Tuesday, September 29, 2009

The Drive In

8 red doors under a mosaic crucifix,
sacred heart nailed to wood flying

and burning red/yellow, red/yellow
like a phoenix. I saw them sleeping

smiling toothless on Phys Ed mats.
All right with being alive, OK? Okay

with 3rd and Junipero on any Sunday.
Drove past, away fast and clasped

the steering wheel hanging a louie.
Parked in the interior of Carroll Park.

Didn’t want to trudge by, upsetting
their sleeping. To my understanding,

there is some Romance in rationalities.
There has to be, that brand of Damage

makes a notch on us all
in gray moods
under trashcan lids. Fear of shag carpet

grouches, green like kindergarten yarn.
Agents of the economy coming to pod

people us into submission as serfs and
slaves. Paranoia helping to fuck up a

parking job. Walked the extra minutes
home, looking over both shoulders.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Shelley’s Curse

Fall feels subterranean, Poet of the dead leaves driven like ghosts.
Arboreal hair loss tumbles across sullied , over-trodden landscapes
repenting replete. Dispatched, spelunking the depths, charged

with vital health points to battle mini-bosses of days that never
cease maturation, chained to love laborious, while the guard
has not been changed for some time, while we’re all under new

management.. And so do I, with my hair full of dead leaves,
let these flakey bastards take me through the dirt to be the satisfying
crunch under a child’s feet, the shitty chore under the same kid’s rake.

Drug ‘til bloodied, over terra so jagged, on a September morning
with the you removed to be just another day of decay, a plain one
unassumed. Not yet buried, exhumed to be exalted as Caesar’s crown,

brownish orange laurel leaves quilted complacence. Mere and mortal
garnered exclusivity in the soft simplicity, Seasons age as well
as the people who’ve lived them. Great, worse, great, worse.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Holy Fuck: A Fucker’s Prayer

There are no words other than Fuck,
a grandiose king is Fuck.

Decency: a propriety parapet against obscenity,
a less than great wall vaulted with ease by Fuck.

Reverie proclaimed on the tongue tips of whorish angels
and we say, “O, who is like you, our lord, our Fuck?”

Heavenly father, bestow upon us your kingdom,
give us our daily bred and our daily Fuck.

And we shall write upon our doorposts and gates,
enshrining the word, Fuck.

Master of the universe, bequeath your teachings
to those who don’t know Fuck.

Let swords be dulled into sex toys,
so all might feel the might of Fuck.

Let seas and legs be parted in the holy name,
the holiest of holies: Fuck.

Let Alan be a prophet unto believers in all things,
all things Fuck.


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