Bastards Betraying Youth

Around the time I truly became “middle-aged,” I wrote this. I’ve shared it before on or near my birthday, so why not again?

fuck middle age,
wrinkles conspicuous,
faces like used leather,
gray beards, hair, faces,
balls,

forgotten youth,
trampled by
up-and-coming

assholes, fervent
pickled cocksure
men, waggling
their flaccid penises

but we,

pouty, pursed lips,
singing ballads from
decades old radio
shows,
masturbate each
other in front
of loving women,
who hold us tight
at night when we
smile and pretend
not to cry,

ringing in my ears,
I hang up the phone,

fuck your parties.

I’m not coming.

not to rub our elbows,
and talk about old fart
shit, pretend our
faces are dragging
in sand, fat, dripping
cancerous truths,

“Is this gluten free?”

fuck you…
this art sucks,
painted by children,
pretending to hurt,

next is 50, I’ll
take it and run,
burn down the
house, dancing cripple

it’s got to be better than
this death,

pour me a beer,
it’s getting late

no title

this magc moment, if Lou
Reed would have kept the
i out, he would have been
put into his own Tropic of
Cancer, where staunchly,
drunkenly, stately, white
men can use you like poly-
propylene, like we are in
the end, because this magc
moment, less the i of dec-
iet, keeps us separate from
dogs, from cats, bats, rats,
no magc in death, because
there’s no i. no i in me, and
no i in you, it’s filling, used
deep, bothersome, applaud,
laugh, forgo the pleasures,
the neurasthenia happens,
i did it, when i was five old,
no magic there, because i
was in it, and prescient n’
prepubescent, and a pustule
on the ass of my parents’,
who thought i was worthy
of their hatred to each one,
beat in, beat out, i was left
egol-ess and crying, belly
full of worms, shattered
in my room, shaken and
blustering, i, small, i, alone,
i, hate, and it still fills my i
with tears, not even the final
version helped. I transform?

Columns of the Caliphate

We wait, to call home,
to die behind curtains,
all alone

a sickness pervasively,
stalking instinctively,

chattering in the cold,

lines eat insatiably,

yet we journey along,
insipid,
stepping a farce,

he hated those words,
he called me alarmed,

“I’m smarter than you,”
it’s as if he pled,

but I struggled from him,
his hug detritus, long ago –
dead,

in two, in two, I’ll
spit you in
two,

and the scheme was then
fucked, so I relent and I
hung up,

changing to more of a
narrative by then, and less
of poesy, un-poetic proclamation,

then spellcheck relined
my words, another seer
of truth, I thought,

purposless thot, ugli
unrelnting bigott,

suffusing an sufficing until
the end, and then, suddenly,
it at last happened,

end.. end… it all will end,

each line begins, until it ends

Merely Guests

This sweet, unfounded connection,

In which I look for in the blue,

It stares bleakly into my heart,

The stole cold and fur hacked,

It cares not for me or my hand,

Willing to sacrifice me to soil,

But I still pour one out for her;

Warm now, cold as winter’s sky,

Let her dance her callow steps;

As my body rots and feeds her,

Unwilling we all are here atop,

Horses without riders, our brain,

A mane cut and swept for the bin,

And the warmth signals nothing,

Bones for ages – desiccated sons,

Ossified we are – songs’ corruption

Wait, Moloch!

From a Wobbly Drunk to a Dynamo

April 2017

eclecticismgunfight

And it was told, in secret,

once upon a time in the trenches,

so many like us, bled and died

and bleached and lived and wished

for beer, and wished for sex,

but only got shelled, until

the next men came, and died

in the pits, lost and covered in mud;

on that stage, once, in the night’s smear,

I took myself home without blinking,

I read out, cried out, and the girls

still thought I was skinny,

but I learned to tread water, like

my greatest relatives, sunken

and covered in shit, I took a drink

in the closet, and shattered a mirror;

I remembered then, when it was red wine,

and when it only took two, but I

always wished for more, even

after I’d fight with her, and cry

for her, nothing is reflexive about

being drunk, but it’s a ticket to

discovery, and an arrangement

taken…

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In Madness, Lilies Appear Brighter

April 2017

eclecticismgunfight

She felt the goosebumps grow,

“It could have been more,” she

thought, not now, though, not

in a tin can bus, fused together

electrodes, tempered and fast –

like her father, baring the brunt

of quick wit and burnt tents,

trapped together, her buddies

blaring needles and pins, cat’s

at home in the dump, her train

ticket bled onto her hands, it

was years, no, decades since

she saw him; there in the sun,

that day in May, grasslit hill,

like a movie, no, like a poem she

heard in the eighth grade, an

image of queens in France, she

was the court jester, no, she was

wrong, but his smile swept her

inside the atomic dustbin, and

the glory of the music she heard

since then brought her here, at

home in the streets, gripped

by skeletons and painted trolls,

she bummed a cigarette from

a boy who was…

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Whitman’s Oak Coffin

Here’s a Poem I posted in April of 2018.

eclecticismgunfight

I may be ready to conquer my past, again,

this time, my beautiful friend, but with

every gust of blistering smoke,

wind whips

and stings my nostrils, scarring, starving

me of air, on this journey among clouds,

strapped to the ship’s bow,

I remember

the course well, and wish for similar paths

under sunny skies and glorious, blue nights,

for us all, for the dearth of life,

is but

simple and small, and when the spider

spins its silk over our eyes, where we

have been is our compass,

treat it tactile,

lording anxious spirits means to remove

and obsess, find true North and carry on,

your heart is diamond,

your will obsidian,

your memory golden, bound and loved,

“in paths untrodden,” go and whistle, and

discover your soul, in serenity,

first and last.

Interested in more of my works? This link will take you to all of my Amazon…

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The Closet Under the Stairs

It is the end of soft light and

praying, braying asses, alight

with pandering smirks, slim

and divine, practiced sublime,

patrician patriarchs, soiled

by time, then the door slams,

then the line ends, suffering

forefront, banners flight, cool

and drifting, hammering it

into my brain, the toad comes

alive, and there’s my car, there’s

my cat, there’s the youth I saw

from afar, a lemon squeezed,

sour and short, deep, wincing

pain, flightless bird, and there

is the moment I bury, there in

the cloth, closet turnpike, shoes

rubber soles static, profound,

there it rots, cellar deep, fabric

worn, cords twined, tattered,

forgotten, hate it, hate it all,

hate it until it hurts, until I

feel the bleed, bury it darkly,

there in the shoes cove, there it

smells, there in the cells, popular

shallow, saddled, treading water,

there, soiled and comical, a knife,

her face, the listless lies, blue and

stoic, there I die, there I let go

Clichéd Images Aren’t Cliché

worn piano keys, wooden, dry,

in tune still, magic, manic, she

pounds the tune, like Ginsberg,

like I dropped a sack of potatos,

mutilated and tragic; I recall in

orange light, a shadow dancing,

a play in the flicker of a street

light, and trumpets crash, drag

me through the asphalt forest,

smooth and cold, like fresh ice

in winter, our souls static on the

front of our mothers’ houses; no

blunder here, just the bluest of

memories, tempered and lively,

stoic hearts ramble across lives

gunfire rattles toad-like brains,

plain states pour more beer to

celebrate seeds, spring tornado

sirens blaring and screaming,

in space, the cosmos continues

to hum and drift, while ports

alive with misfits take turns

calling each other queers and

and bros, the northern arctic

sits like Faust and calculates

its next pact among peoples.

tribes, Orientalism, just still

and callow and wistful and

apolitical and orphaned, we

are forgotten children of an

era of marked bullets and no

good points to be made or

taken, but I hung a shelf in

the laundry room one May,

so I earned the right as an

engineer to recall Derrida:

To pretend, I actually do the

thing: I have therefore only

pretended to pretend… again