bob munchkin had a rifle in his silver pants

lungs rising from the smoke
the man dipped slowly into cement
wagged and waved
cautiously insane
creeping past the bed womb
with his eyes on the guy’s prize
ova paranoia on the foyer
past regret in a handicap spot
whistling Bob Munchkin
had a rifle in his silver pants
ova and ova
again

with the moon’s death
he would cease seizing
and finger the home from here
sleeping dead forever
‘till the bitchslappin’ sun
steals his chains and underwear
and people must be dealt with
one way or another

he would exist limitless
if he knew how to milk that cow
pale and centuries old
parked in the shade shimmering
with god stuff
and money bursting from the holy ass

The bottom’s gonna come up suchly
and kneecaps are gonna shatter
he knew he saw the future
somewhere close

My Side of Town

I.
I live on the corner of Wise and Jolly Roads, couched into the Southwest side of Lansing, Michigan. In my estimation there aren’t too many people who are wise and jolly around here.

II.
The CVS down the street was robbed last night. The guy on the security camera looks like my neighbor a few houses away. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him. I’m scared of that guy. He’s about eight feet tall and he walks like he can’t wait to kick some innocent fool in the nuts. Sometimes he cuts through my yard and peeks in the windows. I hide my laptop at night.

III.
The assistant principal at the middle school by Cedar Street blew his gasket last year and murdered his ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend and brother at a Christmas party. I used to teach at that school. I actually went out for drinks with him and a couple other teachers a time or two. He seemed normal enough. Shit, was I wrong.

IV.
There’s a guy who rides by every sunset on a broken-down Schwinn with wire basket tied to it. He’s always yelling at the top of his lungs about how his woman wronged him, how he has no place to go if she’s gonna kick him out, and so on. We call him the Broken Record.

V.
There’s a haze over the neighborhood every year around the Fourth of July. Store bought fireworks from the market, illegals from Indiana, and homemade bombs blow out so much smoke that some of us here call it Baghdad 1991. We have to close the windows or risk lung damage, and we don’t have air conditioning.

You Wicked Camel

Goodbye, you wicked camel-
you don’t need me.
I’ll be in the corner hiding
from the eyes of my common sense.

I’ll make it, so don’t fret-
you don’t need to worry at all.
Leave that expensive task
to me.

Sweating, grunting, heaving balls-
you can find me there.
These are the things I’ll do
when we part.

I’ll often search for you
in the deep angled spaces,
forgetting that you’re gone.

“Who’s Gonna Fuck You When You’re Dead?”

is certainly the best thing I’ve overheard
so I can’t take credit for it
but I can relay the splendor to you
and we can both laugh and chuckle

the couple was gone down the street
before I could react
they were incredibly fast walkers
for being so grey and poorly dressed

but what the man said
in that moment
has stuck with me for ten years
and by now the guy is a wise sage
in the rolodex of my memories

(published in Madswirl)

Cabin Fever

 

The spine of the snow worm
clings to the molded wooden railing

patterned ice vertebrae
of ovals spiraling away
refracting light onto the beige siding

and a shadow of season’s death
still being chewed in it’s frozen jaws
falls toward the pit of my stomach
spreading cold rock panic

2.

They found him
eighty-six years and thawing
negative twenty wind chills
stole his breath-
his son claimed he had Alzheimer’s
but others know better
being permanent residents of Michigan
and all

3.

We aren’t supposed to be here
and those who could migrate
did

There’s always death in the air
‘round this time of year

the brave hunker down
blow their noses
and wait for the finish

Church of the Whooshay

cue:
Kenny G
“Songbird”

read slowly:

(The pinnacle of our society:
the supermarket)

we all come together
over toothpaste
woks
and reduced-price DVDs

we all walk the walk
of the fluorescent aisles

we all talk the talk
of green
plastic
and food stamps

we pray as one
over the checkout lane
hands reaching for wallets

we go to one
that’s the same as
the next one
and the next one

we are held together
by the mystical power
of purchase

we are ushered in
by the invisible hand
of the Whooshay

we pray to him
and load our carts
to our favorite songs
quietly piped in

smirk furrow and smile

want to make money now?

sell your hairspray
your bag o’ cheetos
and your indefatigable soul

sell your words to the devil
your gonads to god
and your plants to the fire

cheese it up
in the meatball stew
that is your suburb

head south and
dip your dreams in queso

disinfect in clouds of cumin
and boil the water for bulimics

buy a suit made of Sacagawea dollars
and polish it with pornstar semen

fire rubber chicken shotguns
at the strip mall shoppers
and run away with their shiny pants

want to make money now?

be vigilant and broker some stocks
in a shady corner with terrorists
while mudwrestling them in gooey crude

smirk
furrow
and smile

repeat

Lansing

you’re a staunch tuna sandwich
a familiar mars bar
the drunk guy giving quarters to some floozy
at the end of the bar

you’re the reality
and the meth the billy brewed
in his moldy basement

you’re a dead dream
rolled up and decomposing
in the industrial park by the dam

oh melting molding city
you’ll forget me when I leave

and you’ll keep me warm
in your fungus folds
if I must stay in this
burly hole

Away For the Holidays

I dream of turkeys without wings
or a way out, trapped in circles
in the yard, burning infinity into the grass

ten birds absorbed in a pattern
detailed with neon brown blur
as the neighborhood watches on
with forks and meat thermometers at the ready

there’s money cascading from the roofs
and our windows are bursting with stuffing,
but dad is on it, he’s looking for the tray
and the special set of wine glasses

(somebody has to know the rules)

sister is in the basement with Jack
mixing 100% juice and acid
listening to Zappa weird up the place
through the one good speaker in the house

mom left with spoons and the carving knife
a trail of chocolate liquor imprinted by her heels
and short-ish men following her liquid scent

I dream of exhaust smoke and money:
thank you for the cancer
thank you for the sex
thank you for the cancer
thank you for the sex

the station wagon gallops away, back into time
the picture growing grainier by the second
while the crossover hybrid shinester
expands into one big pixel, triumphant

(this poem appears in Calliope Nerve 15)

Hemispheric Terrorism

There are places in this world bent
by terrible doubt and the disturbing
feeling that if you let your guard down
for one second the whole thing will
collapse around you, leaving you
dumbfounded in the ruins of your lifestyle.
Your family will disown you for your stupidity,
the bill collectors will scurry off with your couch,
your love will have been lying to you all along-
see, here is her secret affair with a man who
looks like a model and scampers about
in a Bentley from his eight-car garage.

It might not be places in this world,
it might just be times in this world
where the mind itself bends and you see
yourself peering at what’s in front of you
with a tilted head, unable to make sense
of this terribly emotional condition, the
underlying currents that only some people feel,
and you are one of the lucky ones.
You feel it, it’s between your toes, it slides
up and down your spine and fucks with
your chakras, which at this point aren’t
glowing like they should.

Life is rich and frightening and you really
shouldn’t spend so much of it trying to
explain it in words, you should know by now
that in the end that small feeling of
personal accomplishment will be overshadowed
and eventually overthrown by a shapeless
sense of dread and futility. You should try reading
Hesse again and crying in the shaded corner,
or maybe batter yourself over the heart with Kafka.
Better yet, do both and cry, nobody will feel sorry for you.

(this poem appears in Haggard & Halloo)