I found a cat in your parachute,
a bridge ruin Jehovah standing electric
Against a concrete wall,
Street journaling the American cancer.
Inch thick skin is the best.
Jedi master bedroom with a Sociopath landlord, better than me in your square foot garden,
dead in a Westside Story switchblade rumble,
travesty deed signed by a cruel notary public.
Crocheted by hand, a shroud of my own,
forged over a long day at the Artist mill,
a shill to will never made real, buried in the
Utility bills and the gunslinger cigarette,
Gunning for half formed thoughts.
I recall that there were few tickets left for
The train ride back to the American dream,
Most of us having awakened, midstream,
Gleaned the most recent version is a scheme
Falling apart at the seams, reeking of fear,
Barkeep two more motherfucking beers.
Inch thick skin should be just fine,
But Kevlar gets cheaper by the hour.
Jehovah Kenobi, you’re my only hope.
Honed Jr did sorry work thru his soft knuckles,
Hunks of time innuendoed the poetry in between the pain and the release.
Indirectly varied I Dr the numbers until I can win just one more bag of nickels.
Jr conducts osmosis through the cooked book until he no longer needs to toil.
Ironed inside and outside by 5th grade,
the rest of the sites were not able to make a difference.
I will always be that broken link below you.
404’d until i.give.into.defeat.
Jr learns hide and seek so well he never sees himself again.
I looked for an afternoon but settled instead to eat General Cho (Joe? Tso?) chicken with my hyena landlady, reclining in plastic, a month behind on my student loans,waiting for a new rebirth of poetry.
Nuisance jackets onceworn, whatever happened to the revolution!?
Won’t karaoke to a tune I don’t know.
Silent island palm tree cutters, making boats of broken notes.
Brick will float aboard corpse raft titanics.
Is dodo the Franciscan dream of men?
Winced once, missed the drop kick to the nether region paper boys.
Gaining toward dawn a new form Of wondering where the species ends its run. Guns or nuns or puns?
You would never mistake God for green lantern.
Irritated by Buddha skinned iPhone otter boxes I wish for equality in all irrational life jacket fantasy.
Why prey on salivation? Taste the rainbow only with thine eyes.
Wait and be rewarded, or warded wait for rewind.
Payback your debts because Neocons will have us all in chains before Saran rapture descends.
Drains remind me slender zoned is the passage from alive to loosed particle.
I enrich appended themes icing roamed over glutton mind schemes, no more really.
Only molecular configuration, chemistry with motives, gurus of nothing.
I bargain with entropy for more time, it’s going to be useless, won’t gird my natural inclination to undo, unbe.
My id drifter hunts interstates for comfort in sparse furnished mental motels.
There is an ugly isotope colliding with ideology everywhere I turn.
Irradiated, we stumble or gig or wish until the tired cells break down.
Police in masks made of nightshade rumors unwind our trajectory, disable our engines.
Keep on, we can only keep on through the night.
I am electrical signal wrapped in soft tissue, would like to be more glorious, fail now to bow.
But that isn’t so bad, is it?
To fade to static, unwind, break down, sleep is nothing more than practice.
It’s just so long, soundless, didn’t we expect to go on?
It’s a helluva life that we get,
A skin riff sustained by meager elements.
Owned or rented or fading even as it’s brightening.
Winched up by holy holy holy, but there are no cookies at the end of this line.
I entreat sweet video clerk, repeat the best parts please, they whipped past too fast to learn any secret to ease my unreasonable disease of the Be.
I just remembered an alley full of cops, a window full of old tvs, snowy street, an evil kiss, a wrenched knee.
There was something beautiful in this room before I turnpiked up unknown avenues,
the table is now an abandoned supper.
Someone left the cap off the ketchup, the miracle has dried.
Band urns spurn the agency we seek, guitars and harps, blues singer hyperbole, spur jazz lingo, cloud up the airwaves.
We are adrift in the dark of space, making ghosts where moments ago we floated through.
Every goddam moment is somewhere still.
My radio no longer receives, I cancer everything I knew before.
And there are no cookies, no apple cider, no brandy wine, no rest at the end of this line.
Down a widow pancake amended with MRI magnetron particles?
On for the show, less a widow more a black window?
Or should we churn the flow of impotent chaos ie chaise lounge chairs of inactivity dooming us all.
I dreamed of Edward Hopper sketching a pirate to enter grad school. his handling of the hair was a little naive.
Plunder our own flu shot caches, nothing left to protect against this common cold.
Drive as if the bank is on the repo, make chances, this is what should be but is only seen in superhero tv shows.
I always feel for those vertigo villains, anyway.
Whose wifi is I think I know,
His car is at the grocery tho.
He will not see me stopping by,
To watch some porno in the snow,
while corporate hackers steal the rest, leaving loot chests filled with death.
I have finally
Down for good I thinks, fiended,
using too many adjectives to describe an Unwinnable war,
too few stanzas with optimist prime.
They don’t make miracles in America.
The factory is shut,
The work force brutalized by dark-eyed ogre cops.
It smells forever like autumn in the
Basement where the boxes of our best days sit unremembered.
The chair reclined too far,
We fell on the ground, broke our nerve.
Hens jab the dirt for crack corn,
Find pebbles, embrace solace in disappointment.
But hey, full bellies and weight.
When I was five I broke the tv turning the channels too fast,
The picture never came back.
Only a far off green dot
entertained my naïveté about finding something solid to catch on
in the vast electronic dark.
Mention Urdu in the geometry of failed Urban sprawl
The new hotness soon the cold starkness.
Ours is empire in recline.
Owls speak in bwahahahs above us in the reaches of the trees we can no longer teach the names of.
Hippy shit, don’t lay that hippy shit on me.
But leave me some green anyway, to rest my mind.
Even pollock had the edges of his canvas to refrain.
Strapped to fixed gear bicycles built for speed, the only way to stop, pedal backwards.
It’s as if we are ringing the end of a phone line to a top floor office, futile, the big boss is dead, finally and utterly resigned.