Postmortem, Post modern

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I was once buried

in the cemetery at the top of the hill

but erosion has wiped away fallen comrades,

and through the general disintegration of time

Neither I, nor my headstone is worthy

of my Terra sanctuary.

They gathered around my grave

a site of Carnival, the beers passed around the tombstone.

Old friends pay their respect by day,

and the teens know how to tango

in the early morning

dancing from headstone to headstone

sunrise spotlight on macabre stage.

Now even the vandals don’t come around anymore.

The house cat, bronze iris and black pawed,

traces it’s way around my burying ground

The senorita, margarita in painted face,

hold my holiest of days

and the children tire of my wandering fingers

who knew the body

would be the vehicle

ensnared and tangled

caught in eternal flame

to imprison their manifestation

to imprison the soul.

Though I was never baptized I have known the ceilings of heaven

though I’ve committed no great sin

I know the delusions of hell

They don’t tell you that it’s in the air

just under our noses

where we couldn’t possibly have seen it

 we couldn’t have guessed

Killing For Revelation

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There are holes in the Ziploc bag.

Snow coated.

Breaks in the lines,

Sparking electrical wires

Melting alpine peaks

And itchy noses

Cut with methamphetamine

And the surgeon’s

Favorite razor.

The poets are scratching,

Shitting poetry

Bearing teeth

And grinding needles

In mildew corners

“Shit stings brother”

In that lavender pink

Codeine sky

The sweet thick stink

And an oasis of empties

Christ on the cross faded nausea

“Don’t Try”

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They’ll bludgeon you for trying
rape your persistence

the only thing

to hold us down
with their nostalgia
tripping from grave to grave
watching my old friends
my lost love,
lie
waiting for death.

*The title is a quote from Charles Bukowski’s gravestone.

It’s Only Natural

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a stone does not mean to be cruel
contained in arrogance
it just is


nations perpetually christened
in genocide
but they must be


domineering husbands
and the bartender
has a fat lip
but she has to


sacrifice the women,
the children
anything
for the survival
of the white man.

the oligarchy has finished eating
kind enough
to feed us the crust
embezzled with the phlegm
of each of their celestial
C.E.O.s

multi colored
multi variables
some reek of mustard gas
some are only stale,
with cyanide following,


silent
others biZzare shades and huEs
anti freeze: bright blue
but finally another knot in my stomach
and the sweet taste in my mouth.

Fast Forward Through the Good Parts

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Lou Reed’s banana

splattered in black tar heroin,
but they still want
to feel his rot from the inside.

Unhappy until
the smell is acrid
and salivating,
singed flesh,
and burning hair.


They don’t want to watch
the violent jerking,
hauling’ re-hauling.
They just want the tremors of before
and the smell of burnt toast.

Original Sin

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Dreaming of the day

The current takes me away.

Freedom on the littered floor

Of the stream bed.

 

I grovel into the night,

Pleading that I’ll forget god,

But in the morning I’ll be confronted

With the same dull reality.

It’s just the way it is.

It’s just the way it has been

Finished Before the End of the Sentence

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I can feel it dripping

Down my throat

Like turpentine

Taste it tainting

The water supply

Sometimes it sticks

Festering through my lips

To catch a whiff

At all hours of the day

It sticks to your clothes

Like cigarette smoke

 

Death

In the floor and the ceiling

Asbestos and mold

 

Death

Printed as the watermark

On every page

The wriggling tongue

Behind sealed lips

 

Death

I’ve been carrying death

With me

The most fashionable

Of face piercings

A skin condition

from within

to gradually

Consume all.