He-Man Cave Complete
At last the mancept
Came into being,
A sensory reality
With illegal feel,
Revealing the vision
Of a dried up
Mid-life crisis case
Non-celeb
Pulp fiction hack
With life slash horror problems
Resolved at damn long last;
A solace wonderland
And sanity maintenance program.
It surfs the lip
Of Dante's Inferno,
With wall-to-wall wallpaper centerfolds;
Top-heavy topless girl
Adult-theme bottle openers;
Bringing to the surface
Nostalgic memories
Of those pre-responsible days
Of 80 cent 8 .oz glasses of draft
And front row tickets
To the afternoon nudie shows.
Great thought was put in
To this testosterone-rich
Den of sin;
Booby-traps to catch the wife
Trying to sneak herself in.
Out of sight and earshot
Of the bad place above,
Tonight's feature movie
Would be one absent of plot;
All face-painted bimbos,
The characters with parts
Of intimate encounters,
And always a happy ending
As its parting shot.
Heart Gets The Boot
What divine history
When God pinned the tail
On schizogony.
I am at once
A pleaser and thanker.
Pleasers are pleased to pleasure us
While thankers thank us
In a spirit of thankfulness.
The sexual excursion
Catches me pearl-diving
And after the untold hour
The photo-op
Has orgiastic splendor
For its backdrop.
She was not as I
But a thankless one,
Grabbed her slip
And left only remnants of body warmth
Like that of a fired gun.
Polly wasn't home
But the extra key,
As memory served,
Was still in the glove.
Burning eye-stinging green,
Thin Rizla
In Polly's crush velvet decor;
Terminus Eldorado.
My heart.
Yes, the heart
Has a boot stamp
And my boot clamps the pedal's metal
To the floor board
And my clouds meet God's clouds
Before gravity delivers its grand opus.
Clean up on aisle four.
Hell In A Nut Shell
He didn't mention scotch
But I get a faint whiff of it
When he talks.
He reads like a book
Written in languages
That no longer exist.
He says he's a sin eater
From a long line
Of sin eaters,
Boasting
On the sun-scorched back porch;
Pointing
To a registry,
Hard covered,
He says is a doubt-quenching list
Of witnesses' first hand accounts;
Ones who've seen him
Spitting out souls
Like watermelon seeds.
Now,
Just showing off;
Hardly eating people any more;
Words come out humming,
Gurgling,
Spluttering,
Drowning
And speaking,
Both
At the same time.
To draw out the creature,
Rather,
To bring out the features;
The castoffs
Of a greater entity;
Making identification unmistakingly sure,
He tells me he does this
With a whirl of his forearm.
He pools dark energy
In a tight,
Well-defined,
Esoteric field;
A left-hand path dance,
Riddled
With the right kind of ecstasy.
A theatrical description
Of the madman's method;
The way he pulls,
In a morbid seduction,
The necessary faithful response
Of the called.
By way of his authoritative motions,
In plain view of us both,
Seven appeared,
On haunches,
Paws out,
Like would any good Pavlov dog.
Spectre obedience
To these simple commands
Convinced me
It was well-past my better-be-going exit
Off his property
And safely back
On to mine.
High Noon
Our country wears renegade denim
And a jacket of blood;
A nation of sugar-coated rhetoric
And machine gun grins;
The value of foreign flesh;
An out-lived bowling pin similitude,
Fleshed-out agendas
Of the Powers that Be
Only become visible
Iin the flames.
How cool does truth ring
In the Game of War
Knowing harm rate's excusable
When collateral damage fails
Making the number of lives lost
In a Mexican spaghetti Western?
Sad nights follow sad days
As our hearts get tossed
On to conveyer belts
Making good time
For the mouth
Of the fearsome meat grinder.
Bases are loaded
In this Mayan ball game;
Hat brims are lowered
For the voices of the dissenting,
Watchers stand on the porches
Of modern day saloons;
Pricked ears
For the verbal he-said-she-saids at high noon.
We live in a Matrix
Of Cowboys and Indians
Where the Indians are really Cowboys.
The coming Day pursues us
When we are no longer magnets
For the bullet
And summer beer-swallowing
Be no longer done
Looking over timid shoulders.
