Tag Archives: poetry

My Drinks So Tropical

 Serve my drinks tropical my minks are fakes
 but I sport them on ice skating rinks
 my shit is Ace like palm springs in a calm breeze
 when I'm on trees, kick back 420 degrees
 injection like antifreeze a soldier's repreive
 the war overseas and between the sheets
 my heart is a trick and it's up my sleeve
 life goes up in smoke while the jokers joke
 in the comedy clubs with all of my buds
 laughing like Trump ain't president
 that chump is a traitor to the nation
 shit can't think about that right now
 chasing good vibrations just a night owl
 with a tight scowl no paper bag I can't fight out
 man, give me a minute, I'm in it like Popeye
 after a can of spinach I pick apart
 the ticking clock, trimming the stock
 pins on the darts and ships in the dark
 looking for a port of call in this hopeless squall
 my pocket was picked at the disco ball
 but I keep dancing like a mannequin
 touched with magic somersault back flip
 every crash landing's so theatric  
 back stage panorama good guy grammar
 west coast straight syrup like French Toast
 My crew so comatose get mistaken for ghosts
 Gary Coleman with the different strokes...

 

 

 

 

The Little Delaware

6 feet of windblown glass.

Little holiday light.

An olive book of poems.
A necklace of magnets.

They say…
Don’t set sail with a man who never
sailed the mighty Mississippi.

I say…
If the wind is right, and the tide is high,
I might be the man to sail the little Delaware.

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The Knock on the Head From Just Above the Sun Apocalypse

We rummage like raccoons in the garbage can night.
Waving our lit cigarettes around for punctuation.
You’re my favorite habit worn like a drunken nun.
See how the embers write this in cancerous light?

I’m a fast fading constellation — make a wish,
before we shoot past the horizon.
Come kiss my gills — half man/half fish.
Come lick my lips — half haunting.

My life raft popped a hole
when you jumped in
in high heels, pole-vaulting
the other women…

Because you said I was a gentleman,
I was totally smitten.

But I was just talking
about the things
that just came out.
The planet and my skin
and backgammon.
Words trundling out
like guest beds
you jumped in
like a carnival ball pit.
We were all in…
running to Vegas
underneath
star-swept
ambition
and the
Zephyr
wind.

When the
pen goes to papyrus
the platypus
goes nuts
we all
collapse
underneath
platitudes of
magnanimous
magnitude.

Have a good day,
take care,
keep in touch,
I love you,
and all that..

Sent a postcard
to my old address,
I turned up and took it in
with a brand new kitten
and a BMW.

Rosy cheeks and ochre umbrage
just another side effect of the
millenium.

We were intertwined
like social media marketing
plans.

And I ‘liked’ it all.

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Hollywood Glitter Kitty

I dress like a mannequin, speak like a faucet,
I got three rocks in my pocket, a broken window
in my future, and my tattoos are leaving
for other bodies, other arms, other nights
of sneaking in while your parents are asleep,
dreaming in their sleep, deeply
dreaming of their other lives.

It was an apocalyptic April.

You and I were just crustaceans
mustering the motivation
to grow legs and grow
out of the moat,
and hope
that one day
one of these
dirty legs
learns to hope
for more.

I’m a soaked poet
floating on dope.

I got algae bloom in my dark room.
Taking photos of blank walls and
roses in trash cans. Backwards
backspin on the chalkboard,
I wrote all my poems in glow in the dark.
I followed fleeting phantoms
unscrambled eggs in my Easter basket
I’m just a kid, just a bastard.

Countdown to the last man standing
window fan bowing down to me,
sitting in the heat and humidity,
Hollywood glitter kitty. Slick
Gothic creeping bougainvillea
These bones are the buildings
of this city. This imagery
graffiti on my breastplate
rests on the template
that we’re all just
simple and kind
and we’re all
just looking
for a nice
place to
dine.

Photo on 7-26-16 at 7.39 PM

Roller Skating Boogie Bone Ballad

Sex with wolves. My ex is from Bruges. I’m a xylophone,
waiting for a dial tone. I break the rules. I date a xenophobe,
messed up on hemoglobin and bowls of Xanax and panic.
We’re both dust creatures seeking symptoms of stimuli,
and a nice lullaby. I’m the fall guy, blue neon, tall guy.

Bringing snow chains to the party, we’re lost in the Mardi Gras
foi gras, grass skirt, fashionable undershirt of a world gone bezerk.
I’m a lasting impression in a glass jar, flamaldehyde heart. Testoserone
dart at the lovely part in your hair, where the blonde and the blonde
and the blonde go blind.

Look inside me but not enough to make you queasy.

Roller skating blues singer without a band.

I’m an emergency lane clogged with Daquiri. Apathy is a hat for me.
I’m a latch key masterpiece with razor sharp faculties. But a little cold
at 35 degrees. I’m a parka in the Keys, more heel than Achilles. Call me silly,
but don’t text me. I’m restless and sexy. Do me a favor and murder
my tendencies, a little bit underneath the sink, please.
I reach my peak and then…

Fountain pen. Mountain men. Counting Yen.
Do me a favor and knock again. I’m a repeating non-pattern,
second ring of Saturn. Holy smokes, you weren’t joking,
that’s some ego you’re toking. Awoken like Tolkien.
I’m a garage door and a lot more. Figurative pie in the sky.
This is the most beautiful place I can think of to die.

Dancing in delirium, dining on venison.

I dedicate this
to the waitress
who brought my drink
and gave a kiss

I’m going to keep loving you
until we both Cinnamon Toast Crunch
Alphabet Poop

Version 2

Pigeon-Walking

Pigeon-walking on thin ice.
A triangular pentagon.
Your dexterous octopus.
The pocket for a pocketĀ©.
High end trash, this is,
we got top shelf diaper rash.
God texts you back right away.
A dog is chewing on the power cord.
The final word in the last book.
We’re a tabloid android boy.

Second guess: we’re lost on
the asteroid belt buckles.

Last try: we’re contemplating
our contaminated selves.

Commercial break: these socks rock!

The Papaya Tree

With one pebble, one ripple,
one wave,
the ocean moves, shorelines erode,
highways disappear.

There’s always something else,
something more, I crave,
yet,
everything I want is right here,
right now. Inside me.

One line, one poem,
one heartbeat.

I’ve known angels and demons
and roller coaster rides.
I’ve sailed into sea caves and
gone to sleep on silk sheets,
but I’m happiest when I’m typing
one word.

This
one.

I’ve chased money and women and drugs.
Looking for love in the weirdest of places.
Didn’t know all along it was behind my breastplate.
The best case scenario: I’m late to my funeral.

The wind sighs. Lungs winterize.
My eyes conspire. Mind pacifier.
No longer a seek-or-hider.

Spoiler alert. Twist ending.
I’m the thing I was chasing.

Each tree, every branch, and
all the leaves are a manifestation
of the sun and the rain
and the Earth
and me,
in the shade,
reading a book,
writing a poem,
dreaming about a pill
of memory, a hit of love,
a shot of divinity, an absolute
moment where everything comes
together perfect and pure,
a purple sky,
a parade of stars,
the point on the end
of the sword
plunging into
the abyss…

Oh, cruel beauty,
photogenic monster,
this schizophrenic symphony
of pleasure and pain and mundane
Mondays through sundry Sundays
have me swivel-necked and Twizzler-dicked;
superfluous poetics stuffed in my pockets have me
weighted like anchors and juvenile gangsters
with a gun stashed in their waistlines.

I’m carried away by the slightest touch,
whether a fist or lips, they both leave bruises,
one disappears and one’s invisible. So hand me the thorn
or hand me the rose, they both come from the same
cold ground, where I stand, on tulips and tombstones,
humbled and heroic, looking for a hymn to hum.

A song to sing.

A singer, a singular lyric, a note that makes me tremble before
this bliss and madness, the all-encompassing everything,
the cloudless days and the mist, transpiring into a
typewriter ribbon spelling out…
this is all I have and this is all I need
as mourning doves settle on the wire, and nighthawks
sleep in submersible serenades, I wax moon-spun
tales of my eternal, infinite being and the dementia
of its spiraling shadow. They dance together,
tangoing underneath the papaya tree,
for 16,000 years or a half second,
it’s all the same in a
gravitational
wave.

There are 8 billion of us, but there is just one me.

I’m everything I’ve been looking for.

Custom-made.

Square. Circle.

Radius.

Six-squared
Nirvana.

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