Deuce Buffalo

Deuce Buffalo is greater.
He doesn't fuck. He's way too good for that.
He stands. Miles above the sobbing masses;
head in the clouds, he stomps his steel-toed boots
straight
down to hell.
He stomps his steel-toed feet
straight
down Satan's grimy throat. Satan cries
for the first time since college.
Deuce doesn't pay his taxes. He is his taxes.
When He drinks. The world spins itself
while Deuce stands magnificently still.
His leavings smell like glory.
His tears taste like joy.
His cologne is triumph.
His suits are made from success.

Deuce Buffalo is better than us.
He is us.

Minamoto no Yoritomo

Shoguns!
Assemble
and fall.
Your training is
Like the rising
And
Groaning
Of a grown man's
Chest. Hair should be
Shoulder-length and
Sophisticated. Hot fire,
Burning hearth.
Home.
Grandmother pours
Sweet tea. Recover.
Long day. Back
Break. Day -
Break. Steam.
Bath. Warm.
Urine.

Admit One

I saw a dead man
on St. Bernard Boulevard.
He had a big pair of pants,
pulled up to his nipples,
and he was coughing silently
in his own damn blood.
Mind your own damn business.
I said to myself.
Mind your own damn business.

Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor, Op.posth.

Sealed behind a wall
like Cask of Amontillado.
I amount to a lotta nothing.
Big deal big deal.
Hey man watch
where you’re going there’s a
Cadillac full of dead
bodies heading for Mexico.
40 more miles until
the next filling station. BOOM.
Nuclear explosion.
Heavy headed man cries
alone in truck stop
bathroom.
He hates himself because
the road is too full
of cars. Too many
cars. How do we
deal with all these cars? We don’t
we don’t we suck it up
and drive until we
crash and burn and rot
a million deaths.

Memories of Childhood

I imagined the murderers were at my door those years before the stalkers stalked the stalk.
Plant life is eternal – growing, growing, growing – owing it all to the man who loves them.
Calamity strikes again! Stronger than when we drenched ourselves in hot acid and burnt through the floor.
We’re all made of melting clay and our beards, scarf’s wool. Sheep in a heap, gone to sleep.
St. Martin’s School for the Terminally Legless taught me how to read novels and dirty textbooks.
You, the Taiwanese government, taught me how to face the facts, screaming like a man machine.
You, the huckster with an iron clasp, beat me into shape before we dined in the Earth’s core.
You, the man with a torn down face, breathed hot vomit down the length of my shirtsleeves.
You, ribald giant of the poetasters, tasted my magnum-open faced sandwich with a sour face.
You, erotic soldier of the Phallic Coalition, smoked a cigarette in the alley after the award ceremony.
You, proprietor of this Satanic honky-tonk, threw the haughty bassist out the door for not grooving.
You, Sultan of New York, served the Cornish game hen on golden plates but only had plastic utensils.
Is this Los Angeles?
Are we the graying bodies of two old men listening to talk radio somewhere in Vermont?
Is this Pine Ridge, Oklahoma?
Where we played with our bodies in the damn near deadly sunlight?
Of course it is.
Of course it is.

Telescope Problems

Lucifer, Giant of the Styx,
Sneezes on my West Coast breakfast.
Heaven help me,
This is no way to eat.

Dr. Ben Gibbons
Makes his money
Selling health and putting
Names to the demons
In your skull.

Shoshone women,
Weaving buttered baskets,
Which, later, much later,
Will carry your battered brain
To Skull Tower Hill.

Bilingual hedonists,
Stroking in the languages
Of hate and love.
It's all so ugly.
Dr. Satan, help me,
This is no way to eat.