They strut
around their
favorite spot
up on
a hill
with their
pants down
around their
butt cracks
& cigarettes
dangling from
their mouths
& their
boombox car
radios
ripping the
air apart
Then five
o’clock rolls
around &
they drive
home where
Mommy
makes them
din-din.
Filed under poems & short jabs
Don’t you
know your
world has
come to
an end?
Don’t you
know small
birds strip
the flesh
from your
bones?
Don’t you
know the
myths have
been scorched?
How much
is a
reprieve worth?
What are
the odds
of a
quick resurrection?
What would
you do
once you
got there,
back on
your feet?
Would you
fall to
your knees
on a
bed of
nails?
Think hard
before you
answer.
Look
around you.
Is this
really
so bad,
being here
in this
pit stop
existence
while your
cells disburse?
Great things
might
lie ahead.
Unscramble
your confusion!
Raze
your fear!
Strike out
for Ithaca!
Filed under poems & short jabs
Offsprings of
bad comedians.
Filed under poems & short jabs
What’s a
stained soul?
Is it like
stained glass?
Soiled underwear?
An unscrubbed
toilet bowl?
Am I
staining
my soul
talking
this way?
How much
stain can
a soul
bear up
under before
it sinks
into hell?
How many
souls got
there before
mine &
do they
suffer?
I don’t
want to
suffer.
But maybe
I won’t
maybe I’ll
be free
at last
once my
soul departs.
Are souls
white as
the driven
snow when
they
start out?
& where
is it
they start
out from?
How did
they get
there to
begin with?
What do
souls
look like?
A wedge
of cheese?
Are they
weightless
transparent
waterproof?
Do they
have anything
to do
with God
or are they
free agents?
What right
do we
have to
lay claim
to them?
Will they
take over
the earth
once we’ve
rendered it
uninhabitable
for corporeal
life forms?
Imagine the
earth spinning
around the
sun trailing
a gauzy
veil of
stained souls.
Imagine the
rustling sound
they make.
Imagine souls
breaking off
& drifting into
deep space.
Imagine life
forms on a
distant planet
in a
distant galaxy
welcoming them
with open
arms, listening
far into
the night
to their
stories of
all the
places
they’ve been.
Filed under poems & short jabs
The Bridgeport
Slasher playing
loose on
the back
streets with
his blade
& his
hammer red
blood purple
bruises the
colors of
gore &
Easter
front-page
newsworthy
yellow journalism
purple prose
& why
does he
take everyone’s
cell phone
& not
their wallets?
He’s an
equal rights
slayer men
women red
skin black
brown &
yellow but
this is
getting us
nowhere.
They bring
in a
psychic with
a color
wheel orange
socks &
big breasts
maybe a
Gypsy maybe
not maybe
even the
Bridgeport Slayer
who’s to
say &
wait a
minute back
up a ways
what’s with
the cell
phones?
E.T. call
home says
the Gypsy
or Slayer
or psychic
or maybe
all three
wrapped
in one
sitting on
the edge
of the
sergeant’s desk
fanning herself
with her
color wheel,
her skin
golden.
What? says
Chief Detective
O’Reilley what
the fuck
anyway &
Easy big
boy says
the Gypsy &
shakes a
rattle in
his face.
He’s not
of this
world she
says he’s
not one
of us
he’s from
Mars.
Ah-hah!
says O’Reilley
& the
Gypsy spins
her color
wheel to green
green for
envy green
for gangrene
green for
Martians &
that narrows
the search.
In comes
the FBI
& the
NSA in
comes a
man selling
balloons filled
with helium
in comes
three coke
heads &
a rat’s
nest of
freelancers
in comes
Homeland Security
& they
all put
their heads
together.
The Martian
blasts off
for Mars
the color
wheel gets
sold on
eBay the
Gypsy lives
out of
wedlock with
O’Reilley
& they
raise three
candycane children.
The sun
sets without
incident &
the scene
fades
to grey.
Filed under poems & short jabs
