Monthly Archives: April 2010

Nothing To See Here

First you were my baby
then an odd cuddly squirrel
then my wife, trailing behind
and now a busted colostomy bag

There are shadowy folks watching
at the weeded fringes of this parking lot
the smell of pepper beef and broccoli
descending like eager spores

Take my shit and shove it
or bury it, there’s nothing else to do
and nowhere else to hide

I’m fuming pissed because my intestines
drag across the pavement and leave a trail

somebody fix me
I scream to the shady crowd
who back away and melt into bushes
somebody heal me

why would a squirrel
take the time for my embrace?
why am I not afraid
for the first time ever?

I think that home is very, very far away
and I can’t sit here under the weight of eggrolls
and die without knowing what exactly
is nestled in my arms

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Charles Bronson


Blue mushroom smoke echoes
from Charles Bronson’s head

steadily pumping the doobie
he leans over the mezzanine rail

I approach him from behind
beer swinging from my fingers
fuzzy memories of his films
interposed with his exhaling real body
and giant head flickering on the big screen
swallowing us all

once beside him I remain silent
casually watching the movie
where Charles breaks ten bad guy necks
in an effortless zen exertion of dominance

I get a contact buzz as smoke billows
and fills my ears and eyes

Charles is a ganja smokestack
a ganja campfire
a ganja thurible straight from mass
a ganja forest fire out of control

he slowly turns to me and asks:
how did you get in here?
swallowing the roach and winking

I don’t even know where the hell I am
or why I’m on the balcony of some old theater
hanging out with a lit Charles Bronson

see, he says
a new joint magically appearing between his lips
the less control you exert
the more interesting it gets

he jumps over the railing and transforms into a barn owl
just before slamming into a plush red seat
between two enormously fat men
sucking soda through neon orange straws

another fucking dead owl
one of them says
every Bronson movie, no fail
says the other
belching and tossing the owl behind him into the darkness

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Cerealism

I still look for toys at the bottom of my cereal

there are empty boxes
stacked like shipping crates
against every wall in my garage

the toucans and pirates and vampires
are tangible cardboard gods

I’m either straightening the rows
or re-imagining Arkanoid in three dimensions
with a marbled pink bouncy ball-
then stacking the mess once again

I forget my children’s names
or how many wives I’ve burnt through
but I have reached the unreachable:
memorizing the bar codes of every single box

all 1078 of them

I dream in bar code
while fuzzy memories of cartoon commercials
dominate my waking life like daydream ghosts

and I haven’t been off anti-depressants
since they stopped with the toys

I asked Captain Crunch
what’s the secret of happiness

he shrugged and referred me to Tony the Tiger
whose eternal optimism almost saved me

almost

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A Great Nobody

Somebody ran him over silently
with a morphine rainbow

they were lucky
to find his body folded up
in a pot of slippery gold

his wife sewed together probabilities
outside of a quantum fissure
deep within a plate of fried chicken

what a ruckus the monks made
when his ghost visited their zendo
riding a three-legged giraffe!

they split up his soul
with karmic carbonation
and watched it fizzle toward the
sun’s lips, where his wife forgot
her needles and sucked him dry
with a tin straw

that cacophony is the sound
of monks celebrating silently
during the reincarnation of a great nobody

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Inflating Miro


Miro peered over my shoulder
with bloodshot and owlish eyes
and said to nobody in particular
that we’re all either blobby shapes or dots

we can make it if we try
just the two of us
placed by circumstance
in a room lit by a bonfire filled with
milk jugs and halogen lamps

Miro held his breath and floated to the ceiling
calling down and bitching about the humidity

I closed my notebook and swallowed a sparrow
twitching cold in my beard

Bill Withers crawled from the fire
brushed his leather jacket off
and asked me where she went this time

I dug a tunnel with Bill on my back
searching for the door leading to an aortic chamber
whistling a fishing song
silver pants clutching my ankles

Miro screamed behind us in echo
but we went on
fearing his broad strokes of tuna salad romance

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