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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******* poets are we
slinging
crying
and singing
misnomers and malaphors
scratched into rust-colored doors
smeared in intestinal gore
across **** sticky floors
papered in Charmin strewn moors
like the wastelands of yore
distended and sore
wretching on all fours
expelling the night before
cheap ***** dripping from every pore
praying for death or horrible more
clinging
tingling
barely blinking
desperate to be free
of this porcelain soap box
its dysfunctional lock
the ghosts of **** dripping *****
and passed kidney rocks
unwelcome janitorial knocks
and quizzical stall walks
amid foul tossed jocks
and the occasional **** crusted sock
doom scrolling TikTok
and its bizarre philosophical flock
of fame addled crocks
helping dislodging this ******* gut block
thinking
cringing
and cramping
just needing to ******* ***

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

Give me your tired
I will exhaust them
Give me your poor
I will leave them destitute
Give me your hungry
I will starve them
Give me
Gimme
Gimme
Gimme
Texas fried chicken

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

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

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