Feeling like the filling to a Twinkie
left on the shelf after thirty seven years.
And you come along and pick me up,
instead of eating it you throw it against the wall,
where the yellow cake breaks into a thousand pieces…
I feel like the man on the moon who ate through all the cheese.
When the bills come I run.
When the boss arrives I dive.
When cops step in I grab my weapon.
When the grim reaper calls I’m out y’all.
The drummer hits his high hat. The dancers shake their ass.
The cook puts a torch to the flambe. The lights dim softly.
The poet takes the microphone and the patrons rush out the doors.
Kilgore Trout called me up, told me to order the Ahi Poke.
Hunter S. Thompson killed himself on my birthday.
I used to drink at Bukowski’s off of Massachusetts Ave,
In Boston, thirteen lives ago.
My phone rang the other day and when I picked it up
it was the sound of cats having sex; that horrible, violent
squall that turns ears quivering and receding inward.
I don’t know why they were calling at that time.
I told them to stop doing that!
Johnny Appleseed was real.
Bugsy Seagle was nice to his mom.
I dreamed of Emmanuel Swedenborg, and thus he was.
If Marilyn Monroe had lived long enough to knit, she would have hated it.
In my own mind I am famous, celebrated, larger than life.
I am king of the sparrows. I am a Californian God.
In real life I’m a hair stuck in a drain. I’m an insect
on a string, flailing, trapped, eating smaller insects for dinner.
The neighbor’s kid cries early in the morning.
I ate a taco when I shouldn’t have.
In my dream I was slapped.
The wind speaks truth.
Crank up the obsidian sky.
I want to buy a house with wooden church doors and paint them pink.
Pave the forests with occult love.
A letter came in the mail with no return address.
The envelope was yellow with a bluebird on the back…
I opened it and read the note inside.
It said: who are you and why are you reading this?
If you knew my heart, you would surely faint,
because it’s filled with Twinkie filling.