Holding or Held by the Leash

Always the fight for inertia.
And when the pressure adds up
And I start to give
You’ll pick me up out of my gutter
I know I can count on you

Children being worked and trained in third world boot camps
Sex trafficking
To first world buyers
Women shunned and shamed into slavery
The slashing
exasperated bigotry
All of the abuse
All of the self pity
All of the apathy
All of the sweat shops in third world countries
All of the sweat shops in our country
All of the desk jobs
The fate we’re all doomed to.
Sometimes I find I’m
Walking with a leash


You and me like
Broken heroine needles and poetry

Mother likes it. Published. Sold to the one generous man living on the corner. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to be alone. Unnappreciated. He buys the poetry no one else does
because he knows,
Trying to make some money and the writing may never cut it. It’s time for prostitution, for masturbation, for anything I can do for the few extra dollars on the street side. All I do is walk, write, and read and I love it. I’d walk more if I wasn’t stuck in this form. My feet blister after only several hours of walks a day. It’s alright, but I wish they would turn to calluses. I have a whole world to explore and I don’t have time to wait for my feet (tootsies) to catch up. So fucking tired.

Prostitution: A different means to fame

There is a poor boy behind the counter
I tell him what I want
How I want it
And by the next day
It’s carved into the inside of the eyelids
Tatted in bright red ink,
To make sure he never forgets my name

He’ll be the only one to remember
He’ll be the only one to know I’m famous

He makes it for me,
I’ll eat enough to make this ass
In torn daisy dukes
To not look good,
after a night of perspiration
When you’re alone
And it’s 7 in the morning,

The Female Market

Thank you
Eye lining strippers

Touch me
Fuck me
You’ll be my server

Have a nice day
You’ll be genuine, loving
Sexually addicted,
As long as I pay

Big, Fast Cars
Orange women
The margarita at the bar

Big Guns
Big knives
Tools of the
slave trade


Maybe Buddha is slouching over
A radioactive T.V. dinner.

Maybe you attain enlightenment
Through the meditative
Chewing of Styrofoam
That’s sustained you
For 8 years.

Maybe Jesus died
In the middle of an
Intravenous orgasm
Maybe the Dharma was carved
Into the bathroom stall
Of a whore house
Somewhere in limbo.