No Carbs for Old Men

Hunger, a burning legion of desire, 

amasses in my belly as it cries out 

for satiation. Denial 

is easier when it is of the truth 

and not of a biological need.

What's at stake? Mmmmm…

Steak. No, no. Think of health,

your health and survival. Fat,

slaughtered cow meat thinly 

sliced and exquisite then slathered

with horseradish atop a bun. Wheat

cracked and delicious, slightly sweet

like honey. Oh, my kingdom

for a sandwich! Look down though,

peep your gut as it sways pendulous,

a wrecking ball in a hurricane conjured

out of self-loathing and good ol' 'Merican

body dysmorphia. Losing weight, awaiting

a confirmation that we're all pretty.

New Year's

Drunk off wine and life,

we shovel ceviche

by the half-pound down

our throats, tortilla

chips like earth movers

tiling tart lime juice

drenched bits of snapper,

onions, tomatoes,

serrano chilis,

and avocado

into our waiting

bellies of hunger.

Surrounded, friendly

faces contorted

and laughter stricken

dole out anecdotes

met with choruses

of thrumming laughter,

mostly playful gibes,

and ad hominem

terms of endearment,

but these sweet nothings

mean more instantly 

than dearer buddies.

Roll with It

Never tell anyone that you're

gonna do anything to really

give them any power over

you as they'll never let

up until you're dusted.

Never be the one who's

gonna roll over and just

let them do whatever

you wouldn't want

down the road.

Never trust those who're

gonna whore and run,

run with hair afire

around a bastille heart

and glide to forever,

desert everyone on islands

you can't hide transparency 

Never be the one,

gonna run,

make it up,

you, cravenly

cry, tumultuous. 

Never harken,

gonna carve up,

say all you can,

goodbye times five.

Never call out,

gonna run,

tell us if

a jumper can

lie inconsiderately

and calculate all heavy

hurt that deafens all around

you, angels of mercy, you. 

Seven

Liar screams face in mirror,
hand around own self's throat,
tight like rope burns,
throttle harder
for the love
of God,
please.

Eric

I didn't trust you

when 

I first met you,

you slammed poems

cleanly and clearly

and under control.

You told me to try

to do the same

and I would later

find you in a room

of other poets

and we'd sit by

each other and joke

and nerd out

over the creations

of Lucas, Whedon,

Kane and Lee.

You encouraged

my vulgarity at times

and to you, I pledge

thousands of cat slits

in the after life.

Eli

We climbed Masada,

ate Schwarma

on Ben Yehuda,

and slid

out of an elephant's ass

in Tel Aviv.

We came back to the States,

I randomly went to a party

at a frat house by UCLA

and saw you there

then years later, you'd

start to frequent some

of my events and invite

me up to your farm

out in BFE for Shabbat

dinner and eventually,

I'll take you up

on that offer.

John Ramirez Plays Bass

with stoned koalas in the land

of the first In 'N Out

he bides his time, working

in Japanese restaurants

he travels at warp speed

with his amiable pals

Bob, the bearded lovable

and long haired faux cholo

Odie, the man who is not

Garfield's dog nemesis

together, they ingest

libations and pizza

They engage in aural sex

with others like me

and they're like really,

really good at it.