punch the alarm clock
and go to work only
to punch my time in
at yet another clock
to punch holes at a
punch press and
fantasize about
punching my boss
in the face and
then punch out
from work and go
punch in my pin
number to pay my
bills that punch away
at my weak paycheck
and return home to
avoid the neighbor
with a very punchable
face and sit down at
the typewriter with a
tall glassful of spiked
punch and punch words
down on paper from the
lettered keys as I write
about punching love in
the heart and punching
sadness in the chin and
donkey punching whores
in the back of the head
while I go crazy and punch
holes in the wall and drunk
punch the night away and
never getting to the punchline.
Drink. Drink. Write. Write.
Think. Think. Fight. Fight.
Drink to get drunk.
Get drunk to get angry.
Get angry to get passionate.
Get passionate to write.
Write with passion.
Write with soul.
Write with honor.
Honor thyself.
Love thyself.
Love your thoughts.
Cherish them.
Especially the thoughts
That make you crazy.
Too much thinking results
In too much entanglement.
Break free from the webs
Of hopelessness.
Fight your way through them.
Fight the demons in your head.
Fight the problems as they
Come along.
Fight the living on sour ground
In this bitter world.
Fight to keep to writing.
Fight everything until it is faded
Or gone
Like the smell of your woman’s
Cheap perfume.
But this bottle of wine is here
To stay.
And no amount of sleep will
Dissolve this hangover
I have today.
No editing, no giving lots of thought- just putting whatever comes to my head down and posting it. Completely raw.
circling overhead and
passing through thick clouds
and blue skies,
the shadows of flowers
overturn like a sun-dial
until the rain of agony
will intercept and
hasten on falling petals
and we will decide
to pick the day that
the blossoms of purity
will come to a diminishing
end.

the crunch of the stem
will roll and twist
between the fore finger
and the thumb
and the baby’s head
will pop off and flail
through the winds of
enduring sadness and
carry their spirit away

the brokenhearted will pollinate
their unending sorrow and pain
onto those most virtuous and
wholesome

their wrath will spread like floodwaters

they want others to feel the same
remorse
that they feel

they will hold onto their burdens
and impediments
like a security blanket

and pull the wings off angels like flies

the decay of emotions will wilt
like a dried up sunflower patch

their minds will be tormented into submission

their hearts will wither with misery and guilt

their happiness will dilute into black waters

their loneliness will be spent on the snails back

their speeches will be packed with pestilence

it will be easier to spit in the eye
than to cordially say hello

it will be easier to hurt, maim, kill
than to passionately love

flesh will ornament the streets
and the gutters will run with
the red rivers of the living and
the bones will be ground up
into powder and
false education will fulfill the
peaceful slumber of dreams
with violence and infamy
blood will splatter on the
decorative towels
murder will garnish
the thought process
the raving mad will defile
the wall of virgin souls
with phallic graffiti
cruelty will remain heavy under
the defenseless children’s eyes
all because we simply cannot be
decent to each other.

and it’s sad....
it’s sad enough
because
it’s happening,
it’s happening right now
and there are several
other ways to coincide
with one another
but we don’t, we just
take the easy disposition

and for what?

for power
for greed
for lust
for vengeance
for no serious reason

but in the dim light of everything
the sea levels will continue
to rise and fall
under the aesthetic moon

and the blazing sun will continue
to shine all over the cold tundra
of hatred from people.

can you remember
when you had that
gentle,
modest,
natural innocence
before the erosion
of the world
stripped it away?
we’re all just spinning
around and around
while conducting a
beautiful symphony
on the record of life
so more often than not,
take it out of the package,
drop the needle down
and play it
play it with tangled fire
play it with bewilderment
play it with combing intimacy
play it with disastrous surrender
play it with drunken obedience
play it with abrupt movements
play it with poisoned impulses
play it with determined heroism
play it with elegant patterning
play it with oceans of grace
play it with fantasy and grief
play it with sublime generosity
play it with fine love and sugarcane
play it perfectly ugly
play it rotten like the mystic fish
play it while your waiting
because when the needle ends
there is nothing left
except the spine chilling
nightmare of silence
and crackling static
and
that
is
it.
beautiful morning sounds
like a dumpster crashing
into the garbage truck
and the sun scornfully
cut into my back like
straight razors and
switchblades but the
night before was greeted
with great delight,
pounding away at the
pussy and Seagrams and
now I’m hungover and alone
in bed with my cigarette
hole burnt bedsheets,
dreaming of tits like
neon translucent jellyfish
that took up more room
in what little space I had
in my sublet home.
I looked into her small eyes
but saw enormous things
from within as the real
value of her guise came
with madness from above
as she painted a war
in my mind
and her lips blood red.

but my teeth ached from
the drill of recapitulation
to my vibrating head
as the malapert tongues
bluntly warned me
of her subterfuge,
with subtle phrases like;

“she’ll suck you dry of
money
balls
and dignity”
or
“enter at your own risk,
it may be  
the last risk
you’ll take”
or
“you should be medallioned
with gallantry for hanging
onto that one for as long as
you did.”

there’s no knowledge
left in my eye
on how I see the world
passing me by

except that the world
existed before we found
each other and it still
exists after we’re apart

love’s secret is found in the
eye of the needle and
threaded throughout
the stars in the night sky

and now that she’s gone
with everything I own
that fits into a small
brown paper bag,

she’s plays with the chess pieces
of greed and lust
without the purity of consciousness
or ever knowing what love tastes like
and how drunkenness of love feels

but not every ecstasy is the same

so, don’t wait til your dead
to recognize that your desires and
willfulness were only a perception
in your imagination

there’s a skull chalice
that holds all four oceans
within the palm of your hand,
grab it like the lion’s tail or the
cobra’s neck and drink from
the wildernesses reflection

and give it purpose,
experience the breathing,
life is the shortest time you have on Earth
and baggage is like
women’s makeup...

it too, will soon wash away

but no matter what,
nothing matters most than
how we spend
our last days
on the cross.
not too often
but once in a while when
pigs have flown over the
green cheese moon,
an old friend will drop by
and I will shake there
cold clammy hands
and simply asked

“how goes it?”

and I will received nothing
more but an ordinary response
from such an ordinary life
such as the drudgery of work
or relationship problems or
anything that is anything
but interesting.

and then I share my
accomplishments with
them about my writing
and the published books
and my literary accolades,
(not that I’m showing off
or trying to impress but
just letting them know
what’s going on with myself)
but they don’t even bother
to look at the front cover,
just stare at me with
lunatic eyeballs and  
the silence hits so hard
like a family having a
picnic on the freeway
and then they’ll say

“yeah, I see your just
giving all that away.”

“perhaps, I said, but it is
no longer mine to keep and....”

but before I can finish,
I’m interrupted
by their brash response
like tiny thieves
under my tight lip.

they like me the way
they remembered me.
before I started writing,
before when I had nothing
to do but to see bulbous
faces in the bottoms of
empty bottles and come
crashing down onto
the hard concrete and
needing a six foot wide
hallway to stumble in,
to keep my balance as
I’m entertaining them
with my incoherence while
they drink all my beer

but I have found
my inner peace within
the war I continuously
fought and live in the
background landscape
where the sun dwindles
into far off places and
I am congealed into Nirvana
and they dissimulate upon me
as if this wasn’t in gods plan
as if I was meant to be botched
as if the gophers were suppose
to be fornicating on top of my
dead corpse by now!

and although,
my friends may never know
what kind of magic I may or
may not have produced
between those covers,
I will never be there to
apologize for my doings
yet I’ll never give up on them
even if it’s been long since
they given up on me.
no time for great sex
no time for grey love
no time to run errands
no time to pet your animals
no time for the drive thru
no time for alcohol
no time for coffee
no time for children
no time for fishing
no time to watch birds
no time to brush teeth,
comb hair or make toilet
no time to drive cars,
abroad trains or planes
no time for incest, rape
and murder
no time for fire, flood
and hailstorms
no time to be alone or lonely
no time for 35 cent pears
no time to buy gingham dresses
and striped bathing suits
no time to throw a bowling
ball through the window
no time to egg the
neighbors house
no time to borrow
jumper cables
no time to cry
no time to travel
no time to create
no time to dream
no time for sleep
no time for poems
no time for music
no time for movies
no time for hate
no time for religion
no time for politics
no time for opinions
no time for the needy
no time to make money
no time to enjoy yourself
no time to live life and dance

so no matter
how much the world
tries to push you,
always remember
to set aside time to
chew your poetry slowly and
write your food with grit and
stoutheartedness
YOU
you are the itch on my asshole
and I have use the razor blades
of cheap toilet paper to get rid
of you

you are the dirt and grime
under my fingernails
and I have to dig deep
with a safety pin
to get you out

you are like fiberglass
swimming in the pools
of my porous skin and
consciously reminding
the hemisphere of my
suffering with every
thread that I’m alive

you are the haughty
paint chips that have
peeled off the wall and
lightly floated to the
floor awaiting to taint
the envenomed mind
of toddlers

you are the popped
puss blisters oozing
down my sun poisoned
shoulders

you are the gummy
white film that has
coagulated at the
corner of my mouth

you are the burning rash
on top of my feet and
there is no soothing
aloe that will cure you

you only provide brine
and lemon juice to the
paper cuts of my limitations

and if the choice was mine
to either have another
conversation with you
or take a beheading

I’d sprint towards the guillotine,
impatiently waiting for the
executioner to carry out
the sentence

and my tilted severed head
will slouch peacefully in the
brightly shining sun, smiling
in the woven basket of relief

but I know you’ll be there
painting a mural of
fabricated stories
of aches and moans
in the hallways of
my ear canals

because after I’m long gone
and I’ve said my farewells
to all the foolish molecules
of easily forgotten pastimes
you’ll just keep coming back
like a thunderstorm of
bill collectors
like a kitten to a shoelace
like herpes to your father
and you’ll bring nothing to
the table or offerings to the
gods except exasperation
to our nerve endings and
disdain to everyone and
anyone you fall in with
like a bear claw to the back

so why is it that
the quiet guy who wants
to be left alone, somehow
always attracts the most
bothersome people
of the world who
never
  shut
the
  fuck
up?
Happy 4th of July everyone in hello poetry land!
it began with the two cats

then the dog trotted in

then enough time past
and unfortunately, so did
one of the cats

then we rescued a bearded dragon

and for a while there
it was just a trifecta
of various species

until the new kitten had arrived

and now the bird is on its way

as the animals keep rolling
into this sanctuary
we call HOME

I spend my afternoons
taking care of our pets
feeding them
watering them
picking up their shit
maintaining their
living spaces
making sure they each
get attention

along with working all morning
and taking care of the kids
cooking dinner
tending to the ignored laundry
mowing the lawn
washing dirty dishes

my wife thinks I’m masturbating
on my leisurely hours
but not taking into consideration
that sex is no longer
an aching mystery

and as I’m bitching about
common domestic work

those pets bring such
rapturous enlightenment
to my spinning brain

but they don’t pull out
my inane thoughts and
put it down on paper

except for maybe
this poem
you want a happy poem?

the entirety of someone’s life

is never fulfilled with the

complete sense of satisfaction.

quit waiting for a perceived

sense of perfection caused by

short-signaled dopamines

and make it happen.

happiness is not the problem,

expecting it to perpetually

last forever is
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