I've never read a Harlequin Romance
nor fucked the group-mind-think that
thought the Republican agenda
with Democratic pitch-the-dog-a-bone
and let-the tail-wag-but-say-nothing-drones
of-the-corporate empire that begat the
son of God. Jesus. How fucked up does it
have to get? And I'm lost in a bitter tea, swirling around
doomsday with nothing more to say except
that Bukowski should be raised from the dead
and piss away the last poem of the earth.

HONEY

He slipped his number
In your hand
“A handsome man
Of sixty-two”
Said you.,
Honey.

You were only thirty-three’

You liked his Lauren and Armani
Were impressed by his Tommy
“Never saw nails so clean and shiny”
Said you
again,
honey.
“Must have loads of money…
”
That was the end of me
Now he’s screwing you
And you’re “screwing” him
Just like you screwed me
Honey.

By the way.
Did you know
I still cry over you,
Honey..

out here the wind knows all the names
of gesture
and shadows swallow the blue that
cries from the vaulted crown of night
swathed in fire

we creatures stir
awake from ghost dreams
with plans itching in our souls

the blacktop drearygrounds
spun in neon and skin
like the last tail
of sin to wash away the
sunwet kisses

ribbons of velvet darkness
and course street laughter

canyons of fear
deep and falling
forever

As the winter nears its end
and time of new leaves fast approaches
on the southward shifting wind
the chore of clearing stones encroaches.

So one more fieldstone on the wall
to join with all its settling brothers,
this one the heaviest of all
but not much more than all the others.

This year's stone drops right in place
as if the spot were made for it.
In the past some others lacked the grace
to achieve such perfect fit.