Six Serious Poems

fortunate is
-when a naked army rushes
the blankets on the rug
while the moon sprays the walls like hickey spit.
When beer after beer
and bourbon in between
there is still more beer after
and there is a battle to welcome.
Then happy joints move like dancing
but the luck of joy sneaks out in the morning.
That is a privileged sneer to have back.



What Thomas said, I interpret into a bad metaphor

The night tigers have been purring lately
no disrespect,
it’s no one’s fault.
They meow and pussy around the night’s feet.
But it all must continue
to make something great.
It’s the way there and the ending
-all it needs it’s a will.
Even if the supreme felines devolve into kittens
(which are easy to blame
while scaring them in the driveway at 3: something in the morning)
the night will not brighten,
let’s not pussy-go into the end.


This isn’t

I write this
because there is half a lemon on the rug,
the same lemon I used on my beer.
Because that beer was a Mexican lager.
It was cheap, like me?
No im just broke,
meaning with out money,
which leads to fewer times of happiness.
(I cant depend on luck or my friends
or my sister all the time, not that I want to)
Yes money helps, but only because it leads to less worries.
Like counting the amount of drinks
you could have without even ordering them yet.
Like measuring the distance you could drive
with the little gas light on.
Simple thinks to re think.
“more money more problems”? fuck that,
only rich assholes say that kind of stupid senseless shit.
I write this
because-to me-its more important than money.
But I shouldn’t compare because money is useful and more valuable.
And of course this shit…



La Bestia Humana
There should be some type of life inside.

Despite the filth
collected in the two days,
without showering
and oily hair.
the wild beard
that itches for a razor
but there is only blue fingernails.
The brown empty eyes,
the soreness of muscles,
an annoying ankle in pain.
The unstable character.
Unpredictable bowels
the misleading heartbeat
and off beat burbles.

…there has to be some kind of life.





"when there is nothing to write about, write about writing"
Don’t be afraid,
and never test.
Never doubt of course
and don’t over think.
Especially not twice.
No hesitation
no concentration
fuck focusing
let the ideas go,
they’re probably dumb anyway,
don’t even have any.
Fuck it
just print it
That’s it.
Its easy
See.





“He has the power of love over me”
is playing on a small radio and
im trying to practice tone without a voice, thru verse.

The world is going to end,
so I’ve heard.
And if it happens now,
we’ll be gone with a Tecate on the left and the Exciters thru the speakers.
That’s not a bad way to go;
I never expected much of an ending to anything.
For I am the worst at ending things,
like lines,
and songs,
and poems.
So the world is going to end,
but let’s pretend that the world
is a nasty-ass horrible piece to live in,
with war and careers and
military intelligence and starvation,
and weekly paychecks and chains of dept and so on and on...

This reminds me,

This poem is going to end,
let’s say now,
for I am the God-force of this multi-verse.
But let’s pretend that it was a great poem.
And that it will never be forgotten,
that it will be a fossil buried somewhere in outer space,
and we wished it would last just a little bit longer.

See…