young man
sitting up in
bed all night
naked staring
at his penis

scrawling page
after page of
endless insane
ramblings
in his notebook

trying to decide
whether to shoot
himself or the
UPS guy or the
mayor

listening to the
same album
over and over
after shaving
his head

after mailing out
pages ripped
from porn mags
mailing them
to people he
doesn’t know

feeling
insignificant
as a hanger
in the closet

unknown
to the world

and the world
better hope
he stays that
way.




*at Opium Poetry 2.0

venceremos

the miliary junta
in Honduras
is still in power
and it seems there's nothing
anyone can do about it.

looks like Mao was right:

power does flow
from the barrel of a gun.

it's a sick, sad world
where the unjust prevail

beating down the poor
with their rifle butts.

all I can say is:

fuck you, Uncle Sam

and your Honduran cronies

and if you're winning
cuz "God" is on your side
well then fuck him too.




*2 at Zygote in My Coffee

fuck...

America
John Wayne
Jesus
the morning alarm
$6 an hour
pots and pans
time cards
shift managers
Ronald Reagan
Patty Reagan
all the teachers who told me
i’d never amount to shit
(they were right)
missionaries who ring my doorbell
at 9 in the morning
the people who put up the skyscrapers
that fuck the sky over Manhattan
football, baseball
your wife, your niece
your teenage daughter
high school cheerleaders
small-town values
little pink houses
the military-industrial complex
that rules America and the world
the butchers at My Lai
the butchers at Wounded Knee
the policewoman with the big ass
who arrested me
cops, judges, probation officers
rap and metal
and most of all
you.




they call it wage slavery

getting to work tired
feeling like a zombie
but they make you sweat
so the owners can buy
more cars, bigger yachts

the two 15-minute breaks
were an insult
the ½ hour lunch a joke

i’d sit there staring at
the blue walls in the
non-smoking break room
dreaming of revolution
and teenage girls licking
each other’s pussies
Lenin with a pair of
busty Russian blondes.

the dreams of the meek
are simple and poetic

the dreams of the meek
are beautiful.

5 poems -- July 2009

*at Shoots and Vines

long hot summer

words crawling the pages
like black ants

the meaning eludes me.

it’s a vicious summer
the sun barking like a dog.

there’s 2 workmen fixing the roof

the little guy sings
shot my wife
gotta get outta town.

it’s a hot vicious summer

the flowers are choking

and even Bukowski don’t help.




fireworks

my co-workers at the supermarket
(my fellow slaves)
didn’t seem to realize
they were being exploited
they were always cheery
always showed up on time

i often said to myself
don’t they get it?

there was one woman who worked there
40 hrs. a week and 35 hrs. a week
at another place

when did she sleep?

maybe they all knew the truth
but kept those smiles on their faces
in spite of everything
(maybe i’m giving them too much credit)

i was always late for work
always clocked out early
wasn’t interested in promotion—
the managers worked 60 hrs. a week

every 4th of July they gave us each
a small American flag

i told someone
they can keep their fucking flags
and pay us more money.




they’re watching you

the Feds went after the hippies
cuz what good are young
Americans who
only want peace and love
instead of killing people
in Vietnam?

so they unleashed the FBI
pitbulls trained in state
terror, set them loose on
the flower children
and the pitbulls tore them
to shreds.

in the 70s the young people
were still getting stoned
but they didn’t care about
anything so it was OK.

in the 80s the citizens
were reduced to consumers
and if you were too stoned
to flip burgers at McDonald’s
they sent you off to prison
for 10 years, paroled
all the murderers and rapists
to make room for ya.

it’s been the same ever since
and the 60s will never happen
again. we’re just riding out
the spiral of America’s
broken wings.




sweet Loretta

born on
the wrong side
of town, among
the trailers

had fun the only
way she could

getting it from boys
and men
(it didn’t matter)
in the back seats
of cars, the booze
and the stars
pouring down

her mother waiting
to scream at her
she’d stagger
home when the
stars were
drunk and sleepy

telling stories
‘bout sweet Loretta.




snow bunny

14 foster homes in 17 years

she hopped a Greyhound
to get away
from the last one

in the city
she met a black pimp
who pretended to be her friend
and put her to work

black pimps call white girls
“snow bunnies”

but she didn’t wanna do it
tried to leave
so he beat her
raped her, killed her

the pimp’s doing life

and dammit, she was only a kid.