Saturday, June 27, 2009

“Every face in this town reminds me of falling down.” – The Murder City Devils

When I Go Back to Pedro

They all look the same, just older. Faces I saw at 14
unchanged but I’m unchained
yet the bonds to the town are intact
in fact I’m there more often than some would like.

Our lovely seaside black hole
more like a street whore
than some feathery reptile
revisiting Capistrano.

It’s hard to picture
the mighty T-rex
looking like the giant cock
on top of Slavko’s on Pacific,

his deep fried brethren
the lasting legacy
of terrible thunder lizards
in the hearts, minds, and bloated bellies

of Pedran patrons gorging in perpetuity.
Evolution’s a joke
when all we have is this
generation after generation

choking on potato logs,
belching out offspring
to work on the docks
to have money

to have more children
to have future longeys


hens pecking aimlessly
in the shadow of the Vincent Thomas,
that green behemoth of a bridge.
More tyrannous and royal
than the fossils

we too will become.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Out to the Races

I dreamt that I ate your girlfriend’s pussy last night.
We were in the room of my childhood home
and she asked if I would do her a favor
and I tried to say “no” but she convinced me to keep going
and I started to work
and manipulate the tender folds of flesh, odorless
and wet.

She came in revolutions like racecars making checkpoints around a track, giving me
the spectator’s desire for an impending pile up. Her hips raising to signal the dropping of flags signifying the end of a lap, hers.
I felt her pressure against my face like it was real.

Fingers inserted, the heaviness tremendous,
enough to decapitate a deep sea diver
and as she came that last checkered flag-time, her clit,
the malformed head of her penis that never was,
got caught on the corner of one of my two front teeth
and it felt like chewing gristle. We finished

and I reared back to survey the damage, “you’re bleeding,” I said. The blood collected in a bead
against her still inflamed skin
and she said, “oh” as if she hadn’t noticed.

I awoke to a pounding on my door,
I awoke to no one beside me.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

“I put it between my teeth like a dead mouse and let the blood drip down my chin.” - Gerald Stern

I Get Wet

Ferocious and feral? I’m peripheral. On the exterior of my own dreams, a starving vagrant outside of a baker’s window.

His patrons like to pretend I’m not there. Disheveled and tattered, an unsightly distraction. Salivation, as opposed to salvation, dribbles like a slow-mo Spaulding off cracked lips as that spit abets hunger’s codependency to hope, a delusion born of desperation.

For the price of a cup of coffee a day, I could be filled with an unspecified elation called bliss. No money for such a beverage makes for a hackneyed voyeur on the outside looking in, while the idealized occupants of fantasy still gaze away.

Disgust and revulsion disguised as mock pity hangs like spectacles on their alabaster countenances. They don’t want me to know that they loathe me.

Such a revelation is kept quite hush-hush and far away from the beggar or vagabond safely beyond the glass. Those who have attained what I want fear revolution constantly.

So as an actor on their screen, I have to bring the drama to them. To make them care, aware of the misfortunes of those still laboring in the mines of mediocrity.

First, I present the blade, one I forged out of my own self-righteousness. Bestowing it as an offering, as tribute.

Second, a ceremonial sword dance commences. All the trappings of tradition must be observed, because what would we be without it?

A spin here, a pliĆ© there and heads begin to turn. No need to make a sound, they can’t hear me. The long and hard straight edges of the saber strike out into the cobblestone night, eviscerating oxygen molecules like the kiss of a cool death blow.

End then bow, some begin to cheer. At that moment, I pull the shark sharpness of this killing bow across my fretless neck and bathe in my own arterial spray. My finale, my ta-da! My life for the corneal spotlights of those here in the present.

Monday, June 1, 2009

How to Leave Bill and Vanessa’s


Shark blood,
a crimson carnation
on the screen
in the Deep Blue Sea.

Movie’s over,
use the bathroom
one more time.

Walk in, marine foam
tiles glint
beneath the light.
Unzip and take
a sobering piss.
Woodland creatures
with demon eyes
hide behind
a bamboo shower curtain.

Finish up, shake it out.
Wash your hands,
white liquid soap,
an aloe plant
on the bottle.

Look around.

There is love spell
on the window seal,
Singer’s Saving Grace
and empty syringes
under medicine cabinet.

Dry your hands
on the white towel.
Walk back out,
dawdling equals awkwardness.
Say your goodbyes, trip out
looking for your ride,
realize again
that it isn’t your car
when you have
to manually unlock
the doors.


"For the Jew, the world is a cage filled with wild beasts." - Henry Miller

I Liked Tropic of Cancer, But...

Henry, that dirty old man dreaming of Jewess cunt,
describes us as defenseless lion tamers
gifted with neuroses,
tell that to those at Warsaw or Masada
or Judah Maccabee

or the IDF,
when you aren't too busy verbally spitting on them
like hippies on American GIs
at airports long since less picketed.

Without revolver or whip, gesticulations as effective as karate katas, bedazzling and inefficacious.
Fear makes them fearless.
Perhaps he was playing us up some,

but picture
Woody Allen done up like John J. Rambo.
Jerry Seinfeld as Indiana Jones.

Ben Stein as the voice of Darth Vader.
Benny Goodman playing Death Metal.

You laughed, I heard you.

Question though.

Does it demean the gentile as much as the Jew
to be depicted as creatures in need of breaking,
being made to parade
through hoops, potentially flaming?

Maybe. Yet when they look around a room, they probably assume that everyone is in the same ark.
Lambs huddled
two by two
by their savior shepherd, weeping
and gnashing their teeth
Benny Hinn believers, telephone and credit card
in hand, ready to buy those indulgences
from stained glass Home Shopping Networks.

As a child, I went through a period of hating Jesus
for being our Judas, our Brutus. But like Morrissey,
I Have Forgiven Jesus.

Minus that cross to bear,
everyday’s a struggle
to step beyond the preconceived
and into notions less derisive,
devising ways to be


more than just a penny pincher and a punch-line.

I've made gopher holes into Grand Canyons
searching for a quarter.

Truly, the only difference between pizza
and my relatives
was that they screamed going into the oven.

Guffaw for me, bitches.

Time would be better spent

devising ways to be


more than weak pride backwards masked as deprecation.

Scaring and scarring
those who misconstrue our reversed vinyl record
of life in the Diaspora as Satanic verses
just like they did Stairway.

Oh, here is to my sweet Satan…

there’s a bustle in your hedgerow,
don’t be alarmed now.

Let me tell you though.

I've drank the Christian baby's blood at midnight

and yes, I do want my pound of flesh.

So bend the fuck over and don't squeal like trafe, would you?


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