Wake up negative!
Listen to that geriatric!
Wakes up so negative!
Ever tried being positive?
Go on, wake up negative!
Listen to that geriatric's
blackmail and blip,
Go on, wake up negative.

I remember when MTV was in its prime,
A new voice to represent the new boom
Babies growing up since the 80s
Louder still through the troubling decades
(Maxed out credit no head room)
After —the punks in nirvana and rapping clergy
It was the only channel on
Youthful rebel yell —honest news
I remember it pretty well
Shaping us generation x y and Personal Jesus
New wave good bye to when
Childhood then without pain of malnourished
Africa or nukes threatening our
Cruel summers
Were we happier then?
So what happens to the music
Rockstars rip van wrinkle
Geriatric hall of fame

(No one lives forever
Reruns with the ****** & mr. Ed
Now that old neighbor’s dead)

Television
Nowadays
Seem more gangster
School shootings terrorists
On the train, kamikaze planes,
It’s all the same ole
Bling kablam oh bits
******* please
Redirecting our attention
To WMD
***
Where the hells are we?

I remember back then
On MTV —Nicki Minaj says
Between the hysterics of police brutality
She said Happiness is living your life
Without struggle,
That stuck with me
Because we all watch the tube
We all search for meaning
Sadly defining what happiness
May look like
Real World and paradoxical reality
TV
Para socially defunct
Clarity
Conditioned to continuously
Stay tuned
Brief message of empty
Hypnosis a pure form of business
Wall Street
Boulevard of broken dreams
I want my

Happy. What do I mean
To be?
Life ***** lately
The human condition
Talking too much
Refusing to see
No more talking heads too much
Bla bla *******
I want my
MTV . Happy .
My generation
We are the world
freedom And yes, Peace.

Man kindly as one
Symphony
And street, a melting ***
Of diversity

I remember the music
The future
I had hope to see
Behind the shades
Circa 80s 90s
(Fossils)
What time is it then?
When will we
Begin
Again

Don’t worry be happy
Run Forest run!

I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** ******* with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast

You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should

You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I ****—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee

You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****

You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I **** custom—built dead men of doo-*** passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature

A space casino painted on its sides
Its airbrakes hissing and spitting against the wheels
The charter bus clanks to a ***** stop
Its hatches open to discharge aliens

Optimistically rattling their walkers
And dragging their oxygen machines along
Spongy shoes challenged by the parking lot
Knobby white knees all rattling through the dawn

The moustache in his cool gas-station shades
Admires himself in the big West Coast mirror

He wants to run down hills
But his legs won’t cooperate.
He wants to go all night dancing
But 10p.m. is way too late.
He wants to go to Bar-B-Q parties
And eat until he wants to pop
But after a plate of that food
He know he had better stop.

He wants to read a book a day
By a great American author
But he knows after an hour
He’ll be asleep, so why bother?
He wants to go out drinking beer
On Saturday with his buddies
But that was way back before
He turned into a fuddy-duddy.

He used to be able to tell jokes
And leave the guys in stitches.
Now the only stitches he deals with
Are those letting out house britches.
He used to comb his thick burly hair
Into some becoming hairstyles
And now to beat it into some shape
Always takes quite a little while.

He remembers being able to sleep
All the entire night through.
Now, that is simply not what
His old body is going to do.
He’s going to get up at least twice
If he have a drink after three p.m.
Otherwise, it’s off to the john.
He accept this, says, “It’s who I am.”

He has to remind himself a lot
That he’s been around a while
And should be greatly thankful
That he can be this old and smile.
So he doesn’t ***** all that much
That he is no longer all that hot.
He doesn’t count what he no longer has
He celebrates what he’s still got.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                    We Love our Geriatric ****** Mysteries

We love our geriatric ****** mysteries:
Father Brown with his parcels and brolly
Columbo and his rambling histories
Inspector Barnaby and Troy, by golly

Jessica Fletcher writing novels Down East
Good Doctor Sloan solving crime on the beach
Ben Matlock who thinks hot dogs are a feast
Poirot and Miss Marple, teacups in reach

Typewriters, file folders, and telephones
And hidden behind a wall –
                                              the victim’s bones!

What have I done?
I've unleashed Quincy Valero into The Big Bad City, upon Greenwich Village for the first time
The 177 express, round trip
To Port Authority
To the A train to Canal

We missed our stop
Had to walk from Soho to Washington Square Park
But along the way we saw artists and galleries
Head shops and street performers
Hobos and junkies

"We made it"
"We in this *****!"
Quincy said as we walked through the arches

We saw a multitude of creatures
An artist drawing floral murals with chalk
Meditating Buddhists
A cello player playing for a meal
A drummer drumming for money to get back home
A jazz band
A clarinet player
Writers scribbling down whatever came to mind

We saw beautiful women everywhere
"Look, my ten, your two"
Quincy said nodding to a **** brunette wearing a sundress walking by

We got coffee at The Third Rail coffee shop
We met lovey dovey couples and a girl poet sipping espresso

Treading down Bleaker to Sullivan to Macdougal to Huston
*** shops, leather and studs, ****** and flavored lubes
"This **** reminds me of Saw"
Quincy said with a laugh
"Too much for your threshold aye?"
I said nudging him

We passed a guy selling vinyl on the street
"How much for the Charlie Parker record?" I asked
He took the record out and inspected it
"Five bucks" he said
"How long you gonna be here, like till what time?" I asked
"Oh I don't live by time or numbers" he answered
"Time ain't your mast huh?" I laughed
"Nope, you cant spell T-I-M-E without M-E" he said
Quincy and I looked at eachother with a grin
"I'll be back, if I'm not here before you leave good luck in your ventures" I said as we walked away
"Thanks brother enjoy the day" he said smiling and waving

We ate to Papaya Hot dogs
Best in the city
Then to the pool hall

Now folks, it is common knowledge where I'm from the Quincy Valero is the local pool shark
He can break and sink three *****
He can jump over your ball and get his in
He can shoot behind his back with one hand

Playing with him is a guaranteed loss
But I never cared, I just like playing
We talked and laughed about all the stupid nonsense back at home
And planned our next move

We went to The Blue Note, the best jazz club in the city
The Dizzy Gillespie All Star Band was playing that night
But it was too expensive for both of us so we went on to St. Mark's place

More head shops
More *** shops
And book stores, clothing stores
Punk things in Search and Destroy, record stores
All that good stuff

It was getting late
Back to Bleaker to start drinking
First stop, a little pub
The bartender was a gorgeous blonde, sweet as could be
We ordered two beers
She seemed to be having trouble with the tap
"Sorry guys it's a little foamy, next rounds on me"
We were amazed by that because back home all the bartenders couldn't care less if we got a whole mug of foam
We clinked glasses and took that first cool icy sip
So nice on such a hot day

"Ya know dude, this is it this is perfect" Quincy said
"What you mean?" I asked
"Well this is a great time, I'm on vacation right now and were here exploring and relaxing and enjoying the moment, this moment" he said with his beer hovering over his mouth

Quincy always talked about "This"
This moment
This time
This feeling
This thing

"This" is that time when you're in the moment
That moment of complete and total encumbrance
When you're wrapped up in what you'r doing because you love it and you're happy
The moment you live for
The moment you want to last forever
This moment
This right here
Not then, not before or after
But right now, this
We lived our lives trying to to make this happen every second of everyday
Living it up

Quincy took me to Artichoke Pizza
And my God, it was immaculate
A nine in wide, nine inch long and half inch thick slice of heaven
It was a mixture of crunchy, gooey, savory goodness
I highly recommend it

Then back to the bars
Wicked *****'s
Triona's
Off The Wagon
The Bitter End
GMT
The Red Lion
Cafe Wha?
1849

Beer
Wine
***
Whiskey
Scotch on the rocks
Bourbon

Smoking electronic cigarettes down cobble stone roads
Passing hipsters, college students and tweakers
Locals and tourists
"Out of my way you tourist *******" I yelled frantically pushing my way passed them with Quincy trudging behind

You can always spot a tourist because they got their cameras, their ***** packs and their head looking up saying "ooo look at the building and that one!" taking snap shots in awe

We walked to The V-club
As we walked up to the entrance a little old lady in a wheel chair called out to us, "Are you two brothers?"
We laughed and said "no, were best friends and next door neighbors"
"Oh, well you too look very similar, very young" she said
"Yeah we're both twenty one" Quincy said
"You live around here?" I asked
"Right over there" she said pointing to the building across the street
She told us about how the building was falling apart and how all the law students got booted out leaving the little old lady and one other person living in the nine floor heap
"Back in the day there were river rats in their the sized of cats, but now we only have mice" she said
"I'm being moved though, whenever the land lords and the officials decided where" she added
She had some sort old senior citizen perk that allowed her to be taken care of
She then started to spit some of her poetry from thirty years ago, perfectly from memory
It was full of truth, insight and hope
We were floored by this wheelchair bound geriatric
She was a a retired barmaid, a poet, and an ex-lounge singer
Her name was Tracy Warren

The three of us walked into the V-club
I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir
And Quincy got a draft Brooklyn Lager
While pulling out a stool a spilled my wine all over the wooden table
"****" I said as everyone in the bar watched me put my face in my palms
I got paper towels and cleaned up my mess while the bartender leaned over to Quincy and said "If you don't tip me that will be your last drink ever in here"
"Okay" Quincy said as he walked over to me laughing at my expense
"If it was Burgundy I'd be in tears" I said with a half serious frown

I went to the bartender and apologized and asked sheepishly if I could possibly get a refill

"You spilled your wine?" he asked with sarcasm
"Yeah" I said
"And you want me to give you another?" he asked
"Well, I mean I don't know if that's okay or not that's why I'm asking" I said
"We don't, it isn't okay, you have to buy another one" he said with the most insulting tone I've ever heard
"Okay" I said with disdain

"**** this guy" Quincy and I both said
I left the remaining wine dripping off the table
Quincy ****** all over the bathroom
He finished his beer and we left without tipping that bearded-high and mighty- *******
We said goodbye to Tracy and she told us to enjoy every moment and to get home safely

We went to one more bar, had one more drink and headed home
But on the way to the train we got stopped by a ***
"Hey you give me money I know you got it" he yelled at Quincy
"Na man, hes broke trust me" I said to end the oncoming confrontation
"No yous lying i know it" he said
"Na, see those shoes? I got him those shoes, fifty five bucks" I told him
"Stop putting me on" he yelled
Then some white knight hipster wearing thick rimmed glasses and a green flannel stepped in and said "What's going on here? You picking on my friend?" While putting his arm around the *** mocking him and making trouble for us
"This ******* won't give me any money for my troubles" he told the hipster
"Come on man, give 'em something" he said to Quincy
"Dude, he has no money he spent all he had today" I said to the hipster and the ***
"He's a trust fund kid, he gets it from mommy and daddy" I said winking to Quincy
"Trust fund kid?!" the hipster said
"Trust fund kid!" said the ***
"TRUST FUND KID, TRUST FUND KID" screamed the hipster, the *** and myself laughing at Quincy making a scene
Then me and Quincy just walked away throwing our heads back howling at the full moon, drunk and exhausted heading for the subway  

The subway to Port Authority
Our legs, our feet and our ***** were killing us
We just wanted to sit

We could not for the life of us find our gate
We got misdirections from officers, other public transportation patrons
Thank God for this one janitor for pointing us in the right direction out of our wild goose chase
And ***** the guy who I asked "Hey man do you know where I can find the gate for the 177 express?"
And all I got was a blank indifferent stare
"WELL **** ME RIGHT?!" I yelled in his face

Finally we got on the line for our bus
We saw some weaselly looking guy cutting the line until he got booted to the back of the line
As he passed us we both looked at his and said "Weet, get meerkatted scumbag"
He had to wait for the next bus, whenever that was

The bus ride home felt like an eternity
But we made it
We had to walk down the unpaved dirt road to our street

We did it
We took on The Village
Sailed through the bars
Walked the streets
Met cool, hip people
Made memories
And now we have stories to tell

Why is he Vaticanizing
when he could be catechizing ?
This silly man with a funny hat
this doddering puppet
with his dead Jesus on a stick
this irrelevant vestigial *****
this geriatric Marxist-Lite
outdated Liberationist
terminal Global Warmist;

no wonder the World
heeds his incoherent discourse.
No wonder they
listen to him
but hate the Truth.

I was dog tired. Just keeping my eyes open was tough. My timid body was drunk with fatigue. Staring for a whole day at a computer screen and typing as if in a trance, had left my mind blank. My skinny hands were frostbitten in the cheap artificial leather gloves, as they clung to the motorbike handles. My heart raced as I looked at the ominous black clouds.          I tried to focus on the gloomy scenery as my mind drifted in and out of my dream world. Winter had turned the green hedges into lifeless shapes with razor sharp thorns. Mud from previous vehicles had turned the hedges into the edges of a war zone. The trip felt endless as my threadbare tyres skated round the bends. After driving for a hour, the icy chill of the evening air had made me regret not putting on my old trusted army jacket. My rusty red Honda 500cc motor cross motorbike kept up its duel with the dirt road as its exhaust barked continuously. The beam of my headlights kept stabbing the gloomy sky.               With my frostbitten hand, I switched on my CD player, in a desperate effort to focus on the road. The words of Golden Earrings Radar Love pierced my eardrums  "...almost there, gotta keep cool". My goggles started to fog up as I echoed the lyrics. I started to breath shallowly like a chain smoker, to stop my goggles from frosting further. I had just became used to the soothing distraction, when the motorbike gave its last bark and gradually coasted to a stop. I got off my stead, with my joints feeling like a geriatric patient that had completed a rodeo. I surveyed the bust engine as my cursing breath formed little clouds in the gelid air. I dug around in my shabby jeans, whipped out my cellphone, only to discover that there was no reception. I salvaged my flashlight from the bikes saddlebag and popped a "Life Safer" sweet into my mouth. I realized that I had to walk to the nearest town.                 I started down the road, remembering my fathers reference to isolation, being between "hell and the hotel." My flashlight reminded me of load shedding and sudden darkness. As I walked past a small lake, the clouds parted, revealing  a crescent moon that hung in the air like a haunted vessel. The moon reflected in the lake, to a watery grave for the sailors. I got the eerie feeling as I walked, that someone or something was following me. I stopped and swallowed the stale cold coffee that was left in my hip-flask. The howling Arctic wind had ceased and I could hear my own heartbeat. Ledd Zeppelins Stairway to heaven started smoothly...

O Reaper,
dark jewel in the shimmering sea of night
sickly flower blooming in the garden
pale wanderer of the doom-bound desert,
weave for me a tapestry
and drape it over the blinking stars.

O Death,
sweet fragrance of the morning
rapping on the windowsill,
compose for me a symphony
to haunt my ears as I sleep.

O Ghost,
gentle and geriatric in the dim moonlight,
sweep off the collecting dust
and blow it into the four winds
to carry us off on the backs
of the eagles.

O Ghoul,
your silhouette as the sunlight dims,
carve for me a juniper tree
so that I may dance around it
and welcome thee.

O Plague,
humming in the breath of the insects
crawling on the furs of the beasts,
pour for me a strong drink
to quench the flames of my disease.

O Maiden,
creeping into cronehood as the clocks stop
drifting down the clear stream into the damp
floating with the smoke to be imprisoned
multi-faced and schizophrenic,
sing for me a rhapsody
a hymn for my church of undoing.

O Glacier,
still and monumental,
melt into the sea of shining
and polish for me a mirror
to see clearly a glimpse
of mortality.


O Thanatos,
born at the beginning of time
flowering into youthful beauty
falling corpse-like in the rocks,
kiss the clouds and the trees
and write for me some poetry
to ease me into the long sleep.

Baby Boomers: 25% of America’s population, all born in the years between 1946 and 1964 who continue to live off Social Security.
     All right, but what is Social Security and from where does it come? Taxes. Taxes that come out of your (yes, YOUR) hard earned paycheck. About 14% of your paycheck, actually. You, my fellow working Americans, are paying for little Miss Norma from down the road to migrate to Florida during these treacherous cold, winter months, along with the flock of 47 million other Baby Boomers who live in America. As well as paying for their food and shelter and ever-growing medical bills and for them to continue living. We are paying retirees to take our money.
     In 2012, 21% of America’s budget went to the Baby Boomers, or Social Security--that is 773 billion dollars. In 2013, however, the retirees gained grounds and are now being paid 860 billion dollars a year for the next two years.
     Why are we paying little Miss Norma and her 47 million retired friends to have a vacation, time off, a break, whatever you wish to call “running away from responsibilities”, when they are neither contributing to nor bettering society? What responsibilities are they running away from?  Why do we continue to slave away every day to earn a paycheck that funds the lives of people who are of no benefit to the country? Because this is the United States of America and it is the duty of us young folks to cater to the needs of the geriatric community!
     Well America, it is time for a change.
The retirement age in America is about 61 years of age, and with retirement comes Social Security benefits. BUT, I propose, instead of receiving the benefits of Social Security, the retirees are given something else.
     That something else? A pill.
     A euthanization pill.
     Baby Boomers are ******* America dry, and it is time to eliminate them.
     It is logical, really. Why spend excessive amounts of money on people who are too frail and too weak to work or enrich our country? Seriously, why?
     Living a life unable to work, unable to do once-favorite activities that arthritis now prohibits, unable to visit with long deceased friends and family cannot, I imagine, be fulfilling. By euthanizing them we are doing them (and ourselves) a favor: we are ending their misery (and also saving ourselves from paying them 860 billion dollars for the next two years).
     Think of the country! Think of the possibilities! Think of the debt!
     Being no longer threatened by the looming responsibility of needing to fork over more than 20% of money to Baby Boomers that the country doesn’t actually have to give, we are enabling ourselves to use that very same money to pay off the ever-increasing debt!
     The national debt as of February 2014 is well over 17 trillion dollars, and thanks to Social Security and the people living off it, the amount does not stop growing. We, as Americans, must say good-bye to our dear old grannies, and say hello to a debt free life.

They are mostly elderly, frail, ghostly pale, lying there in their beds, comatose. Drugged out of their heads on painkilling meds, rarely with their mouths closed, though many with their teeth close. Tubes in their nose or oxygen masks for those for whom breathing has become too much of a task, I suppose. Totally oblivious to all those of us who have chosen to visit, just to be close. Lost in a world of their own, fighting battles unknown to most of us.

So vain is she at ninety-nine
every time she looks in the mirror she calls herself "fine."
Tonight she awaits her Valentine,
a suave gent of only eighty-nine
whom she knows will jiggle her huge implants into youthful prime.
He loves those ***** so firm and big
and her every new color of ***** wig.

Like a speed limit,
Age 55 is a reminder,
A geriatric mnemonic,
Telling you to take it slowly.
Safe to say,
Most of us Baby-Boom geezers
Walk around half the time
Wondering how one gets laid,
“Hooks up”—
As our grandchildren say--
Gets laid behind & inside this
Asylum sanctuary?
Manning the ramparts,
Those Wackenhut stiffs
Are there for a reason.
Overt, direct ****** overtures
Strictly verboten (ver•bo•ten).
Yet, the silver-haired sireens
Crave company,
As in “keeping company,”
An ancient idiom for
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni!”
But you’ve got to take it slow at
Del Webb Over-55 America,
A multi-state lunatic asylum,
Where a preponderance of
Single silver-tress foxes,
Having “lost their husband,”
Somewhere, at some point,
Some recent but forgotten,
Alzheimer’s moment along the trail,
They comb the daily obits,
Hunting prey, newly widowed men,
Fresh casserole recipients &
Crypto-pepperoni buddies.

This one is for the doctor who called me “delicate”
I think I missed that word in the thick textbooks about disease I’ve seen
This is for the lab technician who lost not one but two vials of my blood
Because I really wanted to help that new nurse figure out veins again.
This is for the stupid slogans on the walls
A fichus with the word peace under it, I'm cured.
This is for the geriatric room with the low table they always put me in
An arthritis patient means elderly woman, right?
This is for the negative tests and endless questionnaires about my health
Checking how often, how severe, and how much I care.
This is for the four empty orange prescription bottles sitting neatly on my desk
Red pills, and yellow pills, and white ones, oh my!
This is for the loud groan of pain in the morning I make before I even wake
Because why shouldn’t my roommate wake up when I do?
This is for the symphony of my cracking joints and creaking bones
Because violently trembling when you walk up stairs is so very ****.
This is for the manic googling at 4 AM,
Does this symptom mean anything? Is it just a quirk or side affect?
This is for WebMd, bless their hearts,
Who think that sniffles mean polyps and headaches mean cancer.
This is for the flights upon flights of stairs I climb each day,
Cats are considered ****, is panting like a dog?
This is for the cramping and shaking hands everyday
Because as a writer and artist I never even use them right?
This is for my mother
Who’s waited patiently with me through every doctor’s visit
This is for my best friend Lauren
Who missed three classes to take me to a clinic
This is for my nephew
Who is too big for me to pick up without grimacing now
This is for the wine I drank
And the bedroom basement I climb out of
And the backpack I heave around
And the school lunches I leave in toilets
It’s for the nights I have to stay in and the ones where I make myself leave
Because the only thing tough enough to stop me
Is me.
And I’ll tip my hat to myself for putting up such a good challenge.
It’ll just make it even more satisfying when I knock it the **** down.

oh, the things you hear at the doctors'
the elderly man with melanoma on his face
trudging out behind his wife
mumbling "****" under his breath
the sweet weathered receptionist
says "nice to see you again!"
to her seventieth geriatric patient
there comes a day
when her patients quit calling
quit showing up
and she has fewer and fewer people
to recognize
ugh

Don’t let the *******
Get their foot through the door
Say yes once, at the wrong time
And you’ve said yes ten thousand times
Soon they’ll be taking the hours
From your life

It will happen slowly
Creeping up on you
Like glacial tides
Like choosing a Pope
Like *** cancer
Until one day you are consumed
And struggling only pulls the mud
Further up your throat

They get you with all the necessities
Food, water, beer, clothes, and cigarettes
It takes POWER to say no
Not a lot of people have power
At least, they say no to the wrong things
They’ll say no to a mid-week ******
And yes to the slow death of 8-5

You see the injustice in their eyes
You see they are looking for an escape
You know, though, that they wont
The ******* move in

They claim they already own the place
That they never moved in at all
They’ll start rearranging
The furniture of your life
Orientating everything in their image

Don’t let them in
Don’t even open the door
They’ll take everything-
But it’s yours to keep

To keep so long as you
Love their cruelty
And allow them the last thread
Of consciousness
That leaves your body before sleep

It’s yours so long as you
Turn up on time
And stay late
Punch the clock
And throttle all human smell

It’s all yours
If you give yourself to them
They will use up your patience
And then start on your confidence

Until they have you
Decorating your iron bars
With raised, clenched fists
Declaring loyalty to those
Who would drop you without hesitation

Soon, they’ll **** that spark
That Blue Moon spark
The one you feel when the sky
Mimics colours of happy memories
The one you feel when
You wake with movement in your bones
The one you feel when
A balloon swells in your chest
Or when ecstasy fills your spine
How the wind at the back of a motorbike
Blows the cobwebs from your mind

They’ll take it all away

They’ll take it all
Compensate you with a paltry sum
For all of your hours
For all torn relationships
You have no time for

They’ll turn the vice
A little tighter each day
Until you turn crazy-
If you’re lucky

If not
You’ll be there
Spent on purified sugar
And a lack of motion
To your days
You’ll be there
A hollowed shell
Of violent potential
Lost

Lost in timesheets and long weekends
You’ll take pictures
Of days spent in the sun
So that in your luxury
Your geriatric, loose-skinned luxury
You can look back
On your small life and say
“Hey, I did everything expected of me”

And that will work
For no one

Don’t let the *******
Get their foot through the door
You have no POWER to resist
You won’t be you anymore

We're deep to our waists
In February;
Trees look like a geriatric pool-fitness class,
And the grass,
Sparse as the bobbing skulls.

      I heard a lone Canada goose overhead,
     The V has left the others for dead;
     And a gray pall covers all
     With winter's threadbare spread.

The alarm is set,
The time is right,
The season's snug,
But not sleeping yet.

     Soon, the beast will close its eyes,
     And Spring will march in,
     Fresh and vigorous,
     Like a new recruit,
     Green and anxious.

She'll fire-up roots, flowers and leafs.
In the pool they'll sway in the breeze,
Branches touching in Spring's reprieve.

You are still living,
Arteries intact
Opening wide
Like the fat fist of a geriatric Jesus.
Forget these new graves
Fresh flesh, the worms anticipate.
Convince me for
The piece of cake.
The seconds
The hot victory, sweat drenched
And satisfied in my mind.
The curves of your body.
Your glimmering mouth.
We will keep on living,
Because we can't stand dying.

Hotel room a/c fans faded red curtains
Lamp shade mutes the generic glow
Side stepped your way into something so certain
A dance no one  means to learn
Yet,  everybody knows

Yeah, you used to want something and you lost it in your lover's eyes
Fatal to acquiesce
No you can't acquire the original wonder you gifted him the year he said good- bye

You were too young to fathom
Now the monopoly houses in the suburbs look like geriatric wards

Easy blueprints to dispise
Cheap siding to realize

You dream of nothing
Your thoughts aren't your own

I promise that I won't wait
There is nothing I would change
The parts of me that I don't know
City to city
Continents and languages
One  woman alone
I promise you nothing

P.s. you can have my bones

Do not mistake my kindness for flirting.
It is not an invitation to ***** me.
I came here for the art.
Not to socialize with geriatric perverts.

My message seems too abrasive to send
Like handwritten ransom notes
With a geriatric hand,
Gnarled and pimpled with
                Weariness
                And experience.
Our war stories
Are cards thrown down at a poker table
So initially casual
Then troubling after the fact.

People spout perspectives;
Our inputs are faucets overflowing
With the chemicals that change the mix.
Each of us contribute to the compound of strife.
What I need – what I want
Is my own element,
                Thoughts pure of your life,
For you do not fully comprehend my experience.
My wuss-**** whines that resonate
As sure as a saxophone’s wail.

My jazz demeanor, burlesque figure
Only mask the pedigree of emotions

Beneath my wiggling hips, fluttering eyelashes.
Remember: this is a woman.
From smudges to sunlight to wind to aligned stars –
                The cracked liar’s smile never eludes me
                Just as the bite still scars my neck.

Marked, experienced, wrung out, aloof –
                Live for sin, looping exponentially.


The seagulls scavenging in
The grocery store parking lot,
We know them and hate them for it.
****, drink, yell, tip your way, son.
I’ll tap my cigarette, clamber into bed
[my motives are my motivation]
Deepstep, baby, deepstep:
                Come willing because I won’t.

I am the renegade impulsively flipping cards,
Smirking across the poker table
And yelling, “Checkmate”
For no good reason.
Scattered to the winds,
My nonsense is the very ground you have to tiptoe upon,
My sense is the word on the tip of your tongue that absconded.

I am not your maker for he’s my friend.
I am not your mother for she’s my servant.
I am not your lover for you’re my witness.

This [whatever it is] is a syllable caught skipping on the record,
                                                         ­                                  And we’ll never know the rest of the word