Saturday, March 21, 2009

no beef w/god today

i have no beef w/god today
it feels weird
i guess it's b/c it's the second day of spring
& the sky is blue
& i saw a few buds on branches
& i don't have to put the key into the ignition
& there's wine
& cigarettes
& a woman singing in french
on the radio
& this white page
is getting filled up
quicker than the ashtray
yes, i have no beef w/god today
my dangling guts pushed back in
& sewn up beneath the sutures
of all these illusions

Thursday, March 19, 2009

happy deathday to you

the reaper will
make a cake of yr body
one day

a happy 'deathday' cake

he'll squeeze some feces
from a colostomy bag
like a baker
& write yr name on
yr chest in cursive
maybe create a little
tombstone next to it

it'ill say in oozing brown icing

& then he'll jab a lit cigar
into your navel
where the umbilical once
was rooted

& the gray folds of ash
will glow & grow

then he'll whisper-sing
into yr ear:
happy deathday to you
happy deathday to you
happy deathday dear ______
happy deathday to you

& the worms will sing along
as they bang the butts of their forks
hungry for dessert

& you'll get one wish
before you blow out the cigar

& what might that be?

then the reaper will take
his sickle
& divide you up
as the worms line up
w/their little empty plates

& they'll come back for seconds
of course

& somewhere yr wish will drop
through space like a falling star....

kitty dingleberries, eggs & death

i was frying eggs
& sausage
& percolating coffee
when i turned around
& noticed streaks
of shit on the breakfast counter
the cat had a turd
dangling from her ass
& she was attempting
to remove it
by sliding her anus on my eating surface
i got a paper towel
& pulled the clinging shit
from her fur
wiped her down w/a towelette
while the pan was still sizzling
& then i bleached the countertop
when the food was done
i decided to set my place
at the coffee table
put on some good music
sprinkle some extra salt
& generously spread the butter
on the toast
before death's rotten brown
got any fucking closer

as the blade floats in the air punch the keys

bukowski kept
a butcher
taped to
the kitchen

not unlike
a fire extinguisher
where he could
rip it down
at anytime
& put out
the inner fire
once & for

but it stayed
on the door
as it swung
back & forth
as he entered
to open another
of beer
& then returned
to his old desk
& filled
the ashtray
& punched
the machine
for him
for us

every one
of these acts
a postponed
removal of
the duct tape

poet laureate of the lavatory

my halo
has slipped
down over
my skull
& down
my neck
& tightened

cold & biting
like a choker
collar for
a dog

like a cordless

just a
pinching circle

i think of this
as i blow smoke
from the
toilet bowl

then realize
things could

i could be

one day
death will

& make me
jump through
its hoop

into the
on the other

that old
for even
the not so
old dogs

i exhale
a bouquet
of smoke
this time

it blooms
even more
in the air

i scrape the
halo up
over my

my scalp

& i hit the handle
death down
the hole

poet laureate

for now

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

the reverse noose

the other day
i found the plastic
bracelet my mother
wore on her wrist
right after i was born

the strip of paper
preserved inside
giving the exact time:
3:10 p.m.

i was horrified
to hold that thin flimsy cuff
in my 39 year old palm

i find the act of birth
worse than suicide

shoved out of nothingness
on a cold afternoon
in january

shivering in my sheen
of blood

the umbilical
a kind of reverse noose

but a noose

electric womb day

in bed wrapped
in the
electric blanket

a wire & wool womb

& another plain blanket
stapled over the window

blocking out the sky
that dull ancient
azure place

we all know the truth
that there's nothing
new beneath it
but most fantasize for fuck's sake
that there is

& all the people
that entire perpendicular
horror show
bending their knees
in their unsatiated strides

but not me
this beautiful de-evolution
is what i need

the appearance of strength

'that which doesn't kill
you makes you stronger'
nietzsche wrote
but i think although
the person may appear
stronger it's more
like after life
fucks w/you enough
it uses up its big guns
& has nothing much left
to take away from its victim
who's full of gaping holes
& some new bullets pass right
through them like they're
invincible super humans
& the biggest threat now
is only the nothingness
of the end
which the victim no longer fears
& maybe even welcomes

This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.