She mentioned
That she’d read somewhere
That people who drink
Can’t get into heaven
and I don’t really go for
That crap
But I replied:
“I want the drunks to go
to Heaven too, geez…
I’d feel like an elitist..”
And anyway,
Who would write the poetry?
–-taken from Who Will pay The Royalties for The voices In my Head And Other Poems.
The poetry of the streets has a slingshot
aimed right at your cozy metaphor
the poetry of damaged youth
whizzes by on a skateboard
with a perpetual hard on for Lady Luck
but she won’t flash her tits
for just anyone
the poetry of no risk
refuses to get a tattoo
just in case it
decides one day to
get a real job
and can finally move out of mothers basement
the poetry of contemplating garden snails
has too long admired its own belly button
the poetry of self-infatuation
will honor itself with a 15 minute parade
while the patrons of the Open
Mic try to chew their own legs off
the ghost of Joey Ramone runs
with scissors through the gardens of nostalgia
snipping the dead-heads
from warbling hippie roses
the poetry of the streets says:
here is a bag lady
with a head full of wind chimes
throw your sonnets out the window
and feed her-
the poetry of the streets
turned Lenny Bruce into Christ
timeless poetry knows deep down
the time is now
but flesh and time are both liars
and that God
does not really love the meek-
and only the slam poets
will inherit the earth
my lover arrives with a litany:
the kid with fetal alcohol syndrome
and his abusive parents,
her mother with dementia,
the French immigrant,
(her husband),
lonely, jealous-
all I want is to be quiet
and just make out-
we lay together in my bed
in the dark , kissing,
not letting go
but not doing much more
her phone rings
friend in a wheelchair is
drinking again,
crying-
she answers:
“Alcoholism is the easiest thing in the world to cure!
Once you quit, it’s easy! You’ll be healthy again!
You can do anything!”
I want to tell her most of that is a damn lie
but I keep my mouth shut-
after the 3rd call
she hangs up,
and crawls between my legs-
she’s saved me more than once
and sometimes lying quietly
or quietly lying
is the best a man can do
didn’t I take you to buy white candles
and salt when the evil spirits
were getting into your
underwear drawer
and moving your paintings around?
when the apartment became possessed
you left your beloved cat, Romeo, behind
and disappeared-
I didn’t see you for two years
my oldest friend, the witch
who always told the story
of meeting me for the first time
under the San Carlos Street bridge
nearly twenty years ago
roasting potatoes under an overturned shopping cart-
you were working as a chef at a high class hotel-
now I see you head low, hair matted
a sunburned face outside of Safeway
I hug you
I kiss your head
you offer me a handful of white pills
no thanks, I say
do you want to go back on lithium?
well, they are shooting lasers into my teeth see?
there’s a chip
its Revelations you know
I know
it’s all in the bible
I know
I will take you to the hospital right now
and then I will feed you and give you a shower…
feel that
my belly she says
it’s metal
where they tore out my insides
and see my teeth
those are microchips
see that TV across the street
if you go over there
I’m on it
Rusty Truck 