The Way of All Flesh
To gambol nude with wunderkind
freefalling in a pagan bacchanal on Main Street
was what we fantasized about.
To exult with ladyboy Bacchus
about the babes, boyish centaurs
& bold harlequins in showgirl attires
became a reality of drug-induced dreams
sanctioned by medical marijuana.
Split clean the bounds of bourgeois hypocrisy
in extremis, by taking it
to the streets
where true freedom awaits;
what will weave sonnets of lust
in the braided hair
of dark fallen sybarites
for the everyday extravaganza,
& the hell with stressed society
gone wrong, waiting for terrorists
to spring up, just flowers of evil everywhere
in interstices of electric mist.
Nattering nimrods of Sarah Palin be damned,
splattering to bits stray canines for fun
with mammoth shotguns
while pretending to slay Russian bears.
Yet when my pot card permanently expired
the police crashed our revolting parties.
Media wags deemed revolutions archaic,
the brittle spoils of beheaded queens
who, behind royal masques, danced ferally
on the gallows of history.
Didn’t we know the 21st century achieved
the great martial enlightenment of limited warfare?
To march naked thereafter with my fellow man
in Abu Ghraib became grimly workmanlike:
torturing so many into perverse submission
became a way of empowerment,
the way of all flesh beyond
its own corruption
in
hedonistic
prisons
of
patriotic
ends
______________________
The Sound of Muzak
“Can’t you see I want your body of pooh
to spice up my toilet humiliation rituals?”
the tranny pro emailed me one night.
“double your pleasure at half-price, my man!”
When they’re that far gone it’s hard
to humor the hustlers, harder still
to mine lodestones of sizzling desire
from back door holes strap-on-sullied.
My cell phone was once fisted into her anus
during a moment’s frustrated wrath,
& ringtones chimed through farting anguish
despite the deeply buried digital devices.
But my long-distance minutes were used up
anyway, dear friends, leaving me with
the last spent orgasmic rush of heavy metal
to forever silence her body’s squawk box.
__________________________
I Ain’t No Fortunate Son
I took a walk the other day,
thinking I would see the city
as it once was — far from
its grossly banal architecture
& crass commercial obsessions,
with that nectar of gaming
revenue particularly blameworthy.
They bitch on Christmas Eve,
those neglected street dudes
ambling along, beer cans upraised
to mockingly toast unkind fate.
I’m without family too, no wife
or kids, no living relatives
within miles of Nevada’s border.
The sweet bird of youth left too,
having flown its way to oblivion,
leaving behind an aging straggler
to figure what’s what in a world
rife with recession, unemployment,
crime so rampant minds must reel
from sheer bloated cancers of life.
Nearby the Strip I light a cigarette,
knowing the clinic doctor disapproves
of anything spiking high blood pressure.
I know my youth rots in yesterday’s karma,
my smoke only an inkling of crematory ovens
incinerating sad remnants of flesh & bone.
A billboard showgirl winks at me nonetheless,
her giant eye staring down at my misshapen form
time has played cruel tricks on.
Her wink illustrates a monumental lust
on a street where human spirit languishes.
Its monopoly board is full of jails & travails,
with chiselers like Madoff flipping you off
for not joining the living dead billionaires
In a Shangri-la of desert sage & dustbowls;
there a nuclear cloud-to-be hangs its gloom
reigning down the cosmic ash of ages
spent from the bankrupt vaults of desire.
So simply wink back, wandering losers,
then leer too at a gaggle of hookers wanting
to have sex with your smoking hot remains.
deuce coupe 