Dingle Dingle

wind chimes

and chimpanzees

swaying in the same

ebb and flow

while someone’s grandmother

balances a checkbook

and the reader inputs

the writer’s

same-old output

calmly pissing

and whining

line

after line

rattling against ourselves

through that sweet anxiety

of the space between notes

Afternoon Antelope

i hear someone

walk through the door 

and keep staring

at my drink, 

expecting another old man

in the dive bar

 

so I’m surprised 

to see nice legs and a skirt

walk up next to me,

wait patiently 

for the bartender on the phone

and when she asks for

whiskey on the rocks, 

i feel my imagination run

to the end of its leash

pull,

pull,

but I’m sturdy

going back to my beer.

she downs her whiskey and leaves.

somebody says,

“did you see that girl?

what was she doing here?”

As The Cows Graze

american monotony

yawns another

stretch of sky

for me to

dwell in.

it’s noon

on a saturday.

i’ve had my coffee

and jerked off,

only to put on

Brahms no. 3

and ride the violins

toward my own

horizon.

 

they say

everybody needs

a hobby.

i just like

being alone.

It’s All Fair

there is

no normal,

so we’re all

fucked up anyway.

it’s any drunk’s guess

how lost the world is,

and the ones

in big mansions

don’t know any more

than the ones

sleeping in

a doorway.

the student

is as mortal

as the teacher,

the silence

is another song,

and tomorrow

is just another

comparison

to now.

The 11:40 Red Line

having a cookie

with my coffee

and enduring

the obvious wait

on the rest of my life,

countless hours

fulfilling dull tasks

for money that’s never enough–

open skies with no room

for your soul.

all those bodies

stuffed into the train

and not one mind.

everything going,

going,

going,

and we can’t

say where.

Bathroom Humor

when the booze

starts working

and the stomach

is empty,

as the brain

echoes into

its own image–

i suffer

leopard farts

and greek drama:

persona coming out

another hole

twisted like turd cursive.

 

i put it

in a frame

and ask you

to hang it

on your bathroom wall.

 

you don’t want to offend…

 

may we both

get this shit

over with.

Monday

and i have nothing

to look forward to

so i might as well enjoy

this page right now

as the coffee

sits in the cup

as my ass

sits in the chair

i haven’t looked

out the window

because i’m sure

it’s the same bush

waiting for me:

sharp, dry,

and violent against

my getting over it

rooted like the weekdays

the hours and the wages–

it’s there rain or shine

twelve feet out

my back-door

and no escape.

Quantum Kiss My Ass

i can’t tell

if i even care

but i suppose

that’s the approach

to writing

unless you want

to try.

no, no,

i know better

than that.

this drink

and this smoke

is all

it has to be.

as the 3am sky

folds in on itself

only to laugh rain

on the already homeless

and horizons line

impossibility

to the length

that we can see,

i’d say this

written accident

has gone

far enough.

 

 

 

Back To It

i stare

down the center

of the sink

spitting blood,

letting the stomach make up the mind

as to which way

dinner

should go.

 

i taste the iron.

i am patient

as the body

decides to keep

its contents.

 

a glass

gets filled with water

and here we are,

words to the page

after a near-accident

that never connected:

business as usual.