William:
capitalist
fraud
like your
sister—all
love and light
broadcast podcast
of pillaged
Eastern
wisdom
pawned on
women in
two hundred dollar
yoga pants
with extra
ass padding
and a scent guard
crotch
acrobatic fuck
he is spent
but my energy is still
buzzing
I never learned the names
of pressure points
I just know
I just feel
I press blind
on his
palm and wrist
release
then
pull
each
finger
slowly
he moans
"oh my god Jennifer
it is like you are pulling out
all of the unnecessary...
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...
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...
Always backfires.
Better be a bastard
To everyone,
Gaining respect
And recognition,
Not to mention
A phantom lover,
Since for you
Love is the acceptance
Of mutual abuse,
A cancer,
Whether benign
Or malignant,
Eating away
The core self.
The solipsist asks,
Why love someone else
When you can
Love yourself?
The schizophrenic
Responds with
Multiple answers.
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...
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...
five years
she starts with i've missed you
and an old photograph
left leg slightly contorted
painting her toenails
a slip of ivory panties
innocence of a remaining bare nail
under an apple red brush
and him?
heart—
seized
nerve—
pinched
jesus jenny they cracked my chest and the metal—
the metal parts everywhere they even stuck a scope up my penis
my wife dead...
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...
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...
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...
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 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...
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.
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...
crazy days. little drops
of nostalgia drooping through
the faucets of my brain. i remember
growing up in a good home. how they kept
jamming into me the philosophy
of the working man
(out of love and concern for my
well-being,
my mother used to say).
now i am a workingman
and there's hardly any work out there
for me.
i...
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...
I was on the fading edge of wakefulness when
he told me he bought a handgun—
then asked
does that bother you?
I hesitantly answered no—
but honestly?
it had not had time
to sink in
you know
in case there is a coup
he added
Later as he fucked me
I looked in his eyes
hoping to see a killer—
thinking it...
I don't know if the guy sitting next to me
heard me try to apologize for accidentally
moving his car magazines and taking his spot
obnoxious hrrr of the espresso machine
I had to talk over one at the books a million reading
with Dennis who showed up drunk
right in front of my grandparents
Hershey zinging sunlight
and...
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...
I’m down to $34
I've checked for the government stimulus check 7,000 times
it’s almost like it doesn’t want to enter my bank account
does it think I’ll waste it on cigarettes?
I didn’t raise the taxes on cigarettes
so it’s not my fault if that happens
it will be the stimulus check’s parents who...
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,...
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...