YO. Sexy. Where Have You Been All Week?


The air was calm as fried food
Lulling under a heat lamp.
A pinch of salt,
Beaten turtles
And cuisine
In a paper bag
Speckled with grease stains,
That was

Monday’s oversight
Beguiled the taste
Of Tuesday afternoon.

And the movement of Wednesday
Resembled a cashier’s wrist
Afflicted with carpal tunnel
From swiping credit cards
To sustain her life choices.

That could be her drug habit,
Or what alluded to
Some untenable version of pleasure
That sparkled at dusk
And smiled below
The moon’s crest.

The weekend gave what it had.
Two orgies.
Three grins.
A dozen eggs.
That homeless stop sign,
Who forgot their purpose
When a politician
Sped through
The ordinance,
Waving hello,
Kissing invisible babies.

“Come As You Are…As A Friend.”


His breathing is synchronized with a light fastened to the ATM, it blinks green for a second then dissipates to a sliver of shade, tight as the lungs he’s abusing to perform. I think his toes are purple, this conclusion is devised from watching a purple vein erect politely as an earthworm on his index finger, he’s using it to push buttons, they’re gray and inscribed with language. Swallow the moment. Hold a thought and birth urine when the bladder is full. She’s staring at an empty chair. She doesn’t belong to it, she’s intimidated by the faded floral pattern stretched across the cushion. She could fit here but there is more appealing. Security footage showed another him stumble out of the urinal and into the hallway. He screamed profanities at no-one but everyone listened. I think that’s how prophets come to be.

I Understand.


I guess, to be understood is like counting raindrops and advising a stranger of the tally. I don’t understand, what is the desire to be placed there? For as I write this I stare directly at the faucet fixated on my bathroom sink, reflection peering back almost styled fisheye, but distorted due to speckles of dried tap water on the alloy. Feeling comfortable yet? Or is the irregularity of boredom seeping into consciousness and already distraction has prompted vision to peer crosswise, out the window, I hope, at what flourishes under that beautiful blue. Maybe it’s raining. Maybe it’s nighttime, time is relative after all. We seek the comfort of beauty, distinguishing its worth by how familiar the comfort is. I don’t understand English, I only speak it. I don’t understand bullshit, I only eat it. I don’t understand love, I only suffer from its brutal punches. Yet. I continue with these descriptions and functions as if I understand their worth. Ah. The beautiful Cartesian Theater. What does thou have for me today?

Quaint & Pretty, Babe.


I won’t snicker at the mention, but what is animation anyway? A composition of contending timbre, a function to illustrate a trumpet bleating? Gah. I take the air quality as a time signature. I watch television as a junky stoned on their product, licking dope remnants from a plastic bag as if I was a mother cleaning their pup of placenta. Mmm…stem cells, babe. Past is waning and the future constructs the likeliest of outcomes. In a world of dope fiends and singing clouds what sort of dreams are left? The kind that declare, “I’M SPECIAL!” Ah honey but you’re not. We’re human and humans are relentless beef, strutting the timeline like models on a catwalk. Meow, babe, meow. Wherein lies the counter woof, the omnipotent bark of god’s hounds? Well…they’re in Hell. Along with the song birds and other caged figures that remind us of solitude, quaint and pretty, babe, quaint and pretty.

Market Don Juan Because Competition Is All About Can Do!


There’s little discord between the ancient and the current incarnation of homo-erectus, or rather previous renditions of biped splendor that rot my thoughts and leave the decision to familiarity sans repetition, I guess I got no moment than now, but the foremost choice rendered that has left donkeys and elephants deserted in the ether…competition. As natural as a sex drive and more marketable too. This inquires, does sexuality exist due to competition? Or rather are the two interacting like the lonely often do? Does this portray the lone graybeard sitting idly on a park bench feeding squirrels as some type of pervert competing with other gray-haired rodents shifting through the treetops? Is the hunger a squirrel exhibits for nuts merely a metaphor for sexual dominance? “We digest the genitalia of those we defeat!” Vlad the Impaler takes on new meaning when organized as a macho brosiph, forgiving the heads on stakes, he’s staking out victims with a blood rushed head stalking the alleyways and back corner haunts where only paid-for-company shall sing his praise as a conqueror. Ancient Don Juans, Libertines, Romeos and charmers alike drop the nickel in the fountain and declare consumerism a death wish. The overall scheme of competition is a penny for yr thoughts. Dammit. They’re worth more than neglected copper and bus fare. It’s the tool of manipulation, man, not the contest that guides the economist’s sex drive, lonely as a single head, rotting on a stake, basking underneath that familiar star.

The Performance Of Win Or Lose


“Politics with me isn’t theater. It’s performance art. Sometimes, for its own sake.”
-Roger Stone

Detonate bubble wrap
While a dignitary speaks,
Ensuring a recycled sound effect
To be as effective
As the dignitary’s rhetoric. Body language
Is a commercial designed to advertise
The human position-

When bowing for democracy’s woes,
That is the voter’s scrutiny. It’s okay
To contemplate the rehearsal,
How often they smiled and laughed
Like actors in a blooper reel
While explaining the emptiness
Of casualties.

This is the dignitary’s contribution
To the human condition. A proclamation
Of where to place the hand to secure
Eye contact
With a sweaty palm.

When A Capitalist Goes To Sleep Does It Dream Of Electric Money?


Enlisted as jovial entrails,
We’re bottom feeders

Teetering on vertebrae.

I imagine soft communism
And hard
Tending to their
Rediscovering religion

And this is how they’d pray.

Whistling Dixie
Through the gaps
In their smile, or a fed poses
By placing their elbow
On their kneecap
And resting their chin
On their hand, palm facing upward.

It’s massaging a dimple
Where words
Should go. I’m free
To shave in the mornings.
I’m free to sleep at night.
I’m free to stare at walls
Rather inside
Or out,
The difference is palpable.

When he styles the cardboard tube,
Depleted of toilet paper,
To resemble a revolver
And it’s
Not obvious
And it’s
Not reasonable-

Carry the ambiguity
And swallow the bullets
Six-fold at a time,
Ammunition tastes
Like the change
Of dollars spent.