Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
The recurring theme of the 'plasti' poets.
Millions sitting in ill-fitting poetry sites,
and vacuum-laden forums making
hydrogenated-fatty comments broadcast
through a dispassionate, torpid ether,
or stuffed into serpentine fiber-optic cables
emitting lard laden signals that slow down
and clog ever-bored photons grudgingly carrying
this vacuous data to burned out screens just
to display sent, read,...
I am higher
on the evolutionary scale.
I will not ask you
to shave my back.
My cutting-edge
smooth cheeks
will not scratch you
when we nuzzle.
My highly developed
hairless chest
will not scrape
your nipples
when I am doing
the missionary,
while you are being
converted.
But if we go camping
inside your tent
I cannot promise
not to howl.
had
a tooth
missing in front,
and when she talked,
it
made
a whistle.
Peggy Whistle was 43,
loved Scotch,
and
worked nights
at the D&J Diner.
she
also loved
her little dog, Blue.
Blue
came to
work with her
and slept on a ratty
old pillow in the back,
lifting
his head up
every time the door
opened and the bell above it rang.
Peggy never whistled any tunes,
although
you can’t say
she didn’t...
all these poems with attitude
a big huge middle finger raised in the second stanza
I don't really care about what you're so upset about
read a psalm
that's the other thing they're always pickin' on Jesus
still pickin on Him just like at Golgotha
I'm happy just to order a pizza
wait for the mail...
I just got a rejection
I checked the status
of my submission
and it said "rejected"
I had been checking and checking the status
and it had kept saying "in review"
I like "rejected" better than "in review"
I don't like the feeling of being unsure
now I can say they don't know what they're talking about
back in the 70s
back in LA
I knew of him
as the uncouth Christ
of the drunk-again alcoholics
the naked emperor
of young trendy-cafe chefs and
of the intellectual
and the pseudo-intellectual
trust-fund kids who wished
to be like him by
living in decrepit houses
the lawns of which
they littered with
rusting appliances
somewhere in the
unorthodox mix of
the booze and the sorting...
I need to fall asleep to the thought of a pretty girl
the world is gross and doesn't care
the TV mutilates
my vomit comes out before I can get to the toilet
it's always time for my pills
people get out of their cars like assassins
but the pretty girl brings toasted English muffins...
I came there because nothing was happening
so did everybody else
and this is what transpired...
seeds
praying
somewhere in the hard gravel of Exxon
like quicksand
ex cons
they got away with most of their shit
the cops could never figure you out which one did what
because they had the same name
The fuzz would show up at...
Mary's brother, Ethan, is intrigue
through a secret splinter. I gawk
at him sketching his hands
while his ears pour wire.
He would taste me. But I'm in love
with the raw pink under his blistered
fingers, the tap dancing callouses
chipping away
at their dusty recycled plane.
I only want to be the genius
in the dark chocolate...
no one takes any notice of me,
if I speak my truth
it’s just a junkie garbling
nonsense
a disease carrying scum
chasing tracks
another fuckin’ wino, soiling
his pants,
watching clouds
roll by
hear what I’m saying
cos you could be me
like I was you
before a couple of wrong turns,
barely a misstep
at first it happens slowly
then you watch it...
I sent Bukowski some poems, one of which was “Twisted Living” (a 3-pager that later appeared in Hung). He re-wrote “Twisted Living” and titled it “I Know What Love Is” and sent it back to me. He didn’t add anything; he just subtracted.
—Douglas Goodwin
I worried about the woman who...
sometimes strikes
like a bat slicing
through the dark with its wings
cunning and weightless
cutting through like a blade
tearing the flesh apart
exposing the bones
this terrible void
staring from the closet
lying there, between the clothes
slowly sucking at everything like a vacuum
whispers
that a voice
a mere voice
could restore order
and you reach for
the sparrow
and the butterfly
knowing
they will...
you could break a bone
you can’t see
I decide it’s worth the risk after hours of blackout boredom
maybe the candlelight has gotten her in the mood too
but how to go about asking
hey I’m really bored so you wanna have sex with me?
the neighbors will probably hear!
don't knock the candle over!!
I...
another fucking boring night
of light blue ripples of poolwater
dumb white lights
over steam haze black night snooze
and what's left of the cheap beer
my wife's been passed out for three hours
I drank the good wine
in the sun of the afternoon
that feels like a thousand days ago
I'm listening to some lounge chair...
publishers
is retired
and living in France.
he’s on his second wife and
lives on
a farm in the country.
every now and then
he sends me
these long, long
e-mails talking about the wine,
the food, the people
and how much he
loves his life
since he
ditched the
first wife, gave up writing
and moved away.
in relative terms
he’s on the near side
of rich...
i...
Big Jake’s jamoke
is almost bigger than he is,
& it’s smarter, too, or
so goes the standing joke.
& the oft repeated story,
his winky
has a tear tattoo
dripping from its eye.
Deloris, his ex-old lady,
says Big Jake’s problem
is that he passes out
at the sight
of a vertical smile
& she’s pissed that he thinks
a French withered...
In 1984, I went to Germany for the first time. Not knowing much German, I became homesick quite soon and, largely bereft of companionship, settled in with my notebook and resigned myself to composing the following poems.
Thanks, Germany
I have not yet had a poem accepted
by The American Poetry Review,
but...
Those who say
they have no regrets
are fucking liars
& the people
who believe them
are fucking stupid.
Regret free,
fucking liars lie
to themselves
because they are so
fucked up they can’t tell
themselves the truth—
that they are in
fucking denial
about being
pretentious liars
& fucking cowards
afraid to admit
they regret their
fucking actions
& for being so stupid.
Do I have regrets?
I could go...
