didgman1

“snake eyes”

i’ve read that

from the bones of judas

sprang a music

sweeter than any heard

in the farthest of heavens.

there seems to be

a simply purity that flows

from the necessity for iniquity.

am i the only one who,

when putting pen to paper,

and seeing that perfect turn

seep from the nib,

gets hard enough to crack granite?

“sunday school”

i set my glass aside,

opened her legs,

and began to read what’s there

like scripture -

an apostolic prophet

speaking in tongues -

knowing the lord was present

because she couldn’t stop

mumbling his name.

“the girl in my headlights in the drive-thru window of the catfish shack”

was a blonde of about 22.

i could tell

by the way she walked

she was drunk

on gas station gin.

each strand of fringe

on her cutoffs

sang independently.

suddenly, to my right,

a yellow cat sprang from beneath

a green el camino

and, in an instant,

both were mere shadow...
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“fixin’s”

when sal got to the picnic

he emptied his pockets,

as he’s wont to do,

and there, among the routine accoutrement -

chapstick, plastic monkey, indian head nickel -

were two empty airplane bottles of vodka

and a half used travel container of vaseline.

he smiled and said she called herself

roberta from pascagoula.

she had been in town for the

lawrence welk symposium....
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“in the muddle”

screwy pete was born

without a body.

he had no need

for such inconveniences.

his genius was fueled

by manischewitz, corn chips,

and photographs of suburban mothers

sweeping up broken glass.

his poetry,

the simplicity of which

mirrors that of the empty page,

has yet to be matched.

chances are

you’ve borne witness to it,

yet never saw it.

that,

that right...
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“quadruple axel”

i once knew a guy

named sam boney

who, for obvious reasons,

had no time for ice skating.

one night,

on his way home

from wang’s pizzeria

and shoe shine,

sam was abducted by aliens

who looked strikingly similar

to 80s era miles davis.

amusingly enough,

sam was a jew’s harp enthusiast

and always wore one on a string

around his neck

for...
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“i’m not rodin”

i sculpt intangibles -

hot air and ideas

hammered out of spit and piss -

but when they fall just right

and shatter,

the splinters dig in deep,

like a broken hemorrhoid

in the desert.

9.25.22

“8AM”

when the wolf-man brays

at the full moon of your soul

while the sun is at its zenith,

that is the moment you cash out

and run.

all is lost.

the toilets are clogged

and we’re nothing more than meat.

9.25.22