with a belly

full of poems,

blow smoke from my nostrils

and stare into

the grey abyss

of words

watching the people

stare a silent hole

right into me

from their crazy dimentia,

holding that microphone

in my hand

like an all consuming

heartache

and I’ll wax political

nightmares

straight into jaded souls,

stealing the hearts

of every pretty poetess

with an ounce of love

for sideburn innuendo,

decrying love as nothing

but egotistical ramblings

of conscience,

while my bald head shines

in the spotlight,

while my cigarette

wastes precious seconds away,

while my coffee

turns to stone

and I burn with desire

contemplating

                      my

                          next

                                  move.

       dope withdrawal & coffee kicks (5 cups, 10 sugars, 13 creamos)

and nicotine’s evil spirit,

burning poems in forgotten fireplaces

        wandering the lazy streets

passing drunks and pimps on the sidewalks of life,

loving the whores, twinkies and plain janes

        truly giving a damn about the World,

watching a soul sister slice wrists

        with strange poeticness in the alleyway,

laughing in front of City Hall intoxicated

        willing a consequential sign with

souls beaming during conversations with God,

sitting like Buddha panhandling for cigarettes

         eyes open head down hands outstretched

waiting for death to come faster than yesterday,

poetry escaping like shit from your lips

          the exquisite genius torn jeans faded baseball cap

lamenting visions midnight coffee shops,

Sunday morning staring at Church door insanity,

          Welfare was beautiful the first thirty days

but we all must start from somewhere,

Van Gogh’s letters stolen from the Priest

          himself a witness to a poor painter chopping an ear off

never forgetting the insane demands of love & women,

drowning in books, poems & half-truth blindness,

          discovering the beauty of Kerouac

from tattooed red-haired conspirator 1998,

questioning the prophets inbetween smoke ring delirium

          howling at the moon forgiveness

begging an ear for a sweet rambling poet,

swimming in an ocean of divine literature

          microphone feedback sweating on stage

smiling a literary erection a Mother could be proud of,

prowling naked in universal judgment

         simplifying beauty in connection of words

suspending a soul from the twinkling stars

         all in praise of poetic emancipation.

Thanks, I say, but it helps when you know very little about me.

I’m not the brilliant poet you think I am, since I feel just about average,

and I have dandruff. I never do what I say and don’t say what I mean,

and since something is definitely wrong with my brain,

I’d say laziness is my worst feature. I’ll quit bringing you flowers

when I remember that love is a fraud, then remind you

of my dream where I left your breasts on the table and walked away.

& sugar in my veins,

sex on my brain,

television in my eyes,

Jim Morrison on the wall

fifteen dollars in my pocket,

girlfriend on the telephone,

potatoes in the cupboard,

milk in the fridge,

poetry in this book,

bees in the garden

and ants in the grass,

but there’s also

God in Grandma’s spirit,

drugs in my uncle,

polio in my Father,

nicotine in my lungs,

alcohol in my liver,

aches in my back,

creaks in my neck,

but clarity in my soul

and Nirvana in my future.

my plane would crash

to prove a point

would be an understatement,

but I’ll phone you

from the air,

leaving a message

on your machine

saying goodbye,

but you won’t understand

until someone told you

my plane went down

in the Rockies

with no survivors,

then you could realize

what I meant to your life,

the things we should

of done and

the words we never said

and then you will.

are so sure of themselves

and my hands tremble

at the very thought,

since it’s rare to find breasts

with that much control,

but I’m more worried

about her mind,

so quiet watching Audrey Hepburn movies

drinking tea staring

at me intently

across the table,

lover of Canada, freedom

& poems with my name

written all over them,

but I can only apologize

to her breasts for my betrayal,

and the cats, they’ll

forgive my insecurities

since their attention spans

aren’t as long as hers.