Eat Canned, Grey Balls

 

I really must know what your deal is because

I cannot fathom why you do evil and laugh and lie

about it as if I were too dumb to get your hypocrisy.

Dude, its obvious.   You’re dying for it. 

 

Good luck jumpin cheese curd,

 justice is coy and snaggletoothed . 

 

I’m not the hardcore vag I pretend

to be in my poems.   I’m really quite worst. 

Eat canned spinach dick face.  

flowers don’t forgive

I think you are dumb and need

a hug stranger.  If  I could be

as pretty as Jesus I would but  I can’t.

You suffer no matter how many times

I heal you.  There is no justice

on the sea.  My dead friend proved

that with heron.  Poppy flowers

are tasteless; empty and non forgiving.

But they helped my friend

forget homemade perversion.

 

 but you, you are alive with me,

still to figure out why. 

there is an answer but I am positive

you don’t want it. have a pressed flower instead. 

 

spilling drinks or tears is meaningless                      young poet. 

no one gives a damn. everyone is  a vent.

remember that and lyric what you want.

 

some children grow up. 

Others marry or go

to war.  all are better off. Still bodies are broken

easily enough  from a whopping cough. 

 

I’ve read 

its better to die

in the woods alone.

 

if heaven exists

 I’ll meet you at the gate, and wave

when I ride above it. if not, who cares,

the barn swallow doesn’t. he rides

the currents and makes a nest in the eve

of the condo. he doesn’t care the honey

fights extinction with me. maybe

I should have a hamburger and a pale ale. 

I am not a coconut, thank god. 

 

 

 

My best friend is dead, I am sure of that. 

what I wonder though is if there is a way to

make it matter.  the conversation is always the same.

 everyone is inside you.  All beat your body

 around and kick it for luck. come here magic stone.

I have a nice box I will put you in and no

one will skip you again.  My voice can become one

with crystals. if I learn the right tone, I’ll croon you to justice.   

Bald Man

the blackness of insanity

in all its clarity breaks

so many bones that not

to shrink in is to grow

up in hell.

 

the bald man is slumped

over his lawn chair

he’s  been there since

early afternoon – alone

in the humdrum corn

the lilacs bombard

the grass threatens

Hammer and Bell

The froms who hide in material

worlds, and don’t read or listen or observe

don’t know how they got into war,

 are tool busy poking

at others deformity to realize that

they are the twisted solution,

 tummy deep in shit and entrails. 

In absence mindedness they ate

the  bucket of  existence up.

 

 

Regurgitate and return to wisdom.

Be the ornery outspoken vision of erosion. 

Do not let someone grind you,

Become a river in your own grand canyon.

Use critical thought and eat green onions.  

i am not fond

I am not fond

of you and your closed office door

nor I am soothed by the journalists

who propaganda your words

to get closer to your double block talk. 

I am not inspired by more stalks of war

while, the torture of living things

goes on and is ignored.

 

I am not delighted at the idea of producing

more, or the redefining of our shopping shore.

I am not greased up with oil for a match

on rubber rage stage nor am I dreaming of meeting

Donald Prump when I walk out

of my overpriced apartment which is small.

              I don’t want to see anyone on tv celebrity shitcom bull. 

 

Ethanol does not quench my thirst spot

for mobility or  apple pie pus.

I am not into cutting you into sections

to take your best and wear it as

ribbons on my sleeve as I order

the world oppressed and silent please. 

I am not into dogma or perversion or fear.

These things bore me.

blah blah with your hatred and your skew blah blah

I am not into you.

 

 I am not a fan of political

leaders as if they were a Bob Bylan zinger singers.

I do not have an autograph book, nor do

I want you to sign one of my many body parts

I do not care for your get rich wells,

mines or spanning in all climates cells

 

 

I have no great desire to sit and listen to

you deliver foul ideas to citizens who haven’t

realized they live wealth’s prescribed

social roles for the middle class and poor. 

I’d rather take a cold tub or sit and do

nothing for hours, break a bone or eat dried out

scones without tea and sugar.

 

 

If you’d like to amuse me

send my youth home from war

send my poetry home from torture.

send in the hard and tough Americans

who demand answers and are not silenced

by threats of a closed door.

 

 

magic beans, and rubbing creams will not

aide in cleanliness. that my friends

will take nipping up against ignoramus

tendencies that yo-yo dirt and hatred. 

 

Do not be so silly to take your

liberty for planted corn. 

the big money handlers like you

 a lot just the way you are -worker

following orders and bowing

to the kings of hamburger.