Poetry: Snaps

The Ticket and the Lecture were an experimental

dance-pop

poetry duo from Statin Island, and they twisted

around the made-up minds

of the tea-cup Uberclass, intellectualizing thought

itself while calling it illusion, and they fucked

everything up the trail painted gray, so to speak

jumbly non-rhymes aplenty flowed

like breath seeping, through the air-brush

daytime taverns called shit

like Twisty’s and Fidget’s, stupid nonsense

like most of it always is

in the country, except the fields

I guess but who cares?

 

Because ain’t shit

out there anyway, wandering aimless

dummies down a path to doom, whichever

direction they end

up heading, smashers hypostitize

from centuries abstract, crushing cream puff

pillowcase pieces of shit, in the city too

as all and sundry are hollow, saying and meaning

nothing at all at any time

anyway so shit, might as well

go to McMulligan’s China Bistro and Tavern

at the bottom of the sea, drink the day

away like a shot, just write your name

in the sand with a stream, cadmium downgraded

from the gin, plumb death infinite, because depth

is too hard to make flow, though a reality.

Poetry: Snaps

Novelistic

This trashy beach novel, written sunbathing

about the future of our planet, which I found

on the shores of lake Minotanka, is pessimistic at best,

in its vision of the future, the pantsless emperor

is given a knife, and he’s running around the U.N.

stabbing at ghosts, because he was celebrating

the assassination of the previous emperor

and he did too much acid, it’s a hilarious romp

featuring a choreographed dance of death

with full penetration, it has everything.

Novelistic

Poem: Down Low

Delicious, lovely happenings abound

around the area floating, if you look for them

in your imagination

that is, they reside on the slide

in the pride of losers clinging to each other

while the world changes behind their backs, again

just like before when it happened

to their fathers, grandfathers buddies cousins

boss’s bro’s and bandits, all of us a link

in a chain that knows nothing connects

really, which is sad

but only kind of, honestly.

 

Because Flavor is important, in all places

at once, preference being a fact of life

we express our spirits through, what we enjoy

is like a fingerprint, and could we catalog the world

in this way, as if compiling examples, or would our spirits be

like sand in water, or pliable

like Play-Doh fresh, and I think maybe all

simultaneously, meaning you could create

databases of libraries, so I guess it’s no use

considering impossibilities, but a sense is created

by what you’re a fan of, I guess.

 

All this is important because I am sickened

by what you people like, and this gives me comfort

unbelievably massive, cloaking all of us in a shadow

of spiteful noncompliance, is the consistent popularity

of 2 Broke Girls an eternal question

or just a fact, that most people are braying

assholes who think it’s funny to embarrass ugly people

in front of the others, which it often is

but still, you don’t wanna broadcast that shit

homie, gotta keep the devil

on the DL in more ways than one.

Poem: Down Low

Poem: The Last Game

The host held the mic at its base, wielding it like poo on a stick and jabbing it at people,

“What’s the answer?”

words pointed sharp, loud and aggressive at first,

when young, sweat beaded, teeth whitened, a positivity tornado,

after three decades, he hates it all now,

everyone, braying bitch bastards, mistake machines and turbo divas,

making eyes at the camera, never for cue cards and kissy faces,

“God you are ass-ugly,  stupid,”

and they laughed, cheered and put him in magazines.

he stares straight forward, asking himself to monolog, but he forgot the words,

weeping on the white tile floor, landing a squish moist mat,

six bullets in the revolver, ready to bang a curtain call,

“Get this wrong and I die”

he threatens with barrel to temple, pressing and shaking,

“Honeydew,” she said, though the answer was cantaloupe,

two words, short and sweet to be his last,

“so close,”

bang said the gun, everyone screamed

retrospect hilarity, and they study it in school now, too,

he wanted to win oscars, now he’s a psychology thesis,

“Richard Preston, suicide champion, the dawning of a new performance art.”

Poem: The Last Game

Poem: To Be Continued (1)

Confidently ready the blades on your forearms, guardian soldier,

hold them up as a dangerous defense, they’re like you I guess

except you sometimes gotta shoot kids, which is not your fault

we both know, it just seems like they don’t pay you enough

to gamble with your life the way you do in the increasingly violent sectarian skirmishes

that just overtook the apartment building that is your life and you couldn’t

save anything, doesn’t it?

 

I guess I’m just saying it’s impossible that I’ll feel

completely calm in my position, most of the time, but I think it’s possible

that some of you will be called upon to make a choice which goes against the spirit

of everything you believe, or thought you would accept if given

the world on a string in a box.

 

What if heaven starts like a sun rainbow,

and ends like a head-heavy rocket fart?

 

What do we do then except ask

to join the purgatory that exists on earth, as we’ve all been dead many times

before, but we keep coming back.

 

Heaven is empty

of permanent civilian citizens living year-round, mostly

because spirits come to know how valuable pain can be, and they keep

going back over and over again, just hoping against hope it will be better

this time, and it always is, inevitably.

 

This way the spirits came to view pain and pleasure

very differently than we do, or you do, I forget who was

talking about the way there are spirits addicted to heaven

but their aren’t, or maybe there are.

 

This one time a spirit came back and said he’d had a great life

this time, as he’d been devoted to exquisite beauty flowing passion

pores through him with the breath of life, and he said it was so beautiful

he didn’t notice that reality was slipping from him, until psychosis took hold

making him murder seven people and hold his wife hostage until through a megaphone

she tore his life from hers, and he blew his brains out.

 

The murderers soul lay in limbo for a time, stretching its mind

out as far as it could go, seeing the experiences of all people in all times

simultaneously, until it could see the justice of it, the fact that there is

no justice, and never could be.

Poem: To Be Continued (1)

Poem: Becoming

Way home from Tony’s, eggs and Halava in a plastic bag, a brilliant moment exploded,

a Toyota ripped down the street, screeched and ejected a passenger, a frantic fat man undoing his pants

wearing the expression you know, he is frenzy want and need, one that left the car running

frantically panting, as if in a trance, I just took it.

 

I was only 15, and I don’t know where it came from, this conception

that rules don’t mean anything, and penalty is only consequence, catch me if you can,

I just drove, knowing no one was looking for me, until I abandoned in two blocks adjacent

scampering through bush over fence.

 

I was free of it, my decision, and I only wonder what I’ve wrought back then,

how much inconvenience, and perhaps pointlessly missed the birth of his son, or some likewise calamity

I’ll never know or care probably, as it shakes out in memory, realize that reality is what you say

that I didn’t really, I wish I had, don’t you?

Poem: Becoming

Poem: 7 Curses

My favorite curse word is fuck, for obvious reasons

it’s like seasoning, as if salt in soup it flavors

the entire world, acting an umbrella part it plays

tunes on which to end and to start, signaling ejaculation

destruction and frustration, stubbing a toe

pained yelping eruption, ceremonial victory

flagellation enhancement, it wears masks

abundant as the day is long, and I love it.

 

Shit is number two, on my list as well

existing colloquially, meaning general detritus

piled in a wheelbarrow, a weapon of apocalypse

fertilizer ideally, good for growing bonds

to feed plants and air, the best in bouquet

hilarious and lovely, an unwelcome surprise

for debutante balls, in punch bowls especially

useful flowing, solitary signal stench.

 

As the cock crows at dawn, dick is number three

when used correctly, with the suffix -ish

describing celebrities, authority and fluency

set in a sneer, introducing itself fiendishly

everywhere it can fit, stands as pointed

satire for gender politics, most are tiny

bits of self importance, aesthetically accurate

found art, especially when fully erect.

 

At bottom is the ass, end of heavy meaning

for the fourth part, posterior is the central

function of fat, booming bass drum parump

parump parade leader, eyes are drawn down

to its focal point, rhythmically rise and fall

hypnotizing both genders, as well it suffixes

panoramic descriptors, jerk and candy ones

smell what a stone cooks, barely a swear.

 

Bitch is a tricky snitch, betraying sexist potential

leanings of spirit, can’t ignore aesthetic beauty

to the sound of it has, onomatopoetic expression

descriptive to a tee, sniveling backstabbers

conspiratorial politicians, mostly wastrel males

hiding under figureheads, scratching a societal itch

which seems obligatory, patriarchal mastery

sinking ship captain, command no respect.

 

Number six is unrelated, shunned and forgotten

bastard of an unwed home, but times change

mending wounds of slight, suddenly wedlock is cool

as it should be, having lost its vulgarity this term

describes only a villain, general perfunctory

graphic parlance, when spewed with emotion

substantially portioned out, tagged by an exclamation

point when uttered with vigor, it is not nothing.

 

Finally comes a friend, for tits are pleasing

as they move up and down, they sway and bop

the rhythm of time, jiggle jangle or perk up

welcoming a sunny day, as the star rises

they draw my gaze, unforgettable on film

though in person heaven, unfathomably soft

welcoming a lover, for all intoxicating view

from any angle nice, all of them lovely.

 

These are the seven, I could think of today

not impressively various, uses by the truckload

expand and contract, creating a dialect

distinctly American, connecting cultures

without pretext of coin, social status or accent

they carry emotion, comic acoustic shortness

of sound percussing, they are a kaleidoscope

for the masses, linking us to each other as god.

Poem: 7 Curses