A Vinyl Night

You and I sat cold by the tent

you were stoned

I didn’t know

California nights

could be so bone cracking cold.

We watched campers

moving in and out like ants

on a drop of sweet

it was a vinyl gypsy night

as campfires curled snake smoke

against a carbon ink sky.

The beach was stark empty

you needed friendship

I offered only silence

silence and a beer

you wanted neither.

We smiled as laughter

rolled from nearby tents,

love laughter, bare skin giggles.

No stars shined in a bleak darkness

just a gnawing void never leaving.

God I feel it again today.

Poison Leaves

At this moment life is a child

swaying in its attempt to walk

without falling to its knees and screaming,

Help me daddy.” Daddy left for Tulsa.

He’s dancing with a reaper,

carelessly throwing breath to the wind.

His lovers will die before Autumn leaves

touch the summer scorched grass.

Is it time now daddy?

I cannot say Apocalypse. My lips are blue.

Bus Ticket to Heaven

Death it seems to me is just a movement,

a bus stop in Cleveland I don’t know,

just a crowd of faceless faces

waiting for another ride.

Browns, Blacks, Whites,

pimps, whores alike

just waiting for another bus

to St. Louis, finally St. Peter’s.

Cinderellas won’t ride a night tram,

no night coach for them

strictly Amtrack’s club car

taking a double decker to heaven.

Imagine death if you can

sweep the dirt

chase those skeletons,

take the last bus out of town.

It’s a two-way trip for some,

for others a two year warranty.

God loves you but if you come by bus

check the final destination on your ticket.

Orange Hell

Toothpaste cannot return to its tube.

Racism cannot fit back into its cave,

KKK, white ho boys, white knuckles,

white face, white kings, white pussies,

go hide behind your fires, behind your bias.

Who are you? You are scarred, the strapping

on your asses will give you away to your phony god.

What have you become, farm boys from Harvard?

Your orange haired temper tantrum hides beneath

the cover of his boot lickers. Fatten him up for Satan

and the doors to a dark world will open letting the hounds

eviscerate his cowardice. He is dead before the bullet makes it way.

Black Boots

Black crow flying circles

staring down at me

mocking cynic.

Crowned king of evil by some

to others a circus act.

Black crow outside my window

cawing for his lover.

“Come make eggs with me,”

He says as he sits

on a limestone clinic

“Come shoot the butcher of Baghdad,

Have abortions will travel,

Shoot him eye for an eye.”

The black crow’s chest is pumped

ready to laugh at the man with a gun

sipping tea with sisters wearing

Swastikas and sickles.

Rodeo clowns with broomsticks up their ass

Where’s my old friend Martin?

Fly to Selma black crow

and don’t let the black man rise

keep him down

anvil crown.

Crunch his head like a soft melon

with black boots shined with spit

wading in the Mississippi mud

waiting for a flower’s bud,

his orange hair feathered like a bird

ready to kill.

Spring in Paris

Did I mention a dark skinned man

sits alone in a house of white, he’s a target

for a world of pig nose colored bigots?

Bigots wear teabag hats and snakes

curled around their flag, they are god’s children,

scrotum mouthed children, nazi nosed bastards

bullets spinning from their lips.

They love the constitution,

hate the Bible cause they know

Jesus took the last Concord Jet to Paris

and won’t be back, he’s never coming back.

Don’t Speak of My Death

Don’t speak of it, no one knows

I’m slowly dying, not a regular death.

You know the kind, family gathered

you show them the event of their lives.

They cry. It’s working you see, eyes gobbling

the back of your sockets. Wow!

Grandpa’s going out with a bang and a twang.

No, not that kind. My death will be bookmarked

by wheezing and whistling of my lungs.

No one will watch. That’s okay you see.

My crooked crab apple will soothe its only friend

hiding its happiness from the humming birds,

friends that never hover near a dying wasp.

America on Meth

It’s a dance I say,

third world American dance

you lead. I’ll follow

pretending I know the steps

no one has ever known.

Illusion of wealth, compassion,

the leader of the band stumbles,

his flute stuck in his fascist mouth.

We are the poor, the sick, the unsung.

Illusion, delusion, and confusion

have dealt the cards we’ve never held.

The King of diamonds wins

He always wins,

just ask Sartre.

Bathroom Prophets

Somewhere in the depth of death,

beneath breathing cottontails

which stand like tall candles snuffed

by forgotten fingers, bony and blue

there is an incandescent white

where homeless gods grow

amid natural city predators.

They warn of Armageddon,

but learn the pecking order

and the shame of being  weak.

Heartbreak Jive

Left arm jiving

motel swinging sign

fingers popcorn poppin’

feet sliding doors dancing

to a tune in my head.

Rhythm ruckus like mob love

sixth avenue never gave a hoot

about singing my heartache.