I've been abused by the Virgin. I know no one will believe me. But She did. She diddled my whanger. When I was just a little boy. It's why I call my right hand Mary.

This is because purity is my downfall. I lust for purity. I"m horny for the VIrgin. She abused me and ruined my life but still I have fantasies about her with her mouth on my pee wee dont't even have hair onnit yet.

i don't tarry and
i don't diddle
got the candle goin
at both ends
and i'm tryin to
light it in the middle

Let's shoot for the stars

past the orbit of mars

let's put our fast ivories

on fluted exposition and

tear the van allen belt down

like a curtain to shame the

aurora and flip magnetic north

to twenty-three degrees perfect

the angle of re-entry to the

WOMB OF MOTHER EARTH

Can I Just Do It

Till I Need Glasses?

gonn blind

goin blind

if god wore shades

and took dictation

goin blind

goin blind

i'd make him type

for me

goin blind

goin blind

with god's descriptions

on the sticky keys

goin blind

goin blind

stroking full bore

the flesh machine

goin blind

goin blind

jettison my juices

my perilous cargo

goin blind

goin blind

How do you put the edge on a Friday?
Do you sharpen it like a knife

or do you beat it like a wife

or do you tickle and seduce it

or minimize and reduce it

or just smoke and joke

yes
the last long line
without a rhyme is
one of my favorite
devices. And I won't
edit you or render you
in slices.

As for the nurse
she didn't resist
but I was so cute
and had never been kissed
but be assured it was
a singular tryst

i'm tracking the shipment

by GPS in tiny beeps

i could have the hearts of

pigs or sheeps

but all my lifted passion

sleeps until I get that

What's This Woman Want From Me?

I've given her my heart; I've given her my soul

I've given her my paycheck, my sweet rock n roll

I give her my lands as far as I can see

What does she want?

Love poetry

I'd give her my spence acount before I pad it

I'd give her a nine inch nail if i had it.

I'd give her what I been, what i'm gonna be

What does she want?

Love poetry

I'd giver her a red dress and watch as she flaunts it

I'd give her a hard time if she really wants it

I'd build her a house; I'd plant her a tree

What does she want?

Love poetry

The Hallway (a bad dream)

There was a party in my dream

and you were there with me like

a fragrant iris in dilation camera

and who I talk to and who you do

both on a leash of eyes tethered

and swimming in the social sea.

our hearts are hooked by bungee

chords fiber optic elastic pasta

hairs harvested from angel scalps

mine tugs every time a man looks

at you that way and you pull a

gentle pluck of reassurrance on

the wound string with the plectrum

of your eyes' warm and hazel note.

we came to the soiree in my nightmare's

limosine towing our histories down the

haulway and it was a long hallway so

long you knew there were mirrors at the

ends and nothing like a party for vanity

and pride and the whole entourage of

venal sins but the cardinal is pride.

they gave me horns and bade me play

but the reeds were dry and pads were

missing from the flutes and my embechure

is not helped by campari so I look for you

and some tequilla and a slice of lime in

your mouth which I know all the men lust

for in it's membranes and it's praise. In

the way of dreams my mouth won't play

music just make flip remarks and you

won't have it that way and walk down the

hall of our sedimentary marching tango

my palms are visable as I try to spin you

it's the time of night when the booze

won't back down and neither will we

head to head the unison of lost compromise

your back is turned my arms are crossed

you take the limo i'll walk up and down

the hallway and listen for you to call me back

the hallway is long and has it's lonely sections

pride is slamming the doors they call it

cardinal because it's red and god the hall

is so long without you I have to call

Are you READY to fall in love?

I mean are you READY?

you are not a silly young girl

at least not sillier than I require

how do you look when your hair is rolled up

and you're pulling the poet's socks from the dryer?

Cuz the poet's dirty socks

are just like any other dirty socks

and we have to go through

do you snore or have the pox?

and who has keys and who has locks

list your real estate list your stocks

what was in that little black box?

and before we cum we're on the rocks

And I tell you it's all because of socks

Cuz the poet's dirty socks

I woke up with guacamole in my flute

Semi-gringo jazz with trill and expectations.

Then I remembered the inner surface of your lower lip.

I wanted to conquer it with my suction.

Like Everest on a clear day

All my sherpas cheering.

There was the tiny speck of tostada

mounted in guacamole gaushe gesso

on my lip plate.

Impressionistic green on silver

My Fuzzy Flute

My Raspy Flute

My Flute Smooth as Lotion.

Blow that guacamole, white boy.

my needs are few: a pack of smokes and a bottle of beer

a modicum of food; a shred of tea. My dreams of you.

my dreams so full I wonder if you are necessary too.

are we either one necessary to the other's dreams?

character by character you paint the picture

pixel by pixel you whet my lust

line by line you bind my heart

image by image you build my trust

I want to watch our pictures making love

the ones of us when we were young

we'll watch them like a pornograph

when you were tight and I was hung.

Your breasts are like champagne glasses

it overcomes me; but it passes

the dog don't growl and the cat don't purr

if you're not better now than you ever were.

Dear Friends

there is a woman on the internet who is stalking me

I am telling you this because we are so close and because I want documentation of these proceedings.

Her name is Dori Danger

and she has a smokey voice

she has painted fingernails and drives

an old Rolls Royce

with lake pipes and metal flakes

and you don't know the time it takes

to answer her emails. And the helluvit is

I think I love her but I don't wanna blow her cover

she's a girl detective and her life is perilous

and I'm so cynical and querilous

that I just don't know if it's in the cards

I got bars on the windows and dogs in the yard

but still she's in my email box

and even thought she's a fox

my mind is full of pith and doubt

listen, can you help me out

If I get kidnapped by a stranger

her name is Dori

Dori Danger

the poetry detective

is most aloof

and most selective

She sleuthed a case

with Guy Noir

They met up in

a seedy bar

on the East Side

of St. Paul minnesota

she got drunk

before she'd sipped

her quota

drinking vodka

and DP soda

being accostomed

to white wine

but they were hell

for leather

and solved the case

together and told

about it on NPR

Only the Rattlesnake: nefarious blues reptile,

would give Bukoswski for a birthday

(but I had dreaded this day for months)

And I woke up thirty

Sure enough

certified last chance for adulthood in this culture

Jim Erwin

Blind old scotch bastard

lika father to me peering

through spectacles thick

as a drunken tongue

told me: "If you don't make it by the time yer thirty---

fergit it."

So that made me run like hell for a time--

being twenty seven or so

What is this "making it?"

Does that mean your pecker is forever enshrined

in some Glass Temple Vaginal

Joiced Eternal Twat Monument?

Do they freeze your seed for some Lucky Mother

yet unborn

when you make it?

Do you get embalmed in pleasure, a mummy wrapped in

property?

How do you know when you make It?

Is it a little gray-suited clerk from th government

withletters you have to sign for?

Do vioins swell on the soundtrack?

I think I made it several years ago when

those Mexican kids left 8 cents on my doorstep

for a flutesong I played.

So, I don't know about making it

but for sure--I ain't gonna

fergit it.

Cautiously I approached this morning's mirror

I couldn't see any lines that weren't there before

I wasn't graying, balding or receding or for that matter

noticeably older in any way

but when I came across that pimple on my nose---

that fixed it

Fuck this thirty year old trauma

I have MADE it for thirty years--I have survived

this asylum circus murder university soap opera

for three decades

not only that--I'm doing damn good for it

I'm healthier than I was when I was twenty

can fuck longer, do more drugs, don't need to

prove nothin

I'm a happier person than I was at eighteen

or any age

and all day long I walked around with a thousand

dollars cash in my pocket

Thirty Ain't Bad

My posture's fucked; my back is gettin outta whack

Got boodshot eyes; I live on snacks

I peek through the screen like I'm a criminal

all the messages you send are subliminal

It's yes oh please yes then no again no

send me some pictures; every buck has his doe

and for my money you can call me honey

and tickle me with your digits

I can be the battery in your long, vibrating widget

you can do wet finger tricks and

I can beat my meat

and we can fuck in cyberspace

and never ever meet.

repitition is a marvelous tool

and experience keeps a dear school

you're a ninny if you don't use it any

if you use it too much you're a fool

Guns, Chainsaws and Electric Guitars

I wish someone had forgot to invent them

when I'm in the presence of you

it's like fire in the presence of oxygen

it feeds me like the very gas of life

and I consume it like your sweet petals

so longingly curled at the edges

spread to the sun in the afternoon

relaxed limp and fragrant on your thighs

these are the choices

you can be my friend for life

or you can be my lover and my wife

because we will take one look at each

other and we'll know which it is

but either one will bless us to the grave

simple as click delete or save

or bunch of kids playing in the

mud on acid with too few

port-a-potties? Did Max

Yasgur have a clue?

"think we can keep this

problem localized upstate"

said the city boys watts and

chicago on their memory

screens and they already had

a think tank working on how

to co-opt the hippie thing and

make some good american

hard cash outta these urchins.

On the shelves and in shrink

wrap before the mud even

dries at

Woodstock

yes the lesser things

drat scat romeo in

fickle licence for

firearms and a rock

of goddamned if I

do or goddamned

if I don't want a

lonely thing more

than the lesser things

St Paul was a bureaucrat

democracy loves a winner

Justice of the Piece

I don't doubt that there

are things I've nevr dreamed

but I've dreamed

a lot

drat scat romeo in

fickle licence for

firearms and a rock

of goddamned if I

do or goddamned

if I don't want a

lonely thing more

than the lesser things

when I get half hard

pass out from that much

blood leaves my brain

LIGHT headed fanatic

crutchin his way to

gods condominimums

wide eyed looking for you

can't get my pistol warm

fore dawn in the sike ward

less you make that little groan

and your throat is my scabbard

jus my luck o the irish coffee

grounds and tea leaves mute

wetnesses we need

witnesses

the power went out

whole neighborhood eerily quiet

life stops

first time in months with a pen

in my hand and in an instant

of interruption am back with

my illegible scrawl

on the back of an envelope

promising Your Free Gifts

minds me of the old days

when all poems were scribbled

not tapped and ink made

its fluid contiuity on the page

or matchbook or napkin

liquid bleeding into the paper

brushed by an actual hand

Five, Six, Seven

dis is so twisty doeween

we are like lookin inna mirror

and all the parallels make us

disappear right before our eyes

from lookin at each udder

an our gay sister husbands

that we love so much an us

steady tryin to cupid em up

an our bright eyes an our seedy

past all reason to write with

the lust we have for this world

both fulla dreams and big

ideas for our age in luv n panic

bove all suspicion on da gamey

boards just to take a look at

each other but we already knew

we couln't get our pinky rings

unhooked. Jinxed Sisters

When Jinx pads into the room

you are sure he means absolute

business not only cuzza the ring

onnis pinky but just by the way

he moves like if you fuck with

him he's gonna claw the curtains

down and you may feed him but

this is HIS house and at times he

just walks around making sure of

that wid siamese confidence blue

tipped and regal in his bearing.

Jinx is a Made Man in the mouse

control business which he uses as

a front for his real occupation as

agent for the International annif he

has politics he ain't talkin about em

but you can see his libertarian stripe

a mile wide right across the two xx's

on his forehead when he purrs smile

When Jinx walks you can hear the

string bass and touch of high hat

as he moves like a jazz intuition

through the changes predatory and

elegant making perfect sense like

Miles in cashmere blues stroking

his own pedestal convincing you too

you are an explosive Mass smuggled

aboard my plane waiting to go in all

directions taking down seats and wings

and passengers excess aviation fuel to

ground zero scattered in the field zone

of impact and nobody said let's roll to

crack the conspiracy but I have to think

it would be better if we made it a

SHAPED CHARGE

Tension is what makes sexuality work

comfort breeds boredom. Conflict is what

makes drama and mating and death are the

subjects of all poems. To make good poems

or good lives we must ask ourselves questions

and not be satisfied with the answers in spite

of their reason and convenience. And question

L.A. blazes lika kundalini kamakazi

galoline arson delights twinkle like fairyfires

over the anchorman's shoulder

and not a peep from the President

about his thousand points

could this be them?

When the verdict came down

obvious as a fuse

clear as a barracuda in a martini

what the city was

an unlikely pack of mongrel dogs

trying to organize itself for the purpose

of bounding across the prarie in a yapping

moonlit orgy of predation

mongrel democracy on fire

nervous ascendancy of yelps

wolverine politics with clawstrokes

a riot beneath every breastbone

rumbling

As the patrolmen cruise in their compacts

like Kafka jellybeans

rackmouted fear & shotguns

buzzing insect confections

waiting on plates at some twisted teaparty

hatesteeped hatters so close to mad it hardly matters

if arson

or just plain chaos touched the place off

Much as the San Andreas fault

shakes it up on occasion just to

release a little tension

So when things get stacked up shaky

in the social order

you expect a little rumble at the faultline

where Justice grinds along against economic stress

at about the pace of continental drift.

You figure a place this top-heavy

is due for a looting.

Don't you know all our nextdoor neighbors

are latent criminals?

wound tight with tectonic tensions

tight as gunsprings

tight as the earth

with her plates grinding like a teenager's teeth?

Human seismic upheaveals are commonly

predicted by geologic hysteria

some expert or another always

knows it's about to happen.

Screams are often preceeded by

Muttering

And the troops are called out and

ready for the aftershocks

(they threaten to shake the store shelves clean)

with gangland greed or bleeding need

while every politician has his call for

peace and reason

as if violence never began with calm justification

The Description of an Automatic's Muzzle Flash

as a "Point of Light."

I love to eat more than

I love to fuck

If what I'm eating

is the Right Taco

If they put tacos in catalogues

and you picked them out by sight

I'd know in a mexican sec

just which one was right

by how the edges curled around

on the folds of the tortilla

and how this part here is soft

and this part may be a

little harder if I press with

my tongue to test it

and it smells like smoky meat

and when you nest it in

lettuce all around and then

the sauce is what really makes

a taco shine with jalepeno fury

and the hotter and the pinker

the better it is to bury

your face in that Perfect Taco

nine years is not long enough

to see poems in every corner

or out the window is another

world of wonder for your eyes

if poems are about pain and

beauty and poetry starts in the

eyes you are ready for a world

of laughing shining love

alicia skips and dances and

plays hopscotch on one foot

and jumps her rope and

dresses up the cat for fun

she gathers up poems like

easter eggs and saves them

in a basket. One day she will

hide them in the world..

been awhile since I wasted time

thinking about love

if i wrote poetry like that when i was nine

I would be
Walt by now

alicia jr poetry spider

all arms and legs and imagination

ok alicia

i told you i would tell you why I am Lightning Rod

i was standing on my head one day

because I am a yogi. Ask your mom what that is

cuz it's not a bear with a friend named booboo

Yogis like to stand on their heads

because it's funny and because it gets the poems

going inside (same place you keep them)

Anyway there was a thunderstorm going on

And when the lightning struck it came in my feet

and went out through my head. It tingled

It was a thrill like chocolate.

It didn't hurt because I was so relaxed and I

loved the world.

Long time ago they used to build barns

very tall barns and the lightning liked to strike them

because they were very tall

and when the lightning struck the barns it burned them down

then a man named Ben Franklin

who you will see if you look on a hundred dollar bill

invented the lightning rod

which was a piece of metal on top of the barn

when the lightning struck the metal would conduct the

bolt to the ground

without hurting the barn

it showed the lightning an easy way to the ground

what all this means is

that if you are straight and simple and true

relax and don't fight the world

the energy of heaven will come through you

harmlessly

think of me when you see a hundred dollar bill

i understand what words can do

and people don't like those that curse them

but can i say those words to you

if I simply reverse them?

and if my tone is exclamatory

it's certainly not defamatory

frontwards Fuck You is declarative

reversing it makes it imPERItive

perhaps just at the corner of your mouth

and you can feel me warm and salty and

running slow as taco sauce down your chin

or maybe on your shoulder where it drools

down to your bosom and i lick it hungrily

and bring it back to your mouth. Or I could

sprinkle it on your abdomen and watch

spread it with your hands and take it to your

center or I could shoot it like man made

diamonds into your soul.

Louisianna smells lush and swampy

with a tinge of salt around Pontiatrane

and down by buorbon st. smells all frenchy

look at that place just under your soles

that's the place to be---the road

I woke at the mirror to taste myself

and glare into my own eyes that I wish

were your eyes and wish again that the

silvered screen was my window into you

transparent as a goddess in rapture

Do I see myself in your pedestal? Did

I sculpt it jackhammered michealangelo

a thing to place venus upon or did I

blow it like a steubenfaberge lacework

of glass so crystal clear you look to be

standing in air? Can you perch on my word?

I sure hate it when my posse grows

and today it grew by one

my posse is sort of like my

spiritual back up group

My Pips

Gladys is something anyway

but the Pips sure help

the line of my Pips gets larger

year by year.

First John was back there

snappin

snappin his fingers

sayin go man go man go

you're doing it for me

and then more over time

then OP and Will and James

and Virginia who plays the

piano with my hands

it's a chorus of snaps now

snappin

snappin

No time to waste

No time to waste

You live for us

snap snap

Now Freaky Dave is

back there snappin

snappin his fingers in line

my posse holds me up

and pushes me on

towed by my fellow

travelling souls

but i sure hate it when

my posse grows.

you could die en utero

or maybe strangle during birth

you could suffer crib death

be tickled and die of mirth

you could be hit by a car or

a truck or a bus you could be

bombed by a terrorist it could

happen to any of us. You could

be stalked by a madman and rendered

the sum of your pieces or drop into

a frozen river and lose your homeosteessis

or even be infected with tropical diseases

or parasites or cancers might secret in

your creases but this is all i'm saying

my fundamental thesis is

Somethin's gonna gitcha

you can smoke too much

or you can drink too much or

you can risk too much or you

can fuck too much or you can

eat too much or you can worry

too much or you can see too much

or you can know too much you can

jog too much or you can even pray

too much but guess what?

somethin's gonna gitcha

you can be born blessed or

you can be the best or you can

be well dressed and wear a plume

and crest and do your job with zest

eat only chicken breast get sufficient

rest have challenges and quests be a

good host to your guests and leave

them all impressed and

still

somethin's gonna gitcha