i had this pet platypus
thought he could talk, since he was inside my dream
are you a duck, or what? i asked it
but he could not talk
in the dream, i didn't know he was a platypus
only knew that after i woke up, for some reason
he was very loyal, though
can't remember what we did, but i knew he was loyal

you are very lonely, aren't you? she asked
some days, i said
why don't you get a dog, or cat, or something? she wanted to know
because they break my ******* heart, i told her

we were mentally ill, and mad
in so many beautiful ways
we sat for years - just sat
with that garbage rotting
everything - our brains rotting

(was there a camera behind our bathroom mirror?)

then, there was that night we got lost
in a fog of angel dust
you, crawling on all four, praying to Jesus Christ
throwing up blood and whiskey
begging your Savior for mercy
and we Believed (for a few hours)

(was there a dead man looking through my window?)

the buzzing of banana-flies
buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
grindin­g of teeth
and that hysterical laughter from the TV next door
all the muzak in the vestibules of hell

(were they laughing at us?)

oh, Lord! what perfect panic!
i painted. painted like my life depended on it
they were all on the canvas - friends, family, and neighbors
hundreds of white eyeballs
all looking upon us with disgust

(could they hear our thoughts?)

now,
we are two ugly, screaming faces
drifting unchecked in time
onward, paranoia!
onward, terrible fear!
onward, my dear friend!

i took into a motel
on my way somewhere, to do something
the place was occupied by pedophiles, prostitutes and drunks
it had a "rent by the hour" option
outlaws, bikers and the occasional wannabe poet
on the run
on the hunt
we were all comfortable with America
half-heartedly chasing the Dream
i wanted to write a poem about jerking off
and getting *** all over myself
and having nothing to wipe it off with
so i decided (in the poem) to wait till it dried out
but then it never dried, so i laid there for days
until i got dizzy with hunger,
and had to get up (in the poem)
with the *** dripping down my body
leaving awful wet stains all over the room
on the drapes and sheets and remote control
"by god, it's everywhere!" i cried (in the poem)
but then i remembered that my mom reads my poems
so instead i wrote about these cows i saw
cows grazing on a pasture outside San Antonio
cows looking up at the sky
secretly dreaming of going to the moon

every thursday i sit by the pool
all day
i drink beer, and look up at the sky
(sometimes i count helicopters)
people in the building stop by to chat
i don't tell them that i'm constantly bored
that i'm afraid i will die alone

when the sun goes down we're drunk
and i go back into my apartment
they stay outside, drinking
all night
i listen to them talk,
and sometimes i watch through the peephole

every now and then
these three blond girls show up
i'm not sure who they know in the building
but they are beautiful and dumb
and they are yapping along in baby-voices
i wanna **** all of them at the same time,
or at least one of them

but i'm afraid
drunk, and lonely, and bored
afraid
i'm the guy looking through the peephole
the guy counting helicopters
so instead i go to bed
wide awake and ashamed

hey, you! got a cigarette?
the woman was barely visible in the night.
     only got one left, i shouted down from my balcony
i'm Valerie, she said.
(i did not reply.)
just got out here from Florida.
left my husband and everything, she kept on going
he's a pro golfer, you know... on the PGA tour and all...
i can't tell you his name.
     why in the hell would you leave him, i asked?
this psychic told me to...
you know, i used to be a model.
(in the darkness, i had to take her word for it.)
but then i got this illness that made me fat,
and then this dog bit my face real bad.
(once again, i had to take her word for it.)
i'm gonna be a famous actress out here in six months.
     is that what the psychic told you?
that's what he told me... but,hey, i could really use a cigarette.
i threw my last cigarette down in the dark.
     hey Valerie, i said, stop by after you become famous.
will do, she said, and i saw the glowing tip of her cigarette
gently bounce down the street.
six months have passed,
and i'm still waiting for Valerie to stop by.

you grabbed ahold of my spine
clawed and kicked and climbed
all over my haunched back
all the way to the top
into my skull
into my inner ear
inside all the meat, and veins, and nerves
where you sit with your little golden hammer
and you hit that angry bell
and mad sick pictures
mad sick ****, ring out    
               ring, ring, ring
ringing out the sound of shame
mad sick pictures that i ***** all over
myself, and maybe others?
you and your little ******* hammer
working that angry ******* bell
working on the worst of me
all stuffed into one singular note

on the green
hole 8, and five over par
southern california sunshine numb
leaning on a putting iron
leaning on a fistful of xanax
i had given up on the game a long time ago
just didn't know it yet
my friend was strung out on speed and coke
"breakfast of champions", he said
he had been aimlessly whacking the ball for the last hour
"fifty bucks to whoever hits Brian Wilson" he suddenly yelled!
sure enough, there was Brian Wilson,
standing by the mexican food-truck,
waiting for a taco or burrito or God knows what
i felt xanax confident
so i walked over and shook his hand
i told him thank you,
and that his music probably saved my life
"probably" he asked?
"yes" i said, and walked away
i told my friend to take some xanax and chill out
"xanax is just xanax spelled backwards" he said
and i could not argue with that
we never finished that round of golf,
but somehow i still feel like i won