City Life

My job destroys me a little more every day,
but it's easy and the hours are short
and it pays the rent to the tiny basement suite
that I share with my friend who is not a friend
who smokes pot ten times a day
and stares into the video screen ten hours a day
that dominates the 500 square foot common space
and outside there are nothing but roads roads roads
and sometimes a hooker standing in the cold
and when I walk to the bus stop, I wonder
how there can be so many people driving by
one after the next after the next after the next forever,
and I can't even afford a car let alone the gas or the insurance
so I cannot get onto that road and drive far, far, away
from the anxiousness I feel every day
and the soul-crushing job that I swore when I was young
that I would never do, but I do
because it's easy and the hours are short
and anything more would kill me.



I must

remember

to breathe.


Breathe.

It Ain't Easy Being Green

I'm an alien
floating above you in a a UFO
woooooooo-oooooooo-ooooooooo
I'll dazzle you
with my myriad lights all blinking,
a kaleidoscope of colors
making tracers, 
provoking seizures.

I'm an alien.
I live far away,
in the outer-reaches of the Milky-Way.
When I bend my tongue and move my mouth
to try and make words come out

all you hear are hear is noises like:

ooooooooh-woooooo-ooooooooo
ooooooooh-woooooo-ooooooooo.

I'm an alien.
I'm from far far way.
I'm an alien and I'll alienate you.

Kids These Days

Talking smack to kids.
Eating too much shit.
I don't want to talk to you again.

I'm not your mom, so don't try to suck on my tits.
And don't fuck with me kid.

Anarchy

Who is bathing in yellow street light,
drinking alcoholic juice from a plastic bottle?
No one who shaves daily.
No one who eats fucking yogurt for breakfast.
No one who bathes in water.

Nearly forty now?
Is someone keeping count?
Come from nothing go to nothing.
Nothing comes from nothing,
and in the middle, it's mostly cold, vomit, sweat and dog hair.

Is anarchy a god, or a crippled whore?
If the gears of society stopped tomorrow,
and the fat man quit spitting out crumbs,
would you curl up and die?
Or would you get nutrients chewing rocks and dirt?

Bukowski's Sun

I've been singing in public,
and drinking on weekdays.

Now weeping to love songs,
by melancholy poets.

Now turning th'other cheek,
and punching in noses.

Eschewing self pity,
I'm standing dumb, and ill-composed.

Bukowski's sun must be raging again
because I'm rending my clothes.