Well whiskey and a Rock Springs girl,
in one Cowboy Bar or another,
waiting for the ceiling to swirl.
She says she wants to be a mother,
I just want to see her toes curl,
but I wonder if it's worth the bother.

She's lost herself to the endless wind,
thinks anywhere else must be better.
Feels her life's been pinned,
to the tail of an *** unfettered.

I don't want to tell her,
there isn't any place better.
Same **** everywhere you go,
tempered hard and stupid slow.

It's with whom you take the ride,
but God knows she's tried.
Just one ******* after the other,
and I sure as **** ain't a father.

I'll just sit with her awhile,
hope she adds me to the pile.
A drifter liar and her next mistake,
busy working the rigs for my own big break,

until my life's been pinned,
to the tail of an *** unfettered.

I will
remember him
when in the mountains
and in the valleys
between
On the dusty trail
over old bones
through the legends
unseen
Where the rain
runs off the stones
And the ghosts
of the past
wail forever
alone

I will
remember him

Hey you
don't you
Hide and Seek
in my driveway
don't play there
don't you
drive there

I'll have to
put a bullet in
you

Hey you
don't open
my car door
don't you
sit there
don't you
dare

I'll have to
put a bullet in
you

Hey you
don't knock
at my
house door
don't you
put your
hand there
don't you
dare
touch
there

I'll have to
put a bullet in
you

I don't like
you
I'm scared of
you
And since I can't
put IT in
you

I'll have to put
a bullet in
you

I am
an American
******

Cruising the waves
I cruise
aside a brunette beauty
in tanned glistening nothing
with lips that taste of
nicotine and Dentyne
and portside ***
and her

Whales breach starboard
majestic and grand
Other whales breach nearer astern
aflail french fries and ranch dressing
oppressive and loud
always half dressed
in too little

Two too young girls in too little still
stride the decks
all peaches and cream
catching lecherous gazes from old men and dried ketchup kisses from
little boys
blown
astray

Breakfast at noon dinner at six
coladas and beer every half hour between
and pizza by the plate after **** drunk
*** 'n' Coke
sing alongs with Lizzy to
Billy J. and the Eagles

Santiago
Captain of the salt stripped
El Pablito
shows us where
the Pacific and Cortez
****
amid sea foam
and sea lion ****

No gracias
echoes
down
the
shore

¿Maybe some mota señor?
or
¿Candy for the nose?

Aboard
Tomislav serves teeny 'tinis to
mustachioed **** in
sport coat bravado
smoking ****
dropping the ashes
in their
frosted glasses
sipping slow
waiting
to dance
or sing
or both

thinking

about this
Miracle
we cruise

We all hover
at the edge of
an abyss
of our own
making

A bit
hyperbolic
that

Certainly we
should allow room
for happenstance
in the
manifestation

But surely
our own doings
comings and goings
thisings and thatings
and raw
human
fuckallings
help shape
the void

Tinge the darkness
ever raven

Don't call me
Shirley
my mind bellows

That

That likely
accounts for
much of
my problem

Forget that
bad moon
The shitstorm
currently rising
will assuredly
drown whatever
devils dance
its pale
lunar glow
Forever eventing
the pimply
horror horizon
of our
collective global
political shitshow

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Who'd do such a thing,
who'd want the rap?
Someone weak of knee,
I think.
Wanting of wood,
no doubt
(it reaching no more than three,
you see),
and in dire need of its
robust and ruddy sap.

Who planted the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Its seed ensconced,
mayhap,
a hundred years past
(or three),
by a wigged wiggly lass,
sporting and wee,
riding wild a
brigand Dragoon
on some fine
Imperial
British afternoon.
The sewn and
sprouting stone
assuredly
shaken from
her silken
pantaloon.

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
I dunno, prolly
the Russians.

I want to feel the weight
of the decades
in each turned page
Inhale the wizened nicotine effervescence
of the past

Ponder the origins
unclean
biological
ontological
*******
maniacal
of the sticky stains and splotches
amid the typeface

Spy the minute grains
of illicit substance
clinging to the binding
junkified
rarified
*******
hospitalized
truly unbound
screaming
through the ages

Hark the shoeless
crackhead cackles
Christ is Dead
*******
Gimme a dolla
instead
That I  
might better mark
the pages of this arcane
insanity

You see
her gstring is still wet
from the pole
and I would like to keep
these pages
as bright as
those holes

fish
they just see the
bait
they don't take the
time
to look down the
line

She dances
a demon's tinder
through a voice
not her own
purring Appalachia
as if born to it

But it's not the voice I hear
I hear how it was

Sounds and sights
twenty years gone
on those streets
on that railing
through those halls
in that cold

She's in other halls now
on other tracks
down other roads
warm and shadowed
by a different
firelight

Did she change
certainly
Did I
doubtful

Maybe
I just never
really knew
her
voice

A flock of sheep in sheep's clothing each of whom fancy themselves lone wolves when really they just follow the ******* in front of them as sheep are wont to do.

I honestly
couldn't give a ****
is my new mantra
Why the ****
did you ask
if you didn't want
an answer
Just wanted
to *****
I get it
Just *******
say so
I'm here
to not listen
to whatever
contrived pettiness
is in your
heart
I can hang
with the best
of them
usually

suffocating and suffocated
under the weight
of my own failure
to recognize
that which
was
right
the
****
in front of me

great
life is great

one day
you too
will
not know
you never
existed

I send words
like **** pics
both decidedly
wanting
and
unwanted

Except maybe by one

but that was
long ago
and who
really
knows
the truth of it
now

enwombed
among the
sullen pine
gritty
grainy
grungy
with
past friends
of mine
here we stand
where once
we fell
to
buckskin glove
and
pitchfork tine
on
needled duff
drunk
on
honey wine
alone now
among the
sullen pine
entombed

And they sat as equals in the first times. Those who measured the eons as days. The Morningstar and their Creator, watching the People. They will love what I gave them. The sun, the earth, the air, and the water. Their love will be praise, their tribute to my Creation. The Morningstar, keener in the ways of the People, disagreed. No, some will see your gifts as their blessings, and theirs alone. They will band in like mind and hate others for their ways of praise. They will become keepers of their own truths. Liars in guise of your Word. Their praise will become death. This they will call Religion. As they spake, it became so, and the Devil was born. Hell soon followed, in the wake of the Morningstar.

How would you
describe yourself
Dull and witless
Like Colin Meloy
No
I think he was
being
cleverly ironical
In my case
its just
sad
literal
*******
truth
And he already
snagged
the username
Ye
Ye
Welp
good luck with that
buddy
K
thanks

Holy wars
Holy land
*******
that is some
toxic *******
Unholy desert
sand

They took all my ****
and I didn't really care
So thought my dream self

we are
all of us
junkies
who said that
Burroughs maybe
some
behavioral scientist
some article
some ******
meme Steve
as I lay here
sleepless
helpless
basking
in the glow of
my anxiety abyss
my dopamine
doom box
my window
into the lies
of the reality
to which I
enslave myself
pondering
salvation
and
slavation
thinking
Maynard was right
we are
indeed
in need
of a good
flushing
from Mom
thinking
I knew a girl
who knew a girl
some hog goblin
who used to
blow him
whenever he
passed through
Dallas

War
is a weak man's
perception of power

Give me your tired
I will exhaust them
Give me your poor
I will leave them destitute
Give me your huddled and hungry
I will leave them freezing and starved
Give me
Gimme
Gimme
Gimme
Texas fried chicken

Zuck the Cuck
and
Musk the Husk
and
Bezos con Pesos
all
bereft of spine
each
vying in line
and
itching to dine
with
the **** swine
sip
their fascist wine
from
hate gilded stein
aback
Gueros sin Huevos
all
hooded at dusk
in
rusty testicled trucks

And here we are looking down a ***** bowl shitstains streaking a carnivore's sticky trail from someone who couldn't be bothered to add sufficient fiber to their diet or at least give a ******* courtesy scrub convinced it was somehow too Marxist or too woke And we were doing so good at the gluten free Fitting really I guess

History is not a warm blanket
it is the carpet hiding the bodies
unfurled
reality cold
It can inspire
but it should mostly terrify
as we are sometimes inspirational
but mostly terrifying
creatures
So
look not away child
lock the **** in and
behold the horror
the horror

subscriptions
prescriptions
fictions
suspicions
and opinions
but nary
a *******
solution

How narrow the scope of you how limited in breadth and extent your being that to shine you must diminish the brightness of others erase their accomplishment to embolden the whispy mark of you on the page of our story once epic as any of legendary yore reduced now to the smeared jabberwockian scribble of toddlers loudly greedily proclaiming themselves without any true understanding a mimickery a mockery a tragedy Beware the White Liberal a prophet once prophesied an augury unfortunately unheeded as I am confronted by my own mirrored reflection in a glass house that has left us all House Slaves cowering for scraps and grateful for the beatings pitiful as any kicked dog licking its wounds under the table but it is long past time to break those legs bite the hand and grab the guns from the cabinet what we really need is a little more of that Detroit Red

Their Golden Age is
our gold in their pockets
so they can kick Special K
in their gold **** shaped rockets
while they TikTok about it
with hookers they call chocolate
and **** with the sprockets
of our process retarding our progress
for the fatness of their wallets
while they blame it all
on the people they call
wetbacks trannys and *******
dragging the *****
of their ignorant masses
to their **** black masses
all on their knees begging please
bring us back before history was black
and they didn't have to feel bad
about the size of their tiny nut sacks
and they could blame it all
on all the ******* ******
on the needle and crack

Witchy gray
on this
Stevie Nicks day
betwixt this
froggy soup
of a bay
and its
tributary of
cricks
choked with
denizen ******
plying their
tricks and
getting their
kicks with
cherry fresh
wicks and
Nikki Sixx *****
in the gayest
of ways

Death to
the fascist
the dictator
the oligarch
May they meet their end
grisly and flayed
flesh rent from bone
at the edge
of a rusty dull blade
Their countenance tested
measured and weighed
against a gravel road grade

Do I ride that wave
Am I prism cut
Some bend of puce grey
A splintered chanterelle ray
I dunno Bobbio
All those online tests sure sayso
But I have yet to be
Neuromanced and diagnosed
So who can really sayso
You I suppose
Tell me
Is the ghost of your
Daddio all arodeo
In his brothers grave
At the thought of you
Is he rather glad
To be dead instead
Under that eternal flame
I got a degree
I got a PhD
I got a job
(for now)
I pay my taxes
All the papers sayso
Anyhow
Is this a poem
How the **** would I know

Really got no words for that hateful blonde *****
Hope the kid is ok though

Data are our commodity
Data are our prize and prison
Data are our salvation and tyranny
Data are the reflections
The great mathemagicians
all seem to
Lose their ****
The closer they are to
Universal understanding
Implies a biversal triversal quadraversal
Melange
Data clarity breeds madness nearer
The Singularity
Kaczynski the bibomber tribomber
Dreaded qudrabomber
In orange
The spice is the worm
The worm is the spice
****** Space Jesus over here