1
there’s another poet i am reading, i do not like it -
there’s a spot on my liver, i saw it
in an x-ray -
there’s so much whining, i think i
am similar -
is there catharsis in text or is my imagination
forfeiting reality?
i just tore the cover from a book of poetry
that has a pink cover
and ate it -
i just vomited -
the world forces me to admit things i do not
want to -
what is this obsession with my cock?
structural assimilation is overrated -
i don’t want to be a poet, perhaps i should
be a pirate -
i keep checking email for a future but it’s only
spam and offers for generic Viagra

2.
something in me makes me crazy
but it’s not for your perusal -
Mexican gardeners go through the motions -
nothing is in the mail except bills and offers for
generic Viagra
i tire so easily, perhaps i am dying
my stomach turns, it’s that pink cover
from that book of poetry

3.
i took a break but i am back -
my step-daughter is laughing;
it scares me -
poetry has left me, maybe i left it,
i have other things to do,
make money, pay bills, get out of the house more often -
it’s almost summer and the trees are greening
i read more of that poetry book, the one without
the pink cover and i threw it across the room -
i won’t return to it, i am done -
maybe i will write a book that a reader
might throw across a room or tear off the cover -
i will have the cover laced with acid
or heroin so eating it will have meaning
or an affect other than vomiting although
that may be uncontrollable
but what am i talking about?
didn’t i mention i am done with this poetry thing?
maybe i did -
i don’t recall and i do not enjoy re-reading -
it’ll have to be an assumption

5.
there’s dead flowers in the kitchen,
the water in the vase changed colors -
my partner says i am jealous -
i ask about what,
she says everything -
i don’t respond -
on the corner of Olive and Main is an AM/PM,
i purchased a Slurpee -
this does not matter, hold meaning, etc -
poetry like this makes me vomit,
pink pages fill the toilet -
academics seem to like it -
well, some do

7.
it’s three days later -
4:28 AM in the morning -
my little dog woke me up with her scratching,
if i bathe her i will drown her -
i don’t have to be up for three hours but i
cannot sleep
and it’s not due to dope or intoxication,
for a change -
i burned the formerly pink covered book of poetry,
it has proven a more complete resolution -
all my other poetry books i
list as used on Amazon -
i don’t think they will sell but
it costs me nothing until i sell them -
right now they are in a box
in the garage, labelled with a black sharpie -
a time capsule -
we did one in third grade,
each class put something in it
in 1972 -
those were the last days of Vietnam
and Nixon
before Watergate and Aaron’s Home Run -
they opened it in 1997 but
i had moved away and forgotten -

11.
my wireless connection is not working
perhaps i should be hardwired,
perhaps i should sleep more,
but so much is changing -
i moved the boxes around in
the garage
and took out all the trash -

13.
it’s three days later and i broke my promise,
the one about never returning to
a poem,
especially so long
after i started it, so long
after i took measure, aim and fired,
but here i am, three days later,
annoyed more that my step-daughter
drank almost all of my Gentleman Jack
whiskey and remains convinced i
am stupid enough to realize
that i might forget to remember
that maybe i did it and i didn’t –

19.
i bought another copy
of the pink book but this one has a cover
or, i should say, had a cover – i tore this
one off as well but didn’t eat it –
my mind melts a little more
when i read it and i read it and i read it and i read it and i
read it -
the doctor says it’s indigestion –
the black spot turns out to be a hologram of something else–
it’s Saturday and i am not doing anything
other than wandering on the page
without any result or meaning –
seems like i am repeating –

23.
it’s three days later,
nothing
it’s three days later,
still nothing

29.
just motions, landing a plane
on a foggy tarmac or fishing
without a line or dreaming
in black & white –
maybe i should put more
fish in the aquarium
but that’s a different sort of drama

i use a tool made of metal

1.
i use a tool made of metal
to turn wet brown dirt.
a gray duck with a turkey smile
snaps at thin worms,
before they dig sightlessly into soil.

2.
the sun is warm.
i am sitting on the back step.
Dexter sits impatient
on my lap.
he is a gray cat.
he reminds me of an aging porn star
at an uptown dinner party.

3.
the duck keeps digging.
worms run.
snapping turtle sits on white rock.
the koi are slowing their circles.
it is almost noon.
i am writing when i should be reading.
poetry no longer interests me.

4.
my girlfriend’s out.
airplanes land on a dirt strip
near my house.
a female voice calls for her dog.
i hear wind in trees.
we are all dying.
some more quickly than others.

5.
i received another rejection note
from a potential employer, but
i am not as attractive as most and a poet,
so my training is complete.

it’s simply stated: my rejection.
i pay no respects, to the living or
the dead

spring has sprung

today i was
sitting
out on
the back step
of my garage.
there’s no
driveway.
just a garage.
it’s bigger
than most
but holds no
cars.
just stuff.
wooden
shelves
that i built
right
after i moved
in, my act
of manliness,
building things.
there are
boxes
and boxes
of stuff
that fill
the wooden shelves.
too much stuff,
if you ask me,
but garages
are more about
memory
than holding
cars.
there’s no drive-
way to my
garage.
not yet,
at least.

my brown
Labrador
likes to chase
rocks. she
brings them
back when
she can find
them.
that’s what
labrador’s do.
bring back
rocks or
balls or something
thrown away.
the garage isn’t
connected to
the house
so i have
to walk
a distance
of thirty feet.
it feels more
like the
beginning
of winter
than the beginning
of something
else. my new
not-a-wife
is making
split pea
soup. that seems
appropriate
given the temp-
erature.
little birds, the
kind that come
around every
spring, gather
bits of
fluff and
sticks
to build nests.
i noticed
the mud swallows
were back.
their nests in
the eves
of buildings at
the shopping mall.
i was there
a few days
ago. buying
stuff. i don’t
remember
what, exactly.
some of the new
stuff
will end
up in the garage.
i like standing
between
the garage
and
the house.
especially in
the morning or
when i am high.
everything
seems so elegant.
whether or not
the moon is out.
a friend of
mine once
dreamt of
going to
the moon,
but we all know
that won’t
happen. you
have to do
more than just
get high to
fly

on getting a job

his office is painted in similar shades of beige -
catalog furniture, plaques on the wall,
a picture of Cindy Loo Prom Queen
sits on an oak credenza -
there are golf balls stamped with the names
of corporate clients sitting just so
in a wooden frame

an administrative assistant in short skirt
high heel, painted lips, pushed up tits,
bleary eyes, angry hands, defeated eyes,
shows me in and leaves me with a false smile
to ponder later when i am close to passing out

his handshake leaves me sickened, he stands there
in his proud suit, with his white smile, a silicone
stare, mannered hair, trembling eyes, manic brain snaps -
sit down, he says, if you will, he says
and i clench my fists until there is no blood in my hands
no blood in my veins, my heart begins to slow
and the rage begins to grow

we looked you over, he says, passed around your resume, he says
we like what we see, we have plans you see,
we have budgets and structures, incentives and programs
training and blowjobs, slit wrists and destruction,
bent over boys in the bathrooms, dealers in the lunch rooms,
liars and cheats, stealers, false healers, and a product that sells itself

but wait! there’s more!

my eyes roll into the back of my head until all i see is myself
in that chair, in that office, with those pictures and plaques,
and i know this will kill me quicker than speed, or nicotine,
or fucking a crack whore

an hour goes by, his erection subsides, i stand, he stands
we shake hands, he offers, i struggle to breath, i sign on the line
piss in a cup, accept the keys, stop at my dealer, buy more than i should,
cut fat lines with a corporate American Express on a cheap coffee table
at a Hampton Inn in El Centro, California

and smile

at least i’m getting paid

that screaming you hear is mine

the worst lie is the one you tell yourself
one that offers hope and a glimpse of a normative future
the one you whisper into the mirror each morning
before you trudge off to another day of wasted time
another day chasing realities well beyond the grasp
of your yearning fingers

for two years i reached out and nearly felt
the warmth of a promise that offered an out
from the mendacity of this modern life
an escape from the global village of suburban bliss

it became the proverbial carrot
a perfect cunt, a perfect smile, free dope open to all
a selfish dream where i could become something more
than this brokedown 45 year old sack of rotting flesh
a third rate poet in a second rate town, lying in
box under neon, sucking cock for another line,
another lie, another ten minute escape

don’t tell me it’s pity, don’t look down at me from the
tip of your spikey nose, don’t try to put your feet
into my thrift store shoes – i did everything right,
followed the checklist, paid fees, dues,
the journal, the press, the radio show, the tutoring,
the academic papers, the mindless lectures, seminars
to salvation – all for what? to feed the lie...

i remember the day when i received the note on
thick rich paper, the note that said you are in, you are
a part of the club, another team, another delusion
even then i knew, but i buried my head deep in my own ass
this rainbow has an end, there is a song here somewhere

but they don’t prepare you for reality, they don’t prepare you
for the “Irish Need Not Apply” signs on the academic halls
they don’t tell you that the paper you paid for is worth little
more than the one you wipe your ass with, of course, this paper,
this single sheet, you’ll pay for that the rest of your life

too bad i didn’t read him two years ago and realize
paths are not permanent, but like a stupid moth i draw to
the electric light, smash myself against it, again and again
and again, until the life ghosts from my flesh and i fall to
the concrete awaiting the final foot to stomp my breath

no this is not pity, far from, this is the aching cry of realization
that i did all this, for all the wrong reasons, for all the wrong
assumptions – this is cry of realization that all the beauty i
once held is permanently gone