Category: Poetry

I woke up this morning,
stumbled into the mirror,
noticed that while I slept
someone had stole my beard.

the fiend clipped off my mustache,
weed-wacked my goatee,
left me with an empty face
and a soul patch.

how nice: a soul patch.
parsed out: a patch
for my naked, hairless soul;
a sarcastic bandaid.

or, perhaps, a patch,
like in a patchwork quilt,
a key piece, or ingredient
in the restoration of a soul.

a soul stripped bare by rules
and admonitions:
that a tiny little mustache,
like Hitler, was ok.

but, below the lip, just south
of the twisted smile,
evil lived and festered
corrupting the souls of men.

as if the hair of the face
could have any bearing
on the content of the soul!
eyes are mirrors, not beards.

beards are tangled tendrils,
fibers and split ends of thought
hanging reflectively from chins and lips
suggestive of nothing: ponderous.

waiting simply to be stroked or combed;
waiting to yield the detritus harbored there;
given up only after careful trimming
and loving application of the scythe.

all the sage, wise ones wore beards.
the longer to stroke – the deeper their safe
of their knowledge and thought.
how ludicrous would they be, clean?

shavin’ is a ritual, undertaken with care.
my mustache is more than a fashion accessory
beneath my angry eyes;
it is a prize, hoarded with care

against the thoughtless fools who would give leave
to grow a bit of twirly mischievousness
against the tide of full on evil
beneath the teeth, pure and sparkly white.

but then, as I blink away the bleariness,
I remember that I cut away my metaphor
and swept up the bits and pieces
in an effort to break free of foolish chains.

*mouse grass, or more properly, maus gras, is a pidgin phrase from Papua New Guinea meaning facial hair

for Dave

at the church of unholy
billy bible pimps out sally sunday school
back in the front pew
goody two shoes rips up hymnals
to roll the weed he sells
on every street corner
donny deacon leads his crew
of former choir boys
to pound out a few nickels
for the offering plate
swinging the chains of sin
in hopes of meeting that catholic gang
for a chance to even the score
for the last few converts they swiped
fresh meat is hard to come by
in this town of staggered steeples
and burned out crosses
where two or three rival churches are
there jailhouse jesus is in their midst
stirring up a ruckus

floundering, splashing, cavorting
just below the waves
dark and brooding seas
I’m sure the sharks look up
with wicked grin and snicker
deciding whether or not to bother
with my frail bones and empty skin
a little bit of blood for all that effort
hardly seems worth the trip up
from the deep blue sea to me

not that I’m grateful, really
I’d rather see my pathetic frame
snapped, dismembered, gulped

once I made a more tempting tidbit
some cloak and dagger magic
prize for the taking before wasting
away on belching vapor steams
lost in my own ambition, or lack thereof
this is not a narcissistic glint
of self-reflective preening
this is a wanted poster:

one tough hombre of a soul
el diablo con muertas y amor
cuatro malvados: armados y peligrosos
con palabras y la poesía
reward: $1000
(preferably dead if not alive)

dedicated to the fight all LGBT face; in memory of David Kato

how far
would you go?
how deep
is your love?

would you
take your beliefs
and nail
a man to a cross?

would you
follow your heart
and beat
a man to death?

would you
consummate your desire
and make love?

you argue
and spread your word
of conviction

you reason
and tell everyone
what you think

you never
consider consequences
of belief

your heart
is not a private thing
it is open

your mind
is not a quiet cathedral
it is roaring

you took
your hate message
to Africa

you carried
your evil agenda
in the overhead

you spread
unrest untruth
and it cost

a man
lies dead today
he was gay

the dust
under drying blood
wants peace

some days
I can see the future
some days

I love
a man a woman
why can’t you?

how far
would you go?
how deep
is your love?

I smacked my lips
I slapped down my dollar
I picked a McDouble
I pulled out a few more singles
and got a McChicken
and and small drink.

Gotta love that $$ menu
I get greasy goodness
and a few more inches
on my waistline

McMe is my choice
fast food is quick
on the road
or is handy
on the long days

No gun to my head
nudging me
to lick my lips after
a double bacon cheeseburger
no hammer clicks back
encouraging me
to snap down the fries
and slurp dr pepper

why all the fuss?
the weeping and legislation
banning the toys in a happy meal
is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard
someone’s coffee was hot
their burrito was not beef
their triple whopper with cheese
was not vegan

what did you expect
in seconds
for pennies
from a hamburger stand?

this is an open letter to the hipster man
in line in front of me at the thrift store

I saw you standing there, fishing
for your cash, your crumpled bills
teased out from your tiny pockets
slim smashed up against your thigh
stitched tight across your skinny
legs, the jeans looked at me, pleading
for a twelve year old girl with pig tails
or justin beiber, which is the same

I hated your arrogance, your fickle irony
your sense of worth and self-satisfaction
exuding from beneath the brown tweed
and useless little scarf, colored red
the color of the blood of men, dried up
and squeezed beneath the flat cap
that once graced the head of a real man
as he worked and sweated and lived
a thousand lives for your smug cup
of starbucks indy mainstream emptiness

I was there for a coffee table, a humble plank
and four little legs, a scratch, and water stain
something to fill my empty low-rent apartment
creaking in the night with a thousand whimpers
for upkeep and proper heating, but you, you fake
were hunting for your properly aged bit of vintage
to preen before your trucker pated phony friends
never once thinking of the long hours shifting
from Santa Fe to Baton Rouge to Memphis
too many hours on shitty coffee and mesmerizing lines
sweating into the seat leather until back and seat mingled
staring through insect carcasses and pitted glass

take your tiny, ineffectual scarf, your uppity sneer
in the face of the homeless man, begging for your reality
and not your feigned fashionable pity, scraping
for the lion’s share of what you spend on your outdated
walkman tshirt tattoo boots beard shades and skinny jeans
and leave this store, where sometimes vintage means
real savings for poorer folk who are glad of the discount price
and chance to use another’s cast off goods for another year
in place of making do with plastic forks and fast food condiments
oh, and the wretched of the world, they wish you stayed in bed
in America, and left well enough alone. Your kind don’t help.

fuck off

sincerely,

me.

full metal jacket soothsayer
hammer stroke’s purging fire
boring holes with veracious hunger
smoking through every liar

familia es importante, no es verdad?
la hermandad de muertas
y la pintura de muertas
obra maestra maravillosa

lost little lamb
el hombre del fuego
he’s arranging the meeting
el Dios y el diablos

Time to dream sweet psychedelics
enchanting rapid eye reduction
neon neurons glow
evanescence wave
lated

Sleeping feels like death itself.
It is the under time, the quiet time.
Hush, little baby, don’t you cry
the Angels pass the waking ones
to take the slumbered few.

The Sandman is the Devil’s man
draining the souls of the living
down through sleep to death
the underworld sucking down souls
as sand slides through a sieve

pillows soft as the hangman’s noose
silk woven love, and braided
slide around the neck
like covers pulled tight
slowly choking the life away

rock a bye baby
say goodbye to the world
close your eyes and hush now
baby, the end is quiet
nightingale sings your sweet lullaby

dying under the comforter
of a warm blanket
the coffin lid obscures the light
oh don’t wake now, keep dreaming
defiance, little one, tires the mind

harvest moon wanes
red blood dripping
into the midnight glass of water
delta waving away ripples
the sandman cometh