Commoners surround
snorting gasoline boxing jaws
running the better parts
deep in to oblivion
no concern for humanity
no concern for empathy
no empathy, not to be confused
with the emphatic snorting
of gasoline and boxing jaws
and annihilation of goodness
but if my friend is really correct
they won’t stop before
all good things are
annihilated.
What a thrilling notion.

The joke was crass and rude
but I can see her smile through
her shaking head as she turns
away, veritably fuming.

The sun was brighter before
the clouds blew in, but here
they are and here we are beneath.
At least we don’t need sunscreen
on these grayer sorts of days.

But cutting out remainders
like an elementary mathematics
course, we find ourselves divided.
What reason to keep standing
shaking heads, even if she’s turned away?

Or is the point half the joke?

where we soaked in pools of poo
for lack anything else to do
and you told of how your wife said
“i love you”
much too soon.

there was a mcdonalds there
and a grocery store too.
where we so soaked in pools of poo
for lack of much else to do.

but beer on tap can be be redemptive too.

the hands
the ticks
the metal parts
working in complete
unison
to all do
the one important thing.

Every once in a while, 
(More often if you’re not careful)
It doesn’t turn out like you planned. 

The pour misses, 
The spout miscalcuates,
The cup teeters (and falls).
Worst of all there’s a crack or tear. 

The waters sploshes along the tabletop.
The iced-tea splatters on the counter.
The Kool-Aid (of myriad colors) stains the tablecloth.
The orange juice slunks over the sink. 
The Pepsi simmers on the linoleum.

But sometimes you just have to slurp it up,
Cause what’s the use of crying over spilled milk
When it’s still perfectly good anyway?

Invisibility,
a trick worth learning
for all purposes
excluding tax evasion.

You could abscond
with candy at a liquor store
or rule the roost at
Capture the Flag.

Back-door men and
Sneakerpimps would
benefit, too, but
the only two certainties in life
are Death and taxes,
and mark my long-winded,
erroneous words:

invisible or not,
the I.R.S. Will find you.

muscles clenched
eyes squeezed shut
waiting for the
punchline
waiting for the
point
and the
punchline

excuses for ideology
are excuses nonetheless
and rather idyllic to boot

Best wait for the
punchline
and the
point
and the
punchline

Sometimes,
it’s a long wait.

the sun doesn’t set on
our love baby
but it’s dusk now,
so come on

get in the car
i’ll drive you home
and when the stars
come out

pretend not
to notice.

writing using words
folks far superior to me i know it’s hard to imagine
to request in clear but big words
details with the same hands that write poetry
about programs for which it’s highly unlikely i’m qualified
for further education you’d think i’d quit at some point
and hoping against hope
for acceptance when this same writer is rejected from just about everything
or at least and the least really isn’t too little to ask
for patience a seldom recognized saintly gift
in understanding clear communication is for writers of prose

ceaseless pounding of flesh
against the ground as i beat my body into submission
bloody nipples the only casualty

The palpable scent—
Sweet, sickly,
heavy,
Clings to weigh down hydrogen,
citrus molecules,
Barometric pressure.

Discarded rinds—
Sliding, peeled
with grasps, gasps, gentle tug,
separating soft slices,
taste exotic fare.

Rinds redolent of potpourried sweat
tropical fruit—
Delicious, dripping bare.

the gravedigger did the dirty work
his shovel rotating as the hands
of time zoomed all around us like
the horse flies on my grandfather’s farm
and there you were,
oh, there you were
your lifeless body looking foriegn in
the moonlight
twisted and distorted
a fairy-tale gone wrong

and what was left of me left
after he slumped you over
started covering you up
dim light
peeking over
the horizon
i drove home and listened
to your favorite songs
and you were alive with me.

I was born in a laboratory.
My cognizance stamped out on a microchip.
I am a single-core processor and 128 gigabytes of RAM
stuffed inside a semi-squamous sack of
sputum, pustule, and bone.

She was left at a Battered Women’s Shelter
for dead or otherwise. The other battered Women
didn’t care much for themselves.
Nor for her. Nor the children.
Ignorance ever the mark of a battered life.

But I tend to push my emulator
and fake the sort of care one needs
to take care of one’s needs.

The fools and the machines never
ever stand together. Though I suppose
the fools rarely ever stand.

in dim lights
with repeating chords softly reverberating
the pastor led a prayer
instructed us to breathe in, deeply,
you whispered into my ear
“think of a smile”
(an inside joke)
but i did
then smiled
only partly because of the joke
but mostly because
you had just whispered into my ear
while I was breathing in
during a prayer
with repeating chords reverberating softly
in lights, dimmed.

he tells me to get some land
some waterfront on lake superior
to get me and some of my fuckin
buddies around and get some fuckin
land
it’s the
largest fresh water source
on the fuckin planet
i’ll never need water
fuck detroit
he says
i don’t have time to
wait around for that shit
i need to get me some fuckin land
and i know he’s right
cuz when the shit hits the fan
at least i know i’ll have a plot
with my name on it
where no one else can stand
and watch the shit fly
or i could always wait till
people want to build shit
there and pay me twice what
i payed for it and fund my
retirement
like the guy
if i make it that long