Damn, how time’s change.
You were funny on The Apprentice,
now every breath of yours is a menace,
makes my teeth clench so much I need a dentist.
Never got anything in this world you didn’t cheat to get.
You may be president but you ain’t got my respect.
I used to like him, but now he claims
the devil’s got the energy of a dragon, just like him.
Flies in a 747 with only him and Kim,
selfish human beings with no purpose beyond greed.
And your shoes look like doodooo
Sorry, if I’m being mean.
And all the enablers in congress and TV
as scoundrel rats they’ll go down in history
Fuck you too, propping up the clown for political grounds
I hope your guilt follows you into the next life
and all the harm you did letting the narcissist skate by
while America tore apart in the dark you suppressed the light
in order to be reelected you let Democracy die
And Fox News, fuck you too.
A haiku be like…
then it’s all, like, well, you know…
kinda, like, just, yeah.
People like haikus
because there’s structure and shit
to drown the drowning.
Woke up too early
maybe I woke up too late
maybe I’m not woke.
Still use foul language
still scream in public places
Still write from the heart.
Running for teepee
with my pants around my feet
capture my essence.
Still counting syllables.
Rambling wordsmith without a pen, then, when the walls crumble,
I’m the man with the shovel. Above it all, the Earth looks like a marble
somebody shot on a big black carpet, it ain’t far fetched to think I’m
the creator of this detonation. Blow it up. My ego and us, shards
of Woo, shards of You. Part of me needs a lobotomy, the other part
needs a tender hand to grip when I slip. I’m gone, ragged vagabond.
But I’m also here, peanut shells and flip flops and whiplash. Come over.
Call me. Kiss me. Punch me in my soft cheeks. Everything is confusing.
Everything is inspiration. Inspiration is everything. The roses in the trash
and the one blooming on your face when I whisper something sweet.
Though, I usually shout nothing sweet. These words carry their own micro-climate.
This weather buries my snow angel and melts my burning heart. My yearning
start to this life put me in an anxious, sickening tailspin, I type these words
in an airport bar…. again. I fly back home in a metal bird I know no science of.
I’m just a poet researching what it means to dance and cry and high-five the
passing sky. If there is one thing I leave you with, it’s that I hope you never lose
your hope, and I pray that a day comes when the anxiety goes away. And I’d love
to see you in love, even if it’s not with me.
I don’t edit. I don’t repeat. I will keep on truckin’,
even through all the fucking defeat.
Spiraling little sparrow
Broken spare wing.
Choking on bone marrow.
Going home tomorrow.
Talking to yourself again…
In the bathroom with the
Looking through my phone,
at old numbers that I’ve called.
And don’t remember calling.
Listening to Damien Jurado
over and over,
singing about leaving
I’m thinking of quitting,
but I know I can’t.
I’m thinking of you,
but I know I shouldn’t.
Put the pin in the map,
stick the needle in my arm,
watch my blood fill up
the vile. Vile little blood
droplets. I know these
claws and these jaws,
and it’s the only bite
Singing about leaving,
while stuck in this place,
it makes sense then that my
bark is worse than my bite,
if I have teeth at all.
“You’re at it again,” She says…
“Is it you?” I ask.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
after they stop putting candles on the cake
and everybody stops singing for us
I’ll be there with a cupcake and a match
to make sure every birthday is happy.
the flowers I sent are still in a vase
and the card is still in the envelope
but I added water and cut the stems
and kept them fresh for you, anyway,
because one day you’ll notice.
It started as a day by the river
that turned into a poem that
became a tattoo on my shoulder
and now it’s a story I tell strangers
that ask what’s the one piece
of ink that means the most.
When everybody stops looking
and you feel like the spotlight has dimmed
and you wonder if you still sparkle
I’ll be there to shine that so bright
you feel asphyxiated by the glow.
It’s Christmas and nobody was at the Car Wash so I went through quickly and wished “Merry Christmas” through a closed window. It’s the day we get with family and drink alcohol with breakfast. It’s the day the entire country shuts down for a pagan tradition. It’s the day we celebrate when a boy without a father discovered a message from a princess on a droid.
The super-industrial dryer blows the water off my window. It smears into progressively smaller drops until the final one is wiped from existence. I drive out without vacuuming because I don’t want to get out of my car. I drive down La Brea, the only car on the road.
I play the game where I pretend I’m the last human left in the city. Everywhere I go I’m the only one. I wonder what I would do? And if it would matter without anybody else to see me do it? If a tree falls without social media, does it make a sound?
Playing Tennis on an empty court, the balls just pile up against the opposite wall, a yellow ring at the base of a green mesh fence. I’m sure after a few months I wouldn’t even use the free car washes.
I get home and clean up to go out for a Christmas meal. The city is hazy and the news is shitty. Donald Trump is being a Grinch and confrontational, throwing a presidential tantrum on Twitter… such is our world now.
George Clooney gave 14 of his friends a million dollars. I wonder what I would do with a million of George Clooney’s money.
It’s Christmas in Los Angeles. My friend is waiting for me with spiked cider.
I’m so grateful for my friends.
I’m an astronaut on rotting cheese. I’m six feet deep buried to my knees.
The whole whirling world is whorls, earthquakes, hurricanes and whores.
I’m a snail afraid of the razor’s edge with a 21st century laser in my hand…
Shifting through the gigabytes… drenched by dripping fuel from jet planes.
I’m a little like Buck Rogers… but nobody’s heard of Buck Rogers anymore.
I’m not sure I know who Buck Rogers is anymore. I’m an outdated reference.
I’m a little like a velvet Elvis… star of my one-man self-centered crisis center.
This small world of shopping malls, selfish selfies, and soft-served hearts
has me transfixed and entranced — my pants fall down doing a white boy dance.
I’m going to a party of mimes. Everybody’s eyeballs pointed sideways nowadays.
We explain our strange feelings by copy-and-pasting other’s strange feelings.
I’m a crustacean on a Central Coast pier. I’m crawling out of a Cubic Zirconia.
It’s a diamond made of radio waves and gaslight. Carefully curated masks.
Gorging at the News Feed trough, living through a paranoid pretend presidency.
Not sure if I’m the brave puppet or the cave shadow, or if it’s mental telepathy;
I’m paintball splatter… but it don’t matter in this beautiful Battle Scar Galaxy.