Mexican mountains in the distance,
Warmly orange and misted in cool cotton,
Watching the jagged points for crouching witches,
They might watch me…
Standing in the crumbled junk piles,
Of my father’s childhood backyard,
Rat-like cockroaches click around my feet,
As I breath… Fresh air Mexico.

My heart is cringing,
Alcohol cannot cure me,
Heartbreak ain’t funny…

Your lips,
Soft and pale… red and flat,
I lick to moisten them,
They taste like raw flesh,
Of course, they are raw flesh,
And they trace paths to more raw flesh,
Pale, freckled peaks and valleys,
Fragrant, tangy… Pheromonic folds,
Fuzzy and warm,
Fingertips tickle to smooth,
I flick to moisten, Then moan to you,
And whisper to your neck,
Soft and scented,
You open with love.

I haven’t smoked in a week,
I don’t smoke much anyways…
Except when I drink,
How to be vindictive,
With a warm, knowing heart?
I haven’t known anything in a month,
I don’t know much anyways…
Except when I drink.

I looked out across the dusk sad, bare parking lot,
At the late evening sky,
And in contrast to the grey pavement, I saw…
I saw the wistful, deep breathing blue,
I saw the innocent, smiling pink,
I saw the hysterical orange,
I saw the crying, deep purple,
It reminded me of the life I always wanted to live,
And I would have…
If not for the dusk sad, bare parking lot.

The prophet of St. Johns Road told me one night,
That I was going to live to an old, old age,
And father children and be happy!
Ultimately and forever,
And because I have lived, so far, less than perfectly,
He said my children will be guaranteed perfection,
Born by pieces of the stars, however small,
Still part of the universe,
So me, destined to leave behind pieces of the great being,
Asked the prophet, “How is the future so sure?”
And with tears and light in his eyes,
The drunken prophet of St. Johns Road said,
“It’s the way IT is.  We live life to start others and others.”
And I blinked out tears of my own,
With light in my eyes,
The lost and drunken prophet of St. Johns Road blessed me that night,
And so it goes… So it goes.

I chug *** by the wide open window,
I chase the sting with the snapping, cold air,
Into the leftover winter, early March night,
I stare,
Then I draw the shade,
I am ashamed,
But what will I do?
I chug more ***…
And sweat.

Dusty bottles of *****,
Raise up dusty ghosts in this basement,
Sickeningly sweet whiskeys and buttery shots,
Warm,
Then sharply struck by icy cold, antiseptic *****,
I’m numbed and dulled to these divorces of life.

All I got is carpeted floor,
Rocking chair,
Too much alcohol,
I’m a ghost… A ghost,
I moan and groan.

I used to write poems,
While I’s high on gin,
Now I gulp *****,
And sin and sin and sin….

**** going to bed early,
Cause this is what happens…
Not-quite-nightmares unsettle me,
Creeping under my skin…
Cold, molasses spiders,
And I wake up with my head aching,
But it’s only 3am and so I’m bored,
And I must further forget,
So I sleep again…
To dream of the loveliest of life this time,
Her voice… Her scent… Her eyes…
The way she stretched out her very being,
When it was only me watching,
I wake up with my head AND chest aching,
**** going to bed early.

Come to me, gentle wrong,
To make it not so gentle,
So I might trace your lips with my tongue,
And torment in shallow breath,
Open our eyes to split-second joy,
And forget why it is wrong,
Soft wrong but never wrong,
I ache in shallow breath.

An unborn boy… with unborn joy,
Maybe an unborn girl… With unborn curls,
To say nothing of their delicate ways,
I’m lost, I’m sad,
11 years have passed…
Since I knew she was pregnant,
And then… she wasn’t,
So I don’t know unborn joys with unborn curls,
After 11 years have passed,
I’m lost… Still sad.

In my dream, In my head,
I have these words I wanna say to you,
The way I feel and all that crap,
Coming together, My words are all for you,
Where are you pretty, pretty girl,
The dark hair I wonder, My creation girl,
With shiny, shiny eyes, I wish for you,
Sticking me up for the longest time,
In these daydreams about the words I’ve spent,
Pretty, pretty girl…
Stupid, stupid me,
You shouldn’t know but I wish you did,
About these thoughts and my **** dreams too,
Creation girl, I’m getting stupid for you.

What can I say, What can I say?
I’m fluid ******, Alackaday!
Again and again,
Wine is fine, I’m tryin’ and tryin’,
Not to cry and whine,
Stank, dank wine is fine, of course,
But makes me long for stronger force,
Stronger drink or… I must think,
About your lips… or your soft hips,
So far away… Alackaday.

In a dream,
I asked God… Have I had enough?
He laughed,
So I aint got no time to sleep,
Just time to think, drink and puke.

I got tons and tons of spit,
And vinegar dribbles of sour,
Lemon lime frothy gobs,
Ripe with a distilled scent,
But leaden with this dull ache taste,
That I try to get rid of but can’t…
No matter how much I spit,
I am cursed…
To hate myself and to hate others.

Remember the restaurant we ate at,
Where the hostess had really nice ****,
And ghoulie, grey eyes gasping in pools of mascara and puddles,
Almost a clown of femininity,
Or with features as such,
Sharp nose, with freckles,
And pale skin that led you to believe her whole body was wonderful,
Making imaginations sweat over onion soup.

My boy has my glad confusion,
He’s got chicken legs,
No ****, Big gut,
Just like me… Looks like me,
Poor Dean…

My girl kneels to talk to the bugs,
Crawling up the screen door,
Sweet, serious brown eyes,
She observes,
Just like me… Sees like me,
Poor Sheri…

Yellow, Green Wisconsin,
Sunday afternoon,
County fair... bugs buzz,
Typical of July,
Grassy paths move between sweet breads and carnival cons,
Squeaky clicks bang, People laugh on rides,
And I smile, reflecting the soft, shy smiles,
Of my son, wondering on his first fair carousel ride,
Oriental music breathing out deep fried air,
Lemonade and popcorn,
Jolly horses, Noble roosters, Severe dragons,
Dance up and down around my boy.

I ain’t ate nothin’ today,
But macaroni and milk,
And now… a gutful of *****,
Warm, radiating swirls of nauseas,
Blessed are the clean sheets,
And the walls of this room blowing cool whispers,
Across my back.

Dusty bottles of *****,
Raise up dusty ghosts in this basement,
Sickeningly sweet whiskeys and buttery shots,
Warm,
Then sharply struck by icy cold, antiseptic *****.

The Hispanic breeds are being scared off lately,
They don’t speak much English,
I don’t speak much Spanish,
But I remember when I was a little boy,
White boy in a brown body,
Nestled in a blanket in a slum apartment,
Surrounded by grizzly, Mexican men,
All with breath of stale beer,
They’re faded blue like their work shirts,
And I was young and golden,
They were all my friends,
The air, oily with the smell of fried tortillas,
My own eyes wide,
My hair long, over my ears,
A worn, mongrel, Mexican boy.