Why I’m not allowed to.

The last time I tried to sober up

I bruised my face
On the east side
Of my knuckle

The last time I tried to read

I was naked
With hands celebrating
Before I finished
the fifth page

The last time I drank coffee

I beat her
heaving, mid BM
And broke a belt buckle
Across my best friend’s
Face

The last time I was in class

I fucked the haggard
Professor
Grunting
Naked

The pupils with
Bulging rose petals in
Their pockets
And notes on

What not to do.

Ode to a Puyallup Paradise

Stale Tobacco
Fresh apples
Squatting out back
With the folks
Peering out on my Garden of Eden

Stogies with my only
A piece of lung
Coughed up on the front patio
And suburban sunsets

Dogs howl howl howl
At smog-ridden skies
Crying out to be a tramp
In natural lands
Me, a soft member of their pack
Hoping to feed off of their after dinner scraps
And the roaches
In the crawlspace

Rolling papers left with the talent
And the busted up boys down the street
Put up their arms
Fighting for the delusion
Of freedom in suburbia

Daddy sits alone in his truck
On his way to work
Sucking the soul out of man
Like golf balls through garden hoses.
While I puff puff
On Johnny Appleseed
Out back

Some reach out for freedom
With worn out battle strategy
While others float down their rivers of stagnant shit
Accepting defeat

Militant men in 4X4 pickup trucks
Armed driving like Afghans
In American hummers

And the eyeballed boys
Crying out in their baseball uniforms
How many runs have they made?
How many runs are made at them?
Before I’m sitting on a dusty cot
Next to a man who committed no sin
To get into prison
He’s just a fan of the ass play.