The poor thing got
lost in the escape.
And she was still hungover
from the childhood terror.
Her personality was
ruined--redolent with
the first flowers of
madness.

She made a pretend
world, full of delusions.
A house of cards that
was laden with
lunacy, her insanity
became safe and dependent
on her never taking
responsibility for her
actions--she was a
pawn for the adage,
Hurt people Hurt people,
like Blanche from
A Streetcar Named Desire,
and
Don Quixote,
Her world crumbled and she climbed
into the abyss,
when she looked
deeply into the
mirror of reality.

She poured herself into
her jeans
like a nice
glass of Chardonnay.
I wanted to pound it,
but we
had errands to run.
The sun was out,
but it lied.
It was February,
and cold;
real cold;
like her heart could be.
She wanted to set
us free.
She found out I
couldn't be tamed.
Who the hell likes
a caged dog?
One thing's for sure,
the dog doesn't.
I pulled her close
and growled.
She bit my neck.
And then
we were off
into the
bright white world.

With furrowed brow
and a soul full of
sorrow,
I trudge the
lonely road of
perdition.
Providence guides me
as I stumble and fall.
Not even *** or
chocolate
can save me now.

This isn't a poem,
it's a thank you to the
HP community for
all their support and love.
I'm in treatment and working
******* my addiction,
but I woke up with a
heart full of gratitude,
not to sound sappy, but
I love you all.  Carpe Diem,
and let the ink flow.

You do it a
little at a time.
You start a holocaust at
5:30 am, over your
sausage and instant
coffee.

You do it with
your small hatred
and your snide
comments--your prideful
looks at the ***** man
with no shoes.

You do it in
one moment, by not
calling your dying
brother
over childhood
trivialities.
You do it by gassing
the goldfish, flushing love
down the toilet;
clogging the sewers with
your hatred and
malevolence.

You watch the green
grass die and the ants
drown, while you
smile over your
newspaper, and plot
your next hostile
takeover.
You did it when
you punched the
dog, and pinched
the child.
You do it when
you smile.

You're a mean
one Mr. Finch,
Mrs. Jones,
Mr. Smith.
But guess what?
You are dying alone.
Every day, every second,
and the moon and the
sun and the stars
celebrate your demise
and so do I.
You've never lost
any thing.
To loose, you must be
found.
You have to have a
bit of gamble in you.
You don't.
You're as useless
as an eel in
a quiche.

I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.

I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.

I met a man once who said, It's all
nothing. Everything goes away in the end.
It doesn't mean anything.

I asked him, What about love?
He said, It's an illusion;
it disappears when you
think you have it.
It means nothing;
we are all going to die.

I saw him walking one day,
and I asked him
where he was going.

He said, It doesn't matter, all roads lead to death;
it all ends the same- nothing matters.

I said, What about family, children, and God-
what about life?
Family abandons you, children grow up and
move away; God is deaf and dumb, if he's
even there, and life ends in decay-
everything goes away.

I said, What about art and literature,
the power and the hope?
What's the point of beauty if the
beauty ends? he said.

I said, What about the moment?  You're
alive right now, it's real and it's happening.
Look at the simple beauty of that robin-
Its breast looks like a sunset.
Do you smell the sweetness of the cherry blossoms?
Do you remember the slippery loveliness of
a woman's ******, the taste of a fine Chardonnay?
Look at the dappled fur on that dog; he's almost
grinning, that has to matter; it has to
mean something.

No, he said, That dog could get hit by a
car in an hour, then he'd just be a pile of
bones rotting in the street.

But look, I said. He's alive; his fur is warm and
course; look at his tail wag, he knows things.

He shook his head. You don't get it.
The race is fixed; the horse breaks
his leg in the home stretch.
The champ goes down from a
glancing blow, the dice are loaded.
It's a setup.
Everything goes awry,
it's not good for mice
or men.

I smiled and threw a perfectly
timed left jab to
the bridge of his nose, the blood was the most
brilliant shade of red I'd ever seen.
It flowed from his nostrils and
settled on the green grass
below his feet.
Some of it stained his white shoes.

Hey what the hell did you do that for?
That ******* hurt.

I said, Pain is nothing- it will end- it's almost
like it didn't happen;
maybe it's a dream.

You're ******* crazy!
It is real; you punched me,
and now my shirt and shoes are
ruined, he said.

He walked away, and the sun broke
trough the clouds, flowers bloomed,
and a small black
beetle crawled through a
patch of blood onto
a lilac bush.
And somehow, I knew
that it all mattered.

It's the little things that
drives one mad,
a snapped shoelace,
on your way to the
liquor store in the
driving snow.
A cockroach in
the cereal,
dead batteries, when all you
want to do is listen
to music.
Shifty eyed people in
my house, quietly plotting
my demise.
It's the tree of
life, cut down to clear
space for a parking lot.
No love from my brother.
Another frosty day in April.
Cigarette prices constantly
rising astronomically.
Footsteps in an empty
hallway.
It's Just a hop, skip, and
a jump to the madhouse.

She loves the
darkness.
It’s like a scar on
her soul.
She constantly complains about
my drinking,
yet daily, she fades
to black.
Sleep, oh what an
escape, but she
rapes the sunrise with
worry and
dreams deferred.
I write by candlelight because
she’s in a  
foul mood.
It’s like a tomb.

There are miracles when I open my eyes.
The smile on the cat, the taste of strong coffee.
A Beethoven symphony while I taste dark chocolate.
I exist in the present, next week is nebulous.
The touch of my baby's cheek against mine
defeats the demons and destroys chaos.

I'm on a Bukowskiesque roll;
pounding them out,
seven or eight a night.
I know it won't last.
It's like a fast.
It's the hunger that
drives you.
And when you're starving,
you eat--then rest,
not today though, I've hit
my stride.
And the night is mine for
the taking.
And the words are mine for
the ******.
And my heart I am staking
on the fact
that
I will stay hungry.

I'm on a Bukowskesque roll,
pounding the poems out
seven or eight a night.
I know it won't last.
It's like a fast.
It's the hunger that
drives you.
And when you're starving,
you eat--then rest.
Not today, though;

I've hit
my stride.
And the night is mine for
the taking.

And the words are mine for
the ******.
And my heart, I am staking
on the fact
that
I will stay
hungry.

In prison
when you have no
money, and you can't
buy commissary, and
the hours and the days drag by
like a tortoise searching
a garden.
It's the little things that
make the time bearable.
Someone gives you a package of
noodles or a cup of coffee,
or a bar of good soap.
Kindness in hell goes a long way.
It's the simple pleasures that
I took for granted
that I relish now:
Steaming hot water,
a bed with a real mattress,
and a library with thousands
of books to read.
I have writing paper,
ink pens, and reading glasses to
see with; it could be worse.

Many years
ago, I went to
this little
Irish bar.
On Sunday nights,
there was a jazz band.
They played
Monk
Mingus
Coltrane
Miles
and the Duke.

I drank gallons of
****** marys on
those hot
summer nights.
Dill pickle spears, and
green olives came up
later on those
hungover, dreamless
mornings.

I was young.
I wasted the days,
lying in the sun,
bayonetted by youth.
Copper colored skin,
tin soul.
I would go thousands
of miles, chasing
that train, before I
would be forgiven.

Before I met her
I used to dress myself.
Donned in paisley,
I had class and style.
She cut out my Calvin Klein heart
and now I look like
my grandpa.
Oversized golf shirts,
and slacks to match.

I used to dress myself.
It sounds absurd
but it's true.
I was dangerous, I lived
on the edge.
She said,
"You're not a gangster,
so quit dressing like one.
Here, put this on.
It's really cute."

I used to dress myself.
And now I'm
safe and sound in
cardigans and corduroy.

I've been a slave so many
times.
I've been a slave to
***** and vaginas,
to poverty and the streets.
I've been a slave to opiates
and poetry
brutality and love.

I've been a slave to
the flesh and my addictions,
good intentions galore.
I've been a slave to
beauty and hatred,
passion and desire
the flame
and the
fiery dance with death.
I've been a slave to the
crowd and the pedestal
the morning glory women, and
their spells.
I've been a slave on
the slow ride to hell.

So for the last time,
I'm done with slavery.
Go find a new **** to control.
This rooster is going back to
the barnyard,
chase the horses and hens.
I promise
I will crow at the
freedom-soaked dawn.

I want to kiss
her mouth in the
spring rain.
I want to
feel her tight
wet body
against mine,
while the water
pounds down around us.
I want to
carry her to
my underground
lair, and taste
her orchid
until she wilts in
sweat drenched
ecstasy.

I want to be your
lumberjack.
I'll wear red flannel shirts all
the time, and grow a scraggly
beard like Thoreau.
We could cuddle by the
fireplace on
cold winter nights.
You can grow a garden,
with potatoes and asparagus.
We can climb mountains
and hunt bears.
I could make a rug from
it's hide, and a necklace
from its claws.
I want to be your lumberjack.
In the summer,
we could skinny-dip in the
pond, by moonlight and
make love in the
dew soaked grass.
we could have a
coonhound named Festus,
and gobs of kids.
I would build a tire swing in an
old Oaktree.
**** this ****** city
with it's treachery and
its concrete.
Lets go where the fire-flies live.
I want to be your lumberjack.

I want to swim to heaven,
because this city has an infection.
No injection will **** this disease,
this treachery, this brutality;
So I'm going to swim to heaven,
back float--take my time, my rhyme,
will be the deep blue trip
to heaven.

Life is about giving
back instead of taking.
I took a lot all my life,
apathetic and selfish.
When I see people today,
they don't look like marks.
I don't think about what I
can take from them.
They are God's handiwork.

Life is strange and short.
I couldn't have caused this
inner transition.
I always subscribed to
morality in theory.
Thank God,
the blind still receives sight.

Sometimes, acquaintances will say
that I've grown soft
as they turn to green jello, right
before my eyes.

I know they look like sunrises and sunsets, but I was painting you.
When I painted all the rivers that lead to the oceans, and the glorious starry nights, and the flowers; the sublime orchids and the tender roses.
In the end
and from the beginning,
I was painting you.

As the ***** and
chemicals leave
my body
I realize that
anger wears many
masks.
It has lots of
colors and shapes:
sarcasm,
jealousy,
envy,
intolerance and contempt.
It's like being at
a masquerade.
I try to figure out
who or what is behind the mask.
It's only when I take them
off that I see
the truth.

There is a gravity to
sadness; it pulls me
downward into a
deep dark well.
I can't climb out.
It's my own private hell.
I pray for levitation.
I jump, only to fall.
I feel forgotten.

I put one foot in
front of the other,
and I will rise.
I move on.
Hope returns like
a long-lost friend,
and I find my sanctuary.

I woke up too early.
It was still dark out.
I tried to read some
Hunter S. Thompson, but
it made me thirsty,
not a drop in the  
place.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

A few nights ago my
girlfriend and
I got into it.
She bit me and
scratched my face.
We were drunk on  
wine from Argentina.
The coffee I’m  
drinking doesn’t taste
right.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

In the wee hours of
the morning
I decided
to shave my head.
It took four razors, but
I finally got the
job done.
I looked in the
mirror,
and a stranger peered
back at me;
a head like Gandhi
and a face like Marciano.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

Yesterday
my girlfriend and I went  
on a shoplifting spree.
I stole coffee,
a couple of books,
a hat, denture glue, and
a **** ring.
She’s a much better thief than
me.
She took
razors, two tapestries, laundry soap and  
trash bags, makeup, shampoo
and coffee that doesn’t taste funny.
As the sun gently
kisses the horizon
and begins to bathe
Iowa City in golden light,
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

Tomorrow morning
I have to be in
court.
A month ago I stole
some wine and got caught.
My day of reckoning has
almost arrived.
I should just get a
fine that I will
never pay, but
with these things,
one never knows.
The judge could be  
hung over or constipated
or worse yet, he could have
read my poetry.
I really wish I were in  
Puerto Rico.

Fear is like
the shadow of a bat,
larger than life.
I taste the
rabid nightmares;
they poison my soul.
Anger masks the fear.
I hear the harpies scream
in my febrile brain
and my faith is
small as a
grain of sand
growing slowly
over time.

When I was
20
I became
involved with
a married woman.
She said that
her husband was
abusive.
She was looking
for a way out
or a break.

She had the
most amazing eyes.
Wild and dark,
like a walnut, on fire.
She smelled like
the earth, sweat,
and wildflowers.
There was something
uncaged about her.

I was young
and naive.
I believed everything
and hoped too much.

The *** was
ferocious.
She taught me a lot.
We broke the
bed and took
bubble baths together.
It was a lavender love.

One day, she came
home with a balloon and
flowers.
She said we are
having a baby.
Those wild
eyes flashed pure joy.

My mom was
worried.
"She has a husband."
My mother was a realist.
She accepted it though,
even bought the woman
some gifts.

It didn't take long for
Amber to show a side
of her, I hadn't seen.
I caught her in some
small lies, and she became
violent when upset.

The affair ended.
She went back to
her husband.
It felt like my heart was
being
ripped out through
my nose.
Pain like a
rotting *****.

I remember talking to
a friend about it on
the phone,
pausing to *****.
It hurt so
******* bad.

Her sister called
me a week after
the split.
I asked about the
pregnancy.
It was all a lie.
She had a
hysterectomy a few
years earlier.

I still believe in people,
and hope too much,
and the years have made
me wiser.

I heard much
later that
she died at 40 of
lung cancer.
Those beautiful dark
eyes finally got
some rest.

Chess in the
afternoon sun.
Jazz floats over
the silky couch.
Backs ache, while
hearts break.
Bishop takes knight,
and France falls again.

The masks are all
broken under the
cerulean blue skies,
while she eats berries,
and smiles in her
pink polka dot dress.
The pawns are all smug,
and queenie's on the rag.
Italy surrenders, and from
the grave, Charlie Parker
still hammers home
those soft amber notes.
I can smell her heat, and
I think they play
Jazz in hell.

I dreamed I was
in an
old
dilapidated house.
It was like a cave with
red brick walls.
The paint was
peeling.
It smelled
like loneliness and
Ovulation.
I was with
a woman (maybe an ex.)
And
she cried (big turtle tears.)
And said,
"Don't hate me."  (She was leaving.)
I was drinking;
not drunk,
but liquid smooth.
For some reason, I was
going to
Chicago, to live on
the streets (it was my destiny, my plight.)
And I thought, **** that,
I don't want
to go to
Chicago (all that concrete and crime.)
So I sat there
and
watched the red
paint peel,
and
although the cave
was warm and moist,
it was unfit to
live in.
I said to myself,
I'll go to
the woods,
and live, write
**** small mammals
and eat them (thanks Thoreau.)
I ascended the
stairs to tell
the woman about
my epiphany.
(Beethoven's Ode to Joy was playing in my head.)
She was mock
sleeping, waiting.
I said,
"I'm going to the woods to live and write."
She pulled the
covers off,
exposing all that
impossible
magic,
and said,
"Make love to me
one
last time."
I was glad for
that
and
sad that she
was leaving,
ambivalent,
but
mostly
I was glad.

****!
I woke up.
No woods.
No ***.
Sometimes,
the pain is
so raw
it's like
food poisoning
or
like a little grey
squirrel biting at
my intestines.

When I think of you,
I hear a marimba in my head.
I'm lost like a stray cat.
Baby, I swear I'll hop a train
and head west, to roll away
from the memory of you.
This mad hatter moon lights
my way, and I'm done
holding on.  I'm getting a
bottle of whiskey, and drinking
it until you become a
blurry memory.
Then I'm jumping that train.

Just in case you
couldn't
guess, it's not a
a fair fight
or a level
playing field.

It's you with
boxing gloves
and them with
machine guns.

It's Van Gogh
throwing his paintings
out the window
to stop the hecklers.

It's Janis falling
down
the stairs, lonely
and
broken
looking for love.

It's Morrison seeing
the game for
what it was,
wanting to disappear
in France and
write poetry,
then dying in a
bathtub with a
witch in the wings.

It's morphine dreams
and thorazine days.
It's the tiger
declawed and lobotomized
at the zoo.

It's the lobster
cursed with
precious meat.

It's the statue of liberty,
burning her bra
and impaling
working class men with
her stiletto heels.

It's Gogol
dying after a
prolonged fast,
because a charlatan
told him
it was evil.

It's the elephant
domesticated by
the cage, but
still dreaming of
the Serengeti.

It's the dolphin in
a Hollywood
swimming pool,
a shark in your
coffee cup;
it's the criminality
of releasing the insane
from their cages to
wander the streets of
Santa Barbara.

It's pathetic and putrid,
a setup up;
the perfect tragedy;
a crime that goes beyond
denunciation.

It's what they will continue
to do to
you and me
until someone or something
intervenes.

I had just came
out of an AA meeting.
I looked to the
west, and spied a
mother cat with
a litter of kittens.
Little ***** of fluff,
running and jumping in
the tall grass,
unaware of the
danger that lurked.
A large black and white
Tomcat eased his way
up on one of
the kittens.
The tiny one arched its
back and hissed,
trying to be brave.

Male cats **** the
kittens so that
the female will go into
heat sooner,
and then he can
mate again.
He's a born killer,
living to ****.

As I walked towards him,
I thought to
myself, why can't cats
be like penguins?
The father helps raise the
little ones, and they
mate for life.
Why can't nature
have morals?
He was nose to nose
with the baby, when I said,
"Go on, get out of here."
He walked slowly, and then
turned and tried to come
back toward the kitten.
I put my hand on
his side and pushed him.
I stomped my feet and he
sulked away for
the time being.
He'll be back.

It ****** me off
and made me sad.
I thought of Caligula and
Roman empires,
and felines of all breeds.
The *** drive,
human and animal,
has its brutal side.

I'm not surprised anymore by
the extraordinary.
When life bombards
me with trivialities, and
ordinary events,
something always happens to
jolt me from my lethargy.

"Bukowski **** on
the training pads!"
My brother yells, from
the dining room.
I'm living with my
brother, and
we have two
black kittens, Mojo and
Bukowski.
They bring me
hours of smiles.
I've never seen
eyes so full of
trust and adoration.

Bukowski has an
aversion to the litterbox.
We have tried everything.
When I put him in,
he jumps out like it's
a muddy pond.

His brother Mojo adores
the litter box.
Not only does he do
his business, he also
plays and sleeps there on
occasion.
We've started with
the training pads and
newspapers.
It's working.
Amidst all the destruction,
hate, and chaos in the
world, I'm eaten up by
the magic of the ordinary.

I talk to them as
they doze in the
afternoon sun.
"Thank you boys,
you got me going again,
Mojo, you broke the
dry spell."
They blink, and
Bukowski licks his
brother's head.

I fraternize with chicks
half my age because I
want to get laid and
feel young.

When anger and hatred
flow through your veins,
let love reign.
On gentle Spring nights when
memories haunt you like
the lost dead,
let love reign.
When stress and confusion
overwhelm you and the
future seems as
uncertain as a roll
of the dice,
let love reign.

When you think God is
a grand prankster and
it feels like an
eternal winter in
your heart,
let love reign.
When the pictures remind
you of times long gone,
and the mirror is
a hard place to live,
let love reign.

If you get lost,
like I do in a
poem or a song,
let love reign.
In my dreams, I will
see you, and kiss you,
and hold you forever,
and there will be no
good-byes
only good mornings,
if we let love reign.

Bukowski and Mojo zip through
the new apartment.
Chirping like birds.
I had no idea kittens could
be so easily thrilled.
They aren’t even
high on catnip.
Fluffy black
blessings.

The birds started
singing at ten to four
this morning;
coaxing the dawn on
with their song.

The *** would be
great on the clouds
I saw yesterday.
They looked like
rows of fresh
cauliflower.
Every position would be
a little miracle;
perfect depth and
perception.

The sweat stung
my eyes as I
smoked in the
sweltering July
sun.
I wish I could
live in the clouds...
No job
No taxes or tired back.
Just relaxing in
that puffy white
perfection.

The birds started
singing at ten to four
this morning;
coaxing the dawn on
with their song.

The *** would be
great on the clouds
that I saw yesterday.
They looked like
rows of fresh
cauliflower.
Every position would be
a little miracle;
perfect depth and
perception.

The sweat stung
my eyes as I
smoked in the
sweltering July
sun.
I wish I could
live in the clouds...
No job
No taxes or tired back.
Just relaxing in
that puffy white
perfection.

The night is torn apart;
fractured and shattered by
the memory of you.
Stars shake and die,
and I'm filled with
diesel loneliness,
soul sick, like a
butterfly melting.
Everywhere I go,
I smell pumpkin pie, lilacs,
and ****** energy.
The day will come when
I'll not think of you;
not write a single line about
you--not feel you in the
attic of my mind;
but until then,
The crows peck at my
heart, spring never comes;
ice forms on my brain,
and life inches along like
a filthy worm.

Sometimes, I feel like
a cat out in the rain.
A ******* and white Tom just
trotted by.
Ears back, trying to avoid
the puddles.
Is he angry at the
world; maybe a little sad too?
Was he led away from
his domestication by
his drive and desires,
only to return to
a locked door and
no more love?
Or was he born on
the streets-never held?
Were the elements always all
he ever knew?
It's a dog-eat-dog world,
**** or be killed, and this
old boy is still alive.
I don't have the
answer to this feline's
follies,
but I do know this,
sometimes,
I feel like a
cat out in the rain.

Like a phoenix from the ashes,
I will rise
up from this mess.
This test will not distress
me for long.
Gone are the days of
warped god living,
giving my soul to the
sun baked afternoons by
the lake.
I will take all
the **** that the
enemy has to offer,
with a smile, and ask for more.
This season will only
last a little while.
Spring will
return, and when they
burn my world, I shall
rise, like a phoenix
from the ashes.

Her eyes danced with
cornfield loneliness;
pain so deep
that blueberries and
puppies couldn't
touch it.
She tried to **** it with
***** and
****,
but that only
made it worse.

The solution came
simply,
like flipping a switch.
She just quit loving.
It was rough at first;
tough on the heart.
It hurt when she
saw dandelions and
felt velvet on her face.
It ached when she
smelled the sunrise and
kissed soft lips.
But with time she became
like a head of lettuce
or a marble.
Her eyes were
vacant;
reptilian and blank.

I danced and, and ****** and sang
like some kind of a warped god,
like I owned the night,
pretending tomorrow was
a decade away.
And when the morning proved
too much to bare...
I danced and drank, ****** and
sang all over again.

I danced and drank,
****** and sang,
like some kind of
warped god,
like I owned the night,
pretending tomorrow
was a decade away.

Dawn proved me wrong,
and once again,
reality received my
waking eyes.

And when the morning
proved too much to
bear...
I danced and drank,
****** and sang
like some kind of
warped god
all over again.

Once in a while,
my poetry will bring
women.
They read my stuff.
They find me.
The talking is great;
very literary.
We speak of all
the little gods:
Hemingway
Pound
EE
Shakespeare
Dickinson
Buk
Ginsberg

Some­times, we ****.
That's always nice.
They soon find I'm
fallible and have
bad habits.
They prove human too.
They **** and drink my
*****, occasionally
burn dinner.
We try though, while
Joan of Arc burns at
the stake, Robin hangs
himself, and
Don Quixote fights
windmills.
I always love them.
And in the end,
we accept our
limitations and
humanity.

Once I began to get heathy,
I cut out all the junk food,
and saturated fats.
No more bacon and eggs for me.
I added fruits and vegetables
to my diet.
I exercise, and I pound
****** Mary's  from 6 am to noon.
The tomato juice is very healthy.

Beneath these
satin sheets,
my memory
flutters like
little birds on
indigo nights.

Folded wings
rest in my
mind's eye.
Fingers itch with
visions,
Delta of Venus,
orchids in bloom,
wet with the
sticky dew.

I grip my
virility
and begin
a slow
waltz...
It feels so
good.

Some people serve
little gods.
They keep them in
a shoe box with
other odds and ends.
They take them out when
they need something.
Their gods don't expect
much of them.
I can tell by the
way they treat people.
Cold and cruel.
Wars break out,
famine hits,
families disintegrate.
And there goes Betty,
reaching up in the
cupboard for her
dust covered god.
She asks it to
make everything okay.
She lights candles for it.
Sometimes she has a
little ceremony.
But her tiny god can't fix
her heart, it's brutal and lost.
It does like religiosity though.

It’s hot in
Missouri.
The summer  
sun looks down  
jealous of
youth playing in
the fields,
carefree and
careless.
Kids drown
muskrats with
rocks in the
stream, and have
funerals for flies.
Death watches, and
waits for
winter to come.

I work at a
gym that is 
popular all over
the country, because
of its family values, and
sliding fee scale.
I am a custodial artist.
It's mindless and gives
me time to write.
I get a free membership.

Men walk around the
locker room ****, and
try to have full conversations
with me.
I want to say,
put your **** away,
it doesn't talk.
This is a gym,
not a nudist colony.
I take no delight in
seeing your shriveled *****.


Where is your modesty,
your decency?
Wrap yourself in a
towel before you try
chatting me up about
the weather.
I'm trying to work out,
and then get the **** away
from you screwballs.