- Piss Poem and CK1 live at the Blues Bouquet
- Lucky Strike
- The Full Moon Suspended in a Blue Sky
- A Poet’s Sandwich Recipe
- The Happy Clown
- Afraid of the Inner Queer Within
- God in the Field
- My Mountain Lion Animal Spirit has Turned into a Scared Elk
- A Future with Direction
- Ones and Zeros and the lack of You
Expensive drink date
with a belly full of alcohol
and a pint in her head is gone.
Optimistic kiss good night been replaced
by a cold hard bench,
an empty main street
and a Lucky Strike.
Lucky Strike in hand
talks to me in telepathic memory of an old man,
“I went to war with Lucky Strike.”
Lucky Strike says, “I’m not a flaming teeny bopper Camel,
I am nostalgic. I am America’s past.”
I say, “Take me away Lucky Strike.
I want to go to an adventurous land.
I want to flirt with evil Nazi white Anglo German Girls.”
Girls do you feel lucky today?”
Zippo click, light drag
The strike in Lucky Strike is striking me dead.
I don’t taste the luck.
The sand is so hot.
Every full step amounts to half.
I see birds overhead:
can’t hear their chirp
only my heart,
the rhythm of a death march.
Summer sun suffocates.
Our breath grows shallow.
Veronica, a friend, makes it to the top
of North America’s tallest dune.
Her silhouette strips.
An hourglass shadow casts away clothes.
I climb the last ten feet
in a Bridget Bardot curved shade.
Oh, she’s so beautiful.
My mind silently repeats
“flowers are pretty in mountain meadows.”
Dare not let the imagination wander to
“flowers are also pretty on satin sheets.”
I lay in the sand nude.
The full moon overhead
suspended in a blue sky.
Veronica plays in the sand.
I close my eyes
fueled by her aura.
I awaken to grain shifting
and an unfamiliar desert smell.
Veronica lies by my side.
“Are you wearing perfume?”
She replies, “Yes, Pleasure.”
I ask, “Like the relaxing effect of laying
in the desert sand
on a tired body?”
“No, pleasure indulging
in sex under the full moon
suspended in a blue sky.”
lots of Best Foods condiments,
Mayonnaise dripping off her lower lip.
Teen boys open their mouths.
The embarrassed girl blushes, touches the little dribble, asks for a napkin.
French style wheat/sourdough bread.
Question: Can a sandwich be a sandwich without bread?
Can Europe be Europe without France?
Ah mild, sharp, etc:
different types of cheddar cheese compliment one’s current mood.
Don’t think about the fat content.
Enjoy the indulgence into your own psyche.
The jack Hindu thanks the Jersey Cow.
Ah pleasant on the tongue:
crisp veggies– lettuce, tomato, and onion.
The veggie biogenetic engineer searching for an idea
Observes two pictures of Bridget Bardot and Kate Moss.
The engineer yells, “Carumba bigger is better,” and starts work on the super tomato.
got out of bed.
Her actions surprised me.
Usually whe wants on snooze-worth of cuddles
and a good morning stinky breath peck
on the lips.
I ask if she’s all right.
She replies, “yes, just terrific.”
I would believe her
except for the dark circles
beneath her eyes,
of a sleepless night.
Sometimes I wish
she would wear makeup
like a majority of woman
who hide their nonverbal communication
with rosy cheeks and wide awake eyes
so when she says, “YES, JUST TERRIFIC”
we can pretend together.
The other day an odd thing happened to me. I became aroused; well, that’s actually not peculiar, except I was turned on by a burly biker man’s right bicep. On his arm was a beautiful naked woman tattooed in simple, prison-style black ink. I’m not gay. Didn’t want to sleep with him. But that man’s good-looking arm worries my homophobia senses, because the arm bone is connected to the collarbone. The collarbone is connected to the rib cage. The rib cage is connected to the pelvis bone, and the pelvis bone is connected to OH MY GOD THE PENIS.
Might have god in the solitude of a field.
Might have felt god in the grass between my toes.
Might have seen god in the undeveloped skyline.
Might have heard god in a blue jay’s chirp.
Not sure if I do believe in god
but at least I feel at peace.
The next year
a church had been built
in the field
where god might have been.
There I met a loud, guilt-driven, reincarnated Adam Smith.
He collected dollar bills
that read, “In God We Trust.”
He calls them testimonies of faith.
I told the preacher about the field
so he took me to the gift shop
and said, “You’ll find all that peace
in this consumer Jesus doll for $5.00.”
So I bought it.
He then proceeded to pray,
“May this Christ-like bobbling head
forgive your sins,
corporate salvation save your soul.’
Not sure if I believe in God
but do know I’ve been swindled.