for the droll, poverty-stricken derelicts...

when the eviction notice
has well past expired
and you’re tossed out
in the streets with your
personal belongings
that quickly disappear
by the scavengers of
society and the car
has been reposed and
the card keeps declining,
all without job or drink
and you’re feeling
tired   hungry   broke
and completely
down and out...
remember that
you always have
Monday as a gift;
a gift only to yourself
and you can do what
you want with it
when the rest of the world
are tucked away in their
crestfallen jobs
striking up another cigarette
like the band playing Krupa
or Giuseppe or Calloway
and slurping hot coffee
in the kitchen,
paying no attention to the
stains of the unclothed tabletop
with the rings from my coffee cup
as I’m watching the tabby cat
through the emitted smoke,
slinking on the broken fence,
eyes zoning in on the oriole
roosting on the branch of an oak tree,
chirping with the morning breeze and
targeting the writhing worm for food
with sharp precision while it wiggles
and burrows it’s way into the dirt,
peeved from the struggle and
resting alongside
the golden pieces of my ex-lovers
bludgeoned inlaid skull and her
remains decaying under the grass
where I wrapped her up in with the
missing table cloth and buried
her in my own backyard

there’s only one way to get out
of this inescapable vicious cycle
of vindictiveness and pestilence
like a martyr being crucified by
the idolatrous or the plastered saint
and we act as if we’re the blind man,
galloping down the gravel road
towards the gallows with jubilation
and the noose hanging from the tree
sings our names proudly like
hymns from the angels choir
we drink from the
poisoned well
with delight
while squirming frantically
and dangling
like anchovies
on a baited hook
a battery
of barracudas

the sirens arrived and
at least there was enough
coffee and cigarettes
until the constables found me

as I glibly explained
my way out of the whereabouts
to my ex-lover’s body that was
never accounted for

like skipping stones of brainpower
across the pond of iota minds
there’s a fictitious line
drawn in the sand
that was devised by the
dreamers of derangement
and yet, the people
have been flattened
by the pressure of days
and shot-gunning beers
of perturbation
over which side to be on,

haranguing each other on whose
to be most righteous and justifiable,
screaming for the favorable result
and the embodiment of paragon
like happiness without wasps

I sit just on the
sidelines of impartiality,
undisturbed and unaffiliated,
with a sandwich,
a pickle
and a soft drink
as I’m entertained
by the whole process
of circumstances that
the living are engrossed
with occupational hazards,
procuring paltry dollhouses
and terrorized by inconsequential love,
their sinuses have gone haywire
their hemorrhoids have boiled beautifully
and their completely oblivious
to their shortcomings
until they’re rotted and hollowed out
without music
much like the ones
who are under the impression
that they are entitled,
closing their eyes
and waiting for the sun
without distraught or anguish
or animosity or belly aches
and everything remains the same
because they’re hung up on the
accolades of complaint but
never do anything to make it change

the preludes of life are continual
and the possible course of action
are played on the mandolins
of selection,
that could mean becoming
a bank robber,
a suicidal maniac,
a resident at the looney bin,
a Vietnam vet,
a mailman,
a window washer,
a biology teacher,
a well-known plagiarist
even Shakespeare himself,
whom I find to be quite boring,
was known to dabble with plagiarism
and there’s got to be
something better
out there
than becoming
a famous writer
who is vapid and trite
but if it makes you happy
then I strongly encourage
you go ahead and do it
the power of choice
the power of change
is far too often

there’s nothing new under this
intergalactic cloth of ruptured filaments
the species have all reproduced
the mistakes have been made
the crimes have been committed
the accidents have already happened
the songs have already been sung
the stories have already been told
the poems have already been written
and the flies have already rubbed their
dirty grubby legs in the sugar bowl

so let’s rejoice!
rejoice! rejoice!

because the beers never get drunk
in a sober and blasphemous world,
so please excuse me from this poem...
while there’s a surfeit of beer
in the fridge
sitting idle
in their bottles
and not in my belly

you see

the power of choice
the power of change
you want a religious poem?

exterminate the doctrine

and the being

will reveal itself

once again
The Canaries are perched on the sill
Watching the dribbles of ink spill
From the scribbles of my cockatoo quill
As I’m writing my will

My kin are planning to kill
While they poisoned my pill
Before I chase it with swill
As I’m writing my will

I’m starting to feel a chill
As my insides grow weak and ill
I’m becoming very stiff and still
As I’m writing my will

Laying face down in the anthill
Somewhere out in Carpentersville
They only received my hospital bill
Because I wrote them out of my will
you want a love poem?

go asphyxiate yourself

on the feeling

that love and only love

can rectify every predicament

and can conduct a delusional life

of unmitigated exultation

but until then,

you’ll get yours

after I’m done

dry heaving

in the toilet
my ears have been blown,
like shrapnel
by the elders always
their complex tics of
indistinguishable versification

“energy is wasted
on the youth.”


the youth need that energy
to patiently wait on the elders
as they buy an over abundance
of lotto tickets and hold up the line
at the local convenience store
because they don’t know what
else to do with their money
while they’re waiting to die
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