it happens like this—
when one person parks
their car crooked
the others will follow
in a domino effect
and that’s god’s reflex
towards an inept species
a lore of ancestry
bequeathed with the
wrath of idiocy like
passing a kidney stone
of subnormal bodies
fermented in the bright lights
of dull boredom and
unknown circumstances
like wasted Sundays
and that’s how it works
we all fall into each other
flesh grazing flesh
played entirely on the chimes
of a pocket watch in the
liquid sunshine
splitting the dividends
multiplying the categorized implements
subtracting accountability
and adding the defamation
in response and reaction
to ******* or bacon
sizzling in the frying pan
but the dishes are *****
and need to be cleaned
the dishes are clean
and need to be put away
the dishes are put away
and need to be used
to get ***** again
the power lines are down
in the 11th hour
the **** never knows
which woman to enter
stale love doesn’t know
why it’s chosen us
the unleashed dog
near the busy street
never knows why
it’s decaying on
the side of the road
so **** the desire,
increase the performance,
change the filter in the
furnace and the fridge
confront the imaginary
killer clown that
hides behind the
shower curtain
because when the carnival
comes to your town with
plastic, sugar and sensibility,
it will leave you behind with
consumption and subtle rain
I say all this as I park my car
****-eyed and like most,
I don’t take the time
to straighten myself out.

electrifyingly and smilingly,
I walk through the red mornings
that bring the rainy afternoons

with the smell of onions, lime
and fresh cilantro on my
malodorous breath
that will tell you so:

there are three things
we do exceptionally well:

a) the ****** expressions
we make have become an
almost artificiality, a dour,
featureless, sun-drenched
look that has pockmarked
and disfigured upon our faces.

b) living has become such a dynasty
for boredom that we find television
and fake reality to be satiated
and thrillful.

c) death before burial has become
so fashionable that we wear it like
he latest trend in the upcoming
fall catalog.

but there is nothing there,
decades are annihilated by dreams
and sleep is the cheapest form of
entertainment we have.

knowledge and wisdom
perforated through a
trepanned skull
needn’t be obtained by
an educational system

but through self-taught
and self-introspection

success is merely luck…
being at the right place,
at the right time,
knowing the right people

and we strive to be there

but devastatingly,
the small space gets
besieged
invaded
capsized
by subtleties
of distractions
and irritations

that what we have
either,
inside of us
or
in front of us
becomes insatiable

and the flimsiness of anxiety
begins to lionize and ascend
into higher sopranos

what’s good won’t last
what’s bad always felt so good
and what was said to be good
that was actually bad
was never forgivable

questions are unanswerable
books are unreadable
resources are unusable
happiness is unobtainable
love is irretrievable
and animosity comes so often
like a teenage boy’s *******

as the raindrops pelt the rooftops
like pachinko machines
as the grey hair sprouts like begonias
of spiraling hypnotism
as the pagodas burn in
sacred libations.

if this poem has reached you
it is because you are seeking
better writing than your own.

always filling

      and emptying

                and refilling

                     again and again

                                   like gas tanks
               to get to our destinations
                          like bank accounts
                 depleting from bills and
                    replenishing from moil
                                 like our bodies
         with stress on the weekdays
                 and relief or excitement
                             on the weekends
                                  like our hearts
          with love in tiny little spaces
   like bottles of cleaning products
                   under our ugly vanities
               like barrels of toxic waste
                      dumping into the sea
                             like porch swings
              on lazy spring afternoons
                like pews of worshippers
               at Sunday morning mass
                   like stuffing our bellies
              with 99 cent hamburgers
                  and draining our *****
                              down the toilets
                        of the unconcerned
                              like spit suckers
                        at the dentist office
                      like pills of seduction
                                   relieving pain
                  like centuries of people
                    and trees exchanging
             carbon dioxide for oxygen

                                                 ...and
     it’s hard enough just to breathe
                           but how lovely is it
             to prattle and wail through
    wasted time and non-existence
        and laugh at our faces hiding
                   behind troubled masks
                   because we don’t care
                        to know who we are
               or what we’re doing here
      just keep on filling and refilling
           our embodiment with a sun
       patch of numbing resentment
      

                     it’s just easier to wisp
                        through the willows
                 than to empirically plod
                       through the bogs of
                                    self-reliance.

in the midst of everything
anything can happen
while resting comfortably
in your big home
in your big bed
next to your big wife
while you’re playing with her
cantaloupes and peaches
and you’re either too afraid
when it’s right in front of you,
smudging your shoes or
you’re too busy overwatering
your garden of atonement
and foolishly working hard
for everything and living
for nothing to notice it
as where there are people
dying on the streets
like a used q-tip
on top of the trash pile
who are working for nothing
and living for everything
just to get a little piece
of what we take for granted.

between the hat and boots
an old man stands
withered and totaled
with every breath taken
another months rent paid
and every time I blink
another decade passes by

but with each passing year
another candle stands
as the cake burns brighter
in the age of my doing
than the year before

while others await the
next coming attraction

while others rage
and never move on

while others drink
poison and wait

while others hold onto
an extreme admiration
for the total of their deeds

while others are out
walking and mingling
down the streets
and celebrating
their stupid existence

my piano tongue will
cope with the bottle
and write poetry
like taking a ****
it exits my body
and the weight
had being lifted,
but one is excrement
and the other is soul,
essentially the same thing
pending who you are
or who you were

and my two best friends,
loneliness and emptiness
will put on party hats
make some noise and
sing songs for me
under drooping streamers
where the living remain
physically present and
absent minded
once again.

there’s something remarkable
about the magical realisms
between the admixture
of writing and driving.
of course, it’s a difficult task
to literally write while driving
and I don’t recommend it
to anyone but the ideas you
can come up with in your head
become evidently transparent
like a clearing through the fog
and if I was given the chance
with a reliable car, a mixtape of
good tunes, a decent amount
of time to road trip from
Portland Maine to Portland Oregon
and getting lost in the
reverie of elucidation
and neglected dreams
along the countryside
and over the mountains
and through the Great Basin
I could easily write an overkill
of poems in my head and if I
could just get them down on
paper would be a
magical realism
in itself.

doing either one and
we dream of $8 haircuts
and no plans of anything
but watching the routine
of life unfold in front of
prying eyes through
venetian blinds
as singles mothers
prep their child for the
education of death
as dogs walk their masters
as fathers choke on neckties
and stress in traffic
as the mailman makes
his rounds
and someone is being born
and someone is dying
and someone is dead
and worst of all someone
is dead before they die and
money is made and money is spent
and someone is lubing themselves
with comfort and convenience to
make getting ****** by the world
a little more tolerable
and a little less raw
and I am here
eating walnuts and
drinking Spotted Cow
and listening to Sonic Youth
on this delving day
while the rest are scouring
through another day of
intolerable hell but we never
stop and think for a moment
to ask ourselves who we are,
we just enable them to run our
lives and tell us who we should be
because when they got you at
childhood
they
got
you
f
o
r
e
v
e
r

my eyes
like bullet holes
in the side of
car windows
waking up
in someone else’s life
in someone else’s bed
and I dream of escape
but they’ve taken my legs
and restricted my jurisdiction
to four tiny light blue walls
that drive me mad and
imprisoned me
inside a prison
inside a prison
inside infinite prisons
like a Martyoshka doll
with an open door policy for
violence but limiting my
freedom of expression to
cover up these walls with
anything that interests me
but I guess that’s the way
the world works, anything
interesting is prohibited and
beating you senseless is
encourage so may never
know who you are or what
you’re doing or what you’ll
become but if there’s
a little blue sun that shines
on the luck of chance and
it comes to you naturally,
know it, take it and run with it
like you’re being chased by
cannibalize headhunters
because you never know
when it’ll come back, if ever,
and sitting here now
thinking of Havana
realizing that I’m still here
in this reoccurring nightmare
of unnecessary difficulty
I’d appreciate a simple pleasure
like ******* on a mosquito
that’s resting in the ******

eighteen
words
is
too
much
for
this
poem
so
cut
it
short
and
get
the
hell
out.