Friday, January 1, 2010

New Fish

Standing in the middle of the Ohio River. Fish
reached the end of my line.
Elated. First fish, first trip. Six years
old. Daddy said, “Boy,
God gave you that fish.” Daddy, you mean
God put the hook in his lip and made it hard
for him to breath .
“No son, I don’t
mean it that way.” Pappaw was standing and grinning. He
must have told this lie before. Daddy
why did God hurt the fish for me. Does God
like me and not like the fish.
“No son God likes all things the same.”
I started to cry. Daddy let the fish go.
I hope the judge likes me as much as God and Daddy liked
that fish.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Twister

Dark twists engulf
like a self loathing

tornado sweeping
away all hope like a trailer

park memory. There is one
cellar I can run to if I

hear the siren. But if she calls out too late I
have to hold on to the thread. Hanging. Pleading it to pass.

Winds of a crypt long closed, reopened
to unleash the harsher tempest, seducing

me to fly , but holding the
thread, hanging on by one claw.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

OZZO

Nighttime is the hardest place
to soften these thoughts of dark
prisons taking new dominion of my
being to leave me pissing in the fan of my
beliefs-New day dawn shadows of normalcy
following me in the wrong
direction to OZ or ZO. Id
is my master of illusive whispers, promises, unfulfilled
with crown molding. Dolling out dinero for diapers
to help get the job well-done with a slight chance of rare. Holy
Jesus, save me from this crime and I won’t do it again, until the next
time you aren’t looking. Please put a stop sign in my
brain so I will get off this wheel to
Hell.

Monday, December 14, 2009

I am from...

Yeeeehaw! watching Hee Haw and Hallelujah on Sunday mornings
Puuuraise the Lord on the way to church and Go to Hell on the way to lunch
Seedy southern trailer parks and free lunch milk money
Fried chicken and Kool-Aid and guilt by association

I am from
taking shelter in the radio's warm green glow while F bombs are dropping from the ceiling
Family reunions leading to family dysfunction leading to family desecration
Down south, down home, and downwind from hate’s foul fumes
Hayseed and overalls, outhouse and outsource; now outsourcing the outhouse

I am from
Haggard, Mellencamp, Small Towns and small minds
Weeping willows, weeping widows and big dinners after the funeral
Moonshine and moonlit walks
Spanking the monkey that’s on my back

I am from
Raisin’ Cain and Raisin’ Hell
Beautiful landscapes, beautiful women, and beautiful ideals
The rash realities of rural decay
Grandma’s kitchen, momma’s guilt and daddy’s guidance
Family perdition and hates tradition

I am from
the southern table of hospitality that loves you while you die

Monday, December 7, 2009

Deliverance

(Deliverance Theme playing)

Never wanted to be associated with it.
Yet it’s all I ever pray for. I track it like squeeeeaaaals
off in the woods. Pulls both ways like a redneck finger trap.

(Deliverance Theme continued)

Hillbilly prophets try to pray me back home. Flights to the south,
deep fried. They want to celebrate me home, but all they do is burn me at the
grill.

(Deliverance Theme continued)

Ridicule plays second base. Ump screams “YOURRR’RRRE OUT “. “Hey, I
thought I was safe here”. Automatic out
of place.

(Deliverance theme)

Uncle’s trailer! “Damn boy you write a mean poem, but you should get into a real trade like
right wing heating and air or join the Union of the Klan, they got a fine string of
benefits.”

(Deliverance theme concludes)

Flyaway. Thinking backwoods. Driving home. Hmmm, never considered L.A.
a safe haven.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Defeated

Ran to french
kiss the future. Breath was too bad.
Ran back to old lang syne. He smiled saying,
“It always looks darkest right before
it is.” Truth isn’t pretty
in hooker clothing, looks worse in
drag. I want to stand and scream, but I
won’t stick
around and hear them chant
“Go Green, Go Green”, the only ones
heard are the red teabaggers! No winning
this game, I can’t fight
alone anymore. I think I will lay
down with everyone else and wait
for the bus.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Naptime at the Free Will Baptist Church

No Hallelujah for the absurd dine and dash.
Religious molestation: Godly spiders moving about the world-

wide web of their deceit. The church of sinful greatest hits; Thou shalt
not steal: tithe runs to Colombia to double your pesos in a dope deal gone

blasphemoso. Call Dog the Bounty Hunter to prey for us and track
the tithe, only to get arrested for indecent haircuts in a public

place. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors daughter! But Preacher
spins a new tail to chase. Momma and Daddy thinks she’s being

sanctified, I suppose she will see the light. I reckon
she’ll learn the meaning of The Bible Belt.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Blackalicious Dope Disciple

Radiance becomes unbearable, light bouncing off the moon.

No light please, I am dark for a reason, black clothes only: pantsshoesshirt.

Sunglasses in daylight. “I want to look like, be like; Jimm Leary S. Thompson”.

Drunken role models for college students. “But Professor, acid enlightens me, makes

me more creative” (walloozing). Later,life becomes unbearable,

tiny pinhole of joy.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Fetish

Chaos in red stilettos. White lines up
the back of her stockings, black skirt made of
illusion sashays past. Insanity’s sinful scent
lingers. Dilemma: walk toward wisdom or
allow her to lull me to her luxury,
just one more time...

Her eyes pull me forward, face
in her sweat. Virtue lost in her corruption. She
rips off my principles, unbuckles my
integrity, pulls down my character. She drops
to her knees as though she is the slave that beholds
my shame.

Her hellish eyes ignite.
Rage twists out my very
essence. She spanks my addiction until she swallows
my last drop of degradation. She saunters away
as the master of my moil.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Pulp Truth

Impregnates the brain with
stupidity, birthing cerebral flatulence
'round the globe. (ha!) Reality

whore, male / female, doesn’t
matter as long as the
adsecutives sell more smelly

beans to fill the crock and raise
the ratings instead of the bar.

(Be back after this important massage)

Give the rose to the one you truly love,
yourself. Give the money to Big
Brother and Big Sisters on the Tour Bus to aging,

washed up rock star’s viagra fund. One more
Hilton stripper pole, sex
video on how to tighten your ignorance

for the paparazzi rodeo on Rodeo. Honesty
is a horrible trait to defecate.

(… next week on The E True Hollywood boring)

Michael Jackson isn’t dead and
neither is Elvis. They are on a rich dessert
island with Rachel Ray. News at

Eleven. Global warming is a suntan.
War is Punk’d. Life is only a passing of piety to the gods
of merchantry. Eat up, drink up, and sleep with
our credos Flava Flav.

(Bombs bursting in air…CLICK!)

Sunday, August 9, 2009

A Tale of Two Kitchens

In the kitchen of joy, Mammaw was the conductor of those spices.
A dash of patience, spoonful of understanding, the sound of praise.
The concerto of love with fresh gravy and biscuits,
mixed together on that cast iron wood burning stove.

In the kitchen of confusion, you were the conductor of the fast train
to fast food,KFC by the bucket, along with microwaved guilt.
You couldn’t even cook that in a conventional oven.
now I’m addicted to all of it-the food,
the alcohol in the Dixie Cup with a shame mixer.

You think you’ve done nothing wrong!
I guess it’s hard to see your blame
circumstances beyond your controlling nature-
Hey, Ma… thanks for the therapy!

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Anxiety Attacks or Love?

Breath enters the body like a gasp of peanut
butter. Palms sweating like the
rim of a margarita glass. Knees trembling like
the thump of a trapped hip hop hymn in a Hummer.
Eyes dry, one tear of fear. Chased down
by the love police. They will arrest me for
indecent composure. Hidden in plain sight, the truths
of my lies.
Found out!
Busted!
Put away in loves
asylum.
5150!
I thought meds would cure it. I believed
love was the anecdote. Nope!
sorry.
Just another anxious moment I
couldn’t get away from.

All Out of Truth

Another hip -hop, be- bop version of a flip –flop

fits between the I-tunes FM dial.

Corporate tools claim it’s something new:

the same old Love and Emotions for $10 bucks at your local Wal-Mart:



Wal-Mart, The sweatshop of great art.



Listen: a new, true countrified, jazzabilly, blues number. Play us

a Crunk Juiced Rock n Roll ditty.

The crock o’ shit machine churns out a smelly love song

claiming to be latest trend in truth.



I went shopping for the truth at Best Buy but the clerk said,“Dude, we don’t
carry that here.”

Tragedy / Tragedy?

The Legendary King of Pop Michael Jackson DEAD at 50!
Los Angeles Times 06/25/2009

Innocence
lost in an instant.
Twenty years from now, you would
still be lost. The tragedy could have
been avoided. If we could only find out Who was
your Iago? Who enslaved you to
talent? Who allowed you to dance
to early, die too
soon?

To
Fly to Never, Never
Again Land.
Childhood found? No
one can hurt you here. Fly and be free! Free
to rest, to play, to
weep.

The Real Ed Hardy

Will the real Ed Hardy… the real Ed Hardy please
go out of style. Excruciating
eighties art work with a twist
of trucker hat celebrity, gaudy

glitz and 5th grade cursive writing! It’s amazing
what passes for style. How
about a cool drag of
original thought instead

of those retard retreads that were posh when
you were nursing your Studio
54 hangover. What name costs
more than Christian’s sweatshop? Ed’s

wallets cost more cash than the bambino’s
back bent factory fodder who make
these ridiculous rags so folks
can think someone else’s name is

cooler than their own. Would Christian
Audigier buy a $50 shirt with my name
on it? He'll make a new
fitty with a fresh bambino scribing

Ed Hardy… Ed Hardy.

Wargasm

“You can be killed just as dead in an unjustified war as you can in one protecting your own home.” Will Rogers




Bombs bursting in air
like the orgasm wanting to explode
over and over: Ah hell Dick it
don’t matter who dies in this war
as long as we get off. Don’t tell me you can’t
get it up anymore- just spank it like they do
on the evening news.
Hamas slams it to Israel
and they give a reach around to send it flowing back to
the sex o’clock news channel. Heh Heh, Look through here Dick.
Too bad the rest of the country don’t have a glory hole to
watch this war protecting Halliburton.

War doesn’t wear a condom, if it did…
fewer people would die.

But that last drop has to come out
so We the People can feel the slam of the
BANG, BOOM, BANG.
Miss Liberty says, Fuck Me, Fuck Me Harder
and you do George, then
you leave her in the wet spot crying, like
the girl the football player said he loved
just to get her virginity, then walked away….
HER peace, trust, dignity, honesty
now questioned by everyone from her therapist
to Dr. Phil to the masses at Ellis Island. Your
integrity is gone. Her integrity is gone.
Just another locker room tale
has sadly come true. The date rape happened.
She trusted everything.
Why didn’t you go to your 12 Step meeting instead?

I Am From…

Yeeeehaw watching Hee Haw and Hallelujah on Sunday mornings
Puuuraise the Lord on the way to church and Go to Hell on the way to lunch
Seedy southern trailer parks and free lunch milk money
Fried chicken and Kool-Aid and guilt by association

I am from
taking shelter in the radio's warm green glow while F bombs are dropping from the ceiling
Family reunions leading to family dysfunction leading to family desecration
Down south, down home, and downwind from hate’s foul fumes
Hayseed and overalls, outhouse and outsource; now outsourcing the outhouse

I am from
Haggard, Mellencamp, Small Towns and small minds
Weeping willows, weeping widows and big dinners after the funeral
Moonshine and moonlit walks
Spanking the monkey that’s on my back

I am from
Raisin’ Cain and Raisin’ Hell
Beautiful landscapes, beautiful women, and beautiful ideals
The rash realities of rural decay
Grandma’s kitchen, momma’s guilt and daddy’s guidance
Family perdition and hates tradition

I am from
the southern table of hospitality that loves you while you die