Macrame for days
cruising in tubes
and fannypacks
on Caddy couches

Ash in Pepsi cans
dogs n mac
and
floral print velour
meant love

A onetwo on
Soda Popinsky
and locust
husks
on the old
walnut tree
were the
****

New Topps
new Jos
new Raisins
air conditioning
and the smell of the
rain

Funny
I thought
McConnell's lips
would have been
orange

Shower beer
shower beer
my kingdom for
a shower beer

My kingdom is
a shower and a bed
yup
just a shower and a bed
in this
podunkshitholenowhere
******* town

But I'm suds'n up
while suds'n down
making my frown
turn
up
Up
UP-side down

Nothing better
nothing aside
from her
peachy little mound
nothing better in this
fuckedupdownandoutdingy
******* Desert town

Never astray
have I been steered
nope
not by a shower beer
no indeed
no tears have I shed
no siree
no life have I bled
no not me
no ill will have I ever bred

no
not on account
of
a shower beer

I do not think he would
begrudge a wine tinted
smudge on the page
a blush of the blushest blush
akin to the blood of life
the cup that is filled and overfloweth
blood into wine
the Book's little innuendos
coyly writ for the quiet amusement
of chastened monks
Christ what a waste
not the man mind you
the Word
the words
lost in the compounded
ignorance of millenia
I prefer them stained red
honest on back-lit pages
Who
after all
could begrudge honesty
History it seems

Can't cut through
Lost my even keel
Just blackness below
and sharks at heel
Could tread forward
Rather flip the wheel
Run her aground
Taste the bite of the steel
Let the waves crash over
and the chain unreel
Until the deep takes me whole
and I can no longer feel
The grip of the truth
and the horror of the real
I'd like my mind to fade
maybe
give it some time to heal

A wise pope once said
a man's ambition
must indeed be small
to write his name
upon a ******* wall

But for want of superstition
and tales told tall
I'll play that ancient game
....right after my last call

Preluding my expiration
just before the fall
I'll seek the Devil's fame
and inscribe that ***** stall

By hook, by crook,
or explosive indigestion
Every nook, every sideways look
shall bear my ugly shame
For what better eulogy book
than that old ******* wall
That great temple of the read

I need a Bleh Book

Somewhere to dump the random cacaphony of **** ricocheting against
the thinning vault of my skull like a prison yard handball

Nowhere to go but in perpetual motion nonetheless

Drolly counting a cadence without the revelry of enlightenment or the hope of release

What should be pearls of wisdom precipitously condensed by the weight of time within an elegant carapace formed under the irradescent glow of a witches moon are just chili seeds gathering dust
in an old septic tank rusting under a dimming streetlight in an Albuquerque back alley

Hard kernel remnants of rellenos long since evacuated

Maybe this is it
My book

So
Bleh *******

You
are
welcome

I think what I liked most was that she
liked me or seemed to for a time Elegance manifest tall and slim red pixied hair cool and chic another word for elegant

you get the point

She was magic between the sheets they dripped imbued with her I began to believe that she loved the idea of me as much as I loved the idea of her

But

We had agreed it was just a moment The city called it needed her I knew it

she was made for it

And yet the want it called it needed that high Insecurity and vanity won out or just grew until the butthurt set in

And we ended

All things pure are ruined by
butthurt boys

Pope John Paul II
maybe
Johnny P the Deuce
(to his friends)
empassions an Easter sermon
years before the Passion
or millennia after
to Jane Fonda
feathered red and nicotine stained
watching the city burn
one
station wagon
at
a
time

******* 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 ******* ***

one day
you too
will
not know
you never
existed

I could have
but didn't
I don't know why
I certainly should have
but I didn't even try
maybe
someday
I'll get around to that thing
someday
but not today
or tomorrow
perhaps not ever

**** it
I suppose

why not live the lie
and regret it
until the day I die

What colors are the stars?
I asked her,
a spectrum of
twinkling hues
cast against the
ceiling,
blinking from
the beast's shell.
What magic she must perceive
behind her eyes?
Ancient stories
wrought in the fabric
of her DNA,
distant memories
ages old
of times around
the fires.

Far be it from me
To complexify the issue
By propulgating wrongery
Less I subterfuge
My untentions
Toward wittery
And ashoe
Refudiation

It's just a
matter of
clever simplicity
or
simple clevericity
said I to she
It's more a
question of
earnest felicity
and
abstract electricity
said she to me
though we both
could agree
*******
is
*******
however masked
implicitly

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 hate those Voodoo mornings when I cant dig myself out of my own head a relentless quipping chirping anxiety over woulda coulda shoulda wishing I knew better wondering why I dont silent resolutions that evaporate by days end pondering the infinite insignificance of everything that is nothing paranoid that nothing is in fact everything in the doomed hands of a salvation without mercy heavy hearted in the dark waiting for light to peek through the blinds and tell me that its ok to be awake its a lie but thats ok too I guess **** it might as well make the coffee

BUT

I
love
those
hazy
baked
evenings
where
every
thought
is
clarity
or
at
least
the
perception
of
it
guiding
each
seamlessly
to
the
next
and
still
next
after
until
the
next

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

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.