Excuse me,* sir, your pants are on fire.

Yes, i am talking to you, sir.
This is quite a mess you have made,
you starry-eyed dreamer.
Not that it was perfect in the beginning.

Nothing is.

When my grandfather got old,
he made sure to dress well.
If he was to die on any
given day, he intended to
do it in his Sunday best.
My grandfather died in a
unisex hospital gown.

When i was growing up,
Mom always made sure
i wore clean underwear.
It would be shameful
to die in ***** ones.

Speaking of growing up,
i was raised on Reaganomics.
It doesn't matter which side of
the aisle you stand on these days,
because Reagan defeated communism
through the clever use of money.

When my grandmother was set to pass,
she faced the changing seasons with
poise and dignity.  She was
ready to move on, to reunite with
loved ones lost.
My grandmother died in a
unisex hospital gown.

My best friend, Peter, didn't
put much stock in appearances.
He was funny and sarcastic.
We all loved him like a
brother.  Peter's mom buried
him in brand new Ecko
gear.  He died in boxer
shorts on the floor of a
ramshackle apartment
blue in the face from a
****** overdose.

Thank god none of these
people will ever need healthcare.

Mr. President, sir, i am no
Republican.

i am an American.

You do remember us, don't you?
How silly of me...of course you don't.
You were busy watching your legacy.

i would have watched it better, if
it had been my name
at risk.
My name is all i have.

When Bill Clinton was president,
he lied about getting a
*******.
But we forgave him.
It was just a *******.
It's not like it was our
privacy or healthcare at stake.
Or our economy.

Have you dreamed about any
of those things, sir?
Or just your legacy?

Who knows?
How well do we ever know anyone?

Christmas is right around
the corner, and i and
others have made you
a fine gift, a lovely suit.
It's invisible.
You probably won't notice.

No matter...
one day you will have to
remove your flaming pants.
To try on your new suit.
Or, god forbid, to put on a
unisex hospital gown.

And then you will finally
see your legacy.

During our last move we made
sure to pack:
all the paraphernalia, both
toothbrushes, most of our clothes,
old pictures, broken ashtrays,
tools we didn't know how to use,
the computer, both cats, commitments,
all the shot glasses, a bed,
and your unsolved Rubix cube.
It all fit in the car.

We left behind the couch that
one of the cats ****** on,
the shower curtain liner, every
working Bic lighter, your sanity,
the Monopoly game, two new
pens, one old pen (no ink)
and a bag of marshmallows,
plus one hell of a mess.

During the move we misplaced
our sense of direction, a suitcase
full of only my clothes, logic,
and a globe that doubled as a
lamp.

***** given?
Zero.

We still had both cats.

We are in the future now.

In the past yesterday
is tomorrow, but some of
us didn't notice.
We subdivided dreams
into half gram
servings so they wouldn't
end.  We
concentrated those into
the smallest possible dose
so we could savor every
morsel, taste every drop
of our life's Kool-Aid.
We lived sugar-free
to enhance the sweet,
and then ignored all of it.
We wrapped our fists around
excitement and squeezed its
juice out dry to ****
adrenaline cravings.

i have read enough Rimbaud
to see the symbolism.

i have read enough Hudgins
to know i, too, used to be sure.

i have read enough Petrosky
to sympathize...
       Look, i'm a bear now, too!

i was wasted enough on land
for Eliot,
as fractured as cummings,
as subversive as Ginsberg,

but in the end i settled for breathing.

**DAS SOFA KING,
VICTORIOUS AT LAST.

It's the imprint that it makes, really.

There is little relation to
the covenants we have sworn
or the gildings of rehashed
sobriety or leftover temple
bricks, baked clay tablets
on which someone records
these scenes, fragments,
scents, and colors.

How can we reap this Zion?

Can it be gathered as wild
sweet strawberries are,
torn away from their source?
Can it be processed electrically?

Can we make money off it?

If so, how many dinars
would you offer?
One?  Two?  Perhaps
a discount for quantity?

another tree frog
pushes its luck on my porch
dislodges hairball

i am a fool for what i
think love should be.
If only i had been a fool
for what it truly is:
love is a melding of minds,
a handshake of like souls
across common boundaries,
an acceptance of static electricity
to complete our circuits.
A spark between fingers.

In the room the women come and go,
wishing they married Michelangelo.

Don't we all, in our ways?

Crazy love will leave you wanting.
True love does not attract until it is bound,
and not to you.

The irony of mating, exemplified.

i speak in whispers of
New American Tragedy:
id seeking ego, beyond
means and dreams.

A spirit as big as the
Western plains, as lofty
as distant clouds gathering,
as crushed as the valleys
and fjords carved by
glaciers ancient and cruel.

Samhain is passed, now in
November we must look
to the solstice, for there
is seemingly little to
praise.  Entropy approaches,
brushing our hair
with tender fingers,

       piano

gently exhaling nothings
in earshot,

       piano
       dolce, dolce
       unghia sul ponticello

easing its canines into jugulars,

       per amore
       per amor nostro
       ci ama treppo per essere solo

laughing.