pink flip-flop kid
swimming the magma rage you walk
down a street howling soundless madness.
you stop to think.
think about what?
an escape? a medicine?
a Jesusing cure?
and, there he is.
a filthy kid in oversized pink flip-flops
is sitting on the ground playing with
something even filthier than himself.
he hits you with a gap toothed grin.
ten years old at best,
and already broken.
he’s not evil or malignant.
but, you know he’ll see the inside of a jail cell
sooner than he’ll see the inside
of a happy family.
you make a paper airplane out of a dollar bill
and sail it down to the kid.
maybe it’s enough to buy a sandwich
or a gumball or some-damn-thing
less filthy than he is.
you look up, and see a man.
a walking catastrophe headed straight for you.
his green eyes are sharp as scalpels,
but his mouth hangs slack, betraying
a lack of something deep and necessary.
he’s the one.
that’s exactly what this pink flip-flop kid will blossom
and he’s the one that popped
the top on your volatile mind
and set you swimming
the magma rage.
you hand him a crumpled 20.
he hands you a small plastic bag.
but, it’s not what you wanted.
not what you asked for,
so there’s no “thank you.”
just a nod, and a long walk back
to some place quiet and dark.
a place to smoke a substandard joint,
empty a worn out soul
and try to forget this rotten
coffins are built from days like this.
but, not my coffin.
I’m not dead yet
you bastard world.
for practical purposes,
my eyes suck at twilight.
can’t see much. so I sit on the porch
sipping hot tea, smoking bowls,
generally loafing and sorting through mental ruins.
then some weird internal shit
I can see whatever I want. not the surface of things;
not the skin, but the stuff beneath it.
and, I see you:
I see you flirting with flaccid art mongers
on the dining porch of some uppity
I see you smoking cigarettes and
making unreadable faces
at manic depressive wolfmen
dressed up as paint-splattered sheep-shit intellectuals.
this is not jealousy.
it’s not even concern.
just a better tragedy to watch than the ones on TV
I do miss you sometimes.
but, only in little pieces:
I miss your smile, but not what that smile meant.
I miss your voice.
but, not the words you said.
I even miss the touch of your skin.
but, not the price I paid to taste that cookie.
you’re like my favorite song being played
by a lousy cover band
in a burning slaughterhouse
full of preachers and politicians
arguing about road maintenance and
I’d rather go deaf than to dance that dance again.
bowl’s cashed, night’s falling
and I’m tired of this miserable moment.
guess I’ll go masturbate to an exercise infomercial
or read the owner’s manual
for my new weed whacker.
wonder if I have any lunch meat left
for a dinner sandwich.
any decent wine?
I don’t know.
I wish something would catch fire
or that a meteor would crash into my house.
every thought I have makes me feel
maybe a stroke or a heart attack?
but, then they’d find me dead on my front porch
still thinking of you.
what an embarrassing fucking eulogy.
guess I’ll have to go on living
until I can find something worth dying for.
oh good! red wine dregs and turkey on rye.
and, here, I thought
I was cursed.
a dragon in a cereal bowl singing folk songs written by dead people
ghosts floating on marshmallows dodging the spoon whispering to the dragon making fun of my bed hair
then, the news takes off her shirt and lies spill out in colors and screams
it’s a strange morning
like a real dinosaur showing up to an elementary school to tell the science teacher he has it all wrong
or a man complaining to the doctor about how awful his own semen tastes
sometimes I laugh just because I’m here and because “here” is a ridiculous word that means nothing
I think elephants know more than they’re telling us
perhaps they could explain this singing fucking dragon
or why I am here and
whatever the hell that means
late for work again.
fucking bastard dragon!
Awkward Man at the Window
Fluid frame of cigarette smoke. Eyes darting, squinting, Peering into the Warm bubble. That cluster of Life, There, in the Middle: That’s pure Love; The Real shit, ya know? Friendship, Fellowship Without greed and judgement. Four balls of white Light Equally sharing their Electricity; A steady, luminescent arc. Wait. What’s he doing Over there alone? Looks like he’s been poisoned. Watching others Live As he awaits his own Death. No. He’s looking at something. Oh shit! It’s her. Is she bending over? What’s she fooling with Down there? Must’ve dropped something. Well, if that’s what He’s looking at, Then he’s an asshole. But, wait. I’m looking, too. Am I an asshole? No. I’m not thinking Anything inappropriate. Or am I? That red cloth sliding up Tan, well-muscled flesh: It is quite stirring. Damn! I am an asshole! But, he’s worse! He’s always been Kind of Weird. I wonder how fast his heart Is going. Wow, that’s a creepy thing To wonder about, Isn’t it? Wait. Is she? Could she be doing that On purpose? She’s been bent over For a long time now. Maybe she’s hoping For watchers. No. She’s cool. Probably just digging In her purse for gum or something. He’s the Strange one: Steadily staring. Looks like a cat watching Fish swim in a bowl. Kind of getting chilly out here. You know, Some people would consider It dangerous: How much I Love and Trust Everyone in that room. Even that weird fucker. It is a constant undeniable Vulnerability. I mean, sure: They’re all screwed up In one way or another. But, so am I. So is everybody I suppose. But, I’ve never met better people. Once, my dad told me, “Love ain’t always pretty, But it’s always Love, And nothing’s more beautiful Than that.” I miss him. Damn. I’d better get Back in There. I wonder if it’d be rude To grab another bowl Of that potato salad. That shit is so good! I think she puts drugs in it. Screw it. Smoke session over. Time to get back To the Real Warmth. Time to share Some Electricity.
in the bathroom mirror,
practiced my reptilian face morphing
for about an hour
easier to do
after 3 mountain dews
and a cigarette
got rid of a sinister blackhead as well
getting better at this
I’m gonna try to sprout bat wings
Hot Water Casserole
It’s a trick of the fluttering heart.
She only sees me in reds & blues.
My face feels like it’s melting
into several songs about the sky.
The carnage is thick, blue and runny.
Makes me wish I could eat ice cream
with the soles of my tired feet.
The old man that used to sing to me died,
but I have seen remnants in the reflection
of the sun on that lake behind the house.
She said his parents were aliens.
I wonder if I could learn to swim
in those clouds shaped like overripe melons,
and sometimes people forget how to cry.
But, the worms can’t feel the hook going in,
and the words flow like awkward dreams
of shaved kittens forming a punk band
that would fit on the top of a large cake.
If you don’t understand me
it’s because those teeth are too big
for that size mouth and other nudes.
When I’m nervous I often fall from
the realm of reality and pain.
An old church collapses
and I wonder if it has something to do
with the sinister way her smile curls.
It’s a trick of the fluttering heart.
She only sees me in reds & blues.
The kind of light that bursts through windows
when you’re holding in inappropriate laughter.
You speak in spokes
Holding hub to dark rim
That spins hard the wheel
Of my madness
Your voice: a vice
Vine climbing the vein
Black waxy seal
On my sadness
In comedy’s cage
Raging to fly
Clipped wings clapping
Captured and claimed
In body and name
Vexed by love’s hexed
Trapped in your gears
Gripped deep by your fear
Know I’ve been slain
But guts betray brain
Soul will not cease
What You See in My Eyes
a forest fire
that wishes it could
be a spark