killer bee

perched atop the highest warehouse in town,
i pass judgements on all the insecticide dealers.
killing innocent insects with their chemicals
and making money from it too.
i wish i could sting the fuck out of them all.
but be home in time for meatloaf and mashed potatoes on tv trays with the family.
safely behind the locked front door of our ranch house in the cul de sac
listening only to the sounds of lawnmowers and paid mortgages.
whistling softly to the tunes of afternoon infomercials.
no more hiding behind bathroom doors or honeycomb.
i could come home and say "honey, all in a days revenge."
she could tuck little buzzy into bed and i wouldn't be afraid anymore.
my wife, my son, and my dead dead dead dead dad.

life is a big old beach

stranded on artificial islands of garbage i pull at loose ends
actually, i tug at them.
it may sound silly to you, but it's really taken quite a bit of effort.
i spent most of the time just standing around looking at plants and the water.
but then i thought, "hey, why not make an effort?"
so, i sorta did.
and i pulled and tugged at those very loose ends like they were attached to something.
something that would drag me in.
i tugged and pulled and tugged,
but what do you know?
nothing ever dragged me in.
it was still the same old me.
sure, i had a few more things.
but here i still was.
cracking open coconuts and complaining about the humidity and sand in my shorts.
the end.

To Be 16 Again

Itty bitty bleeding bullies brought better beats.
They danced and played all bloody and itty bitty.
The moon mooed over them and cows tipped themselves to sleep beneath the pale grey lines.
Better beats kept things alive.
Moneying all about in their new scarves and clean red wagons;
Things that knew where to go and who to ignore.
Silly little Things they were. are. were.
Itty bitty bleeding bastards bullying itty bitty bleeding bastards.
Swilling beer on Monday mornings in bright white suits.
Station wagons all aglow with new itty bitty bullies piled high in the back seats
Filled with Things that Drive to and from Places and feel mildly Important

Things that money all about.

You’ve won free planets!!!!!!!!!!

Into planets
The biggest planets
They’re yours
They’re icy and yours.
Maybe you could make a necklace.
Or a painting from them.
Just think of all the possibilities!!!!
Planets!!
All yours!!!
They can make you super super famous.
Mr. Planet Owner.
Ruler of Giant intergalactic rocks or gaseous formations.
You should write some laws and mail them to the planets.
On rockets.
Just hire some science people to get them there really fast.
If people find out that you own the planets before you know that they know there could be trouble.
So get the laws there!!!!!!!!
We don’t want illegal aliens.
Mr. Greeney go to jail.
So what will it be?
A planet necklace or a painting?
Or just plain ole planets?
But that’s boring.
You should make them into something.
If you don’t fancy a necklace or painting you could have a sculpture garden.
Or planet pool floaties.
Classy.
Elegant.
Luxurious.
Take your time Mr. Planet Owner.
You’ve earned it.
But here’s my card.
I’ll be waiting for your call!!!!!!!
Let’s get lunch next week.
Is Tuesday ok?
Great.
We can talk about the planets!!!!!!
See you then!!!!!!
I love you!!

Last Night

I woke up this afternoon afraid that I had let myself out of my cage.
Afraid that I fluttered away.
Trying hard, wishing hard that I would be gone in an instant.
Floating face down in a pile of bones and language barriers.
Sinking deep in international waters.
I lost something I never thought I’d care for or miss.
This thing, I probably won’t find again.
Maybe I don’t have to. It was pretend, after all.
I fucked myself for trusting much more than me and not me at all.
Senselessly stringing together shame, pity and desperation until it’s all washed away into the vapor covered mountains.
Using up chance after chance like a cat with no brain.
Even if all the money in the world fell flat on my face, I don’t think I could change
Failingly, even still, trying to fill my broken heart with nonstick tape.

mr. ____ wants a song

muted microphones engage in conversation when no one is looking.
booze hounds bark at tits beneath poorly lit marquis
you fake a frown and swallow pint after pint after pint after pint after pint
Nothing is sad
Nothing is lonely
Nothing is here
Nothing wants more
delicately hung electrical wires confuse your direction, lead you to abrupt ditches
images make make-believe makers second guess
you’re upside down.
your upside down.
you’re welcome

you’re old, rented, certified and paid

I let one of the others take a breath
stoned blind we dine on cellophaned food

and bring boxes
and bring letters
and bring everything that looks the same