Everything I write
is what it is
be what it be
is what it be
taken with the upshot imagery
of the Buddhas
and the screaming
dull seas,
because the sky is bullshit
and the spirit is
and has no fault
i seek all that can hold in compassion
the words that i’m spilling out
to be my absolute truth
or not
benevolence
and kindness that’s ripe
so that i may learn
and teach to learn
these things i yearn
and drum up in me
the patchy winds
of sobriety
so that i don’t jacky don’t jacky up
’cause
50 means goodbye
alone
and bloated and loving my poor dead mother
too long
sad eyed ladies
bemouthed of lazy
want free cigarettes
want to fuck
before they turn 34,
won’t wear yellow
to shame the sun and only come out
when there is a battle to
be won
in blues mens clothes
to batter my weather in
button and tie
and fend off all the matters
and live like a monk
with the holy virgin mary
my only lover
fends me free of
my femininity
and the choices that
are so impossible
I CALL ON ALL WHO CAN HEAL ME
can you heal me?
with drink tickets
plastic baggies
and promises of adventure
to crave your attention on long verby tick tack typing
fixated
mesmerized on the stature of you
in the faint light reflections of yester donts
hoping that the
shake bump bump shake bump bump shake bump bump shake . . .
will break your from your sleep
to come home to your 2 point one
thick with disappointments . . .
you,
you don’t even know my friends
how could you?
rowdy and horny,
the kind of people who will smuggle a
bottle of whiskey into a bar
only to later drop it on the floor
like a baby slick with bathwater
and love the night
all the more
we with talent that cannot be denied
give me the beat with stolen harmonica
give me the beat with stolen kisses
give me the beat with worn out alcohol eyes
pass the joint
give me another cigaboo
and watch the birds flock away from the wild-eyed
drunk as fuck poets
standing on the corner
outside my favorite
open mic . . .
where we go
to fuck you up
we are here to fuck you up
we are you in your unadulterated form
we are the lifeless drones in the cubicles
we are the eat shit for dinner retail whores
we are the two fifty an hour waitresses
we are the stay at home moms
we are the warehouse workers
we are the do what you can-ers
we are the manic depressive solos
we are the older once were youngers
and this is something that you just don’t understand
you can’t understand
in your tired
monotone
version of us
i thought i was old
until i ran into a poet
who had no soul
see,
you don’t even know
how could you?