Re-wind / Fast-forward

Re-wind! 30 years before there was a question
of spiritual rights in our trailer park, everyone was
a Baptist. Bibles flew like buzzards
spotting up for the dead in the tilled fields. Poems were not
an option in The Church of Civil Wars. Mom and dad danced
with Disco’s Depression as I was the slave child
whipped with screams of ancient arguments and grand speeches
made.

Fast-forward! Present day
therapy questions my
aversion to God’s
glitter dreams. Normal childhood, “yeah
Doc, What the fuck ever! Daffy Duck was a
bitch and can’t play for the NBA either.” No more basketball,
no more color, everything white as the blackened snow-covered
earth.

Battle of the Bands

Who is the greatest?
The Beatles or Rolling Stones?
Hey Dude, Let It Bleed!

Light

Lighthouse being built, Red brick by
brick. Waiting for White light shining on mid
night Blue background, east
to west illuminating my way home.

Why is Johnny Not Marching Home?

I

LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT
Political prostitution pimped out Johnny.
making decisions out of grimy
greed for self-centered standoff between
Cadillac morals and his Pinto ideals.
Free as the oil being pumped into Johnny.
Prices being raised during
Santa’s seasonal Hooking for Dollars. We have sold
The American Scheme! Owned now by the Chinese for 3.4%.

II

Johnny won’t come home to Bud
Light and billiards with his buddies. He
won’t know a hero’s welcome. No ticker-tape. Except for paper
work he would sign saying the government isn’t responsible for his
pages of rages he wrote in his journal that Dr. Take a Pill
would tell him to keep swallowing so he wouldn’t suffer
from Pre Duress Syndrome.

III

Johnny was a sniper. Face in the sand, eye on prize.
Ready to kill: who they say, when they say, until Johnny says,
“Pistol whip me for I am your whore, I
believed you when you said we were defenders of the weak.
I am weaker than my enemy and the sanddollar.” Johnny waits…

LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT,
L E F T.
BANG!

Drive-thru Redemption

No neon name, yet you
love, unconditional.
Asking many things. I do
Try to say thanks, most of the time.
Prayer courtesy. This
time I ask something
out of character for me.

How can I help?

I wish to look through your
glasses, they see courageous colors
after harsh storms. Religious
glasses I tried; too dark, too tight.
They fit some ok. I want
more than three wishes on the dollar menu.
Humanity’s hope for the abused
Aphrodite. Faith in more than the Church of
Frivolity and Peace in the Warheads. To help the lonely
meet and fall in…whatever gets them through the
night.

How can I help the oppressed
rise above their munitions.
A smile in their direction or free fries with their order.
Courteous cash back? “Come back real soon!”

May I take your order please?

Project

Once there was a project. Experimental.
Put all people with low hopes in tiny
turfs. Loathsome nights spent hearing sirens
cries, more crack in the family pavement. Father
tries to care for wife, children but fleas and rats force
him out before food stamps get lacerated by government
grazing. Children turned away from the buffet of the better
life. The cash cow can’t come home. She is busy being milked
out of her last dollar. Vittles not free,
except on TV, and then only dress
rehearsal for the electric
fence sell at Wal-Mart.

Irony

World of iron, gray skies
Indoors. Iron Icicles fall in front of your
face. Stone, brick, and steel toed memories
seared, not from want but necessity. Cigarettes
and booty buy you solitude. Porn acted out in private
igloos. Shields are there but don’t protect
the innocent and the guilty. They have the key to better freedom. Administrative
thrones for little men trying to be more
than kings, end up jesters in the court of humiliation.
A long way from
Camelot.

Transference

Phone rings, it is you
again, my secret
path to myself.
Whispers of indecent longing
waiting to pounce like a puma on my vocal
chords. You wait until you hear the first slight
breath before you gasp in flow for the first time. You
make me wait to hear you click the receiver
with enamel claws before passion prevails over
vanity. My voice sends you past
your future into a stratus known as ecstasy
plus one. Your cries muffle
my screams both praying that God
will understand why his name is mentioned
bu tnot needed. We reach out and touch only the heaven we have
created and wave our hands through lust, love, low lying
clouds of bittersweet. Knowing touch is only
the illusion we create to walk this tightrope
through the cloudbursts causing it to rain from
the same sky
that
rains on you
that
rains on me…

2500 miles away!

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.

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.

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.

Deliverance

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.

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.”

Flyaway. Thinking backwoods. Driving back home. Hmmm, never considered L.A.
a safety zone.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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!

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

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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