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Sin City Avatar (…my own first level jesus.) What is an avatar An earthy manifestation of the Divine? Avatars differ from angels in a multitude of ways subtle and obvious. think of angels as holy administrative assistants. was Buddha an avatar for nihilism? if I say, I believe in nothing I am accused of being
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HOW TO PROPERLY ROAST A PIG With Apologies to Young Breezy aka The Fundraiser for John Brown American Hero, Abolitionist, Bad Ass Mutha Fucka “You either get down or you lay down” -Cindy McPherson Look, Fuck you. Fuck Aunt Jemimah and the horse you rode in on Fuck yo house nigga
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A POEM RESURRECTED: from the lost book of Evangeline, chapter 31, verses 41 to 59 December 28, 2015 I can say without ego this is my finest sword. -Hattori Hanzo After the last manic pixie dream girl with bad boy and daddy issues is gone gone gone. And all that remains undulating in the toxic
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Eschatology “Who in the legions of seraphim would hear my poems, even if I screamed them at god” -Rilke “who in the legion of seraphim would hear my poems, even if I screamed them into gods’ good ear?” –Rilke on a park bench between the alizarin crimson brick facades on the shops in old town
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To Do List Monday Kill a god Kill a major deity Go to store Buy wooden matches Tuesday Kill a goddess Kill a minor deity Go to hardware store Buy 5-gallon gasoline can Wednesday Kill time Buy a watch Place it into the garbage disposal Turn it on Go to store buy globe of the
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The Ancients Speak on Suicide Daedalus deep in his cups owns this grief that always embraces the beautiful lie over the ugly truth is my hubris martyred him not his ego or ignorance of no consequence now we spin doctor create a palatable myth push aside Pilate to wash our bloody hands of it history
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Spilt on the Page Confucius sits cerulean in serenity in the shadow of Naples yellow and ivory blossoms of Aprils honeysuckle the old Mexican yard man has cut the grass low the sun light diffused by hobo clouds filters through the viridian leaves of trees whose names I do not know although we share this
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I Am Not A Poet I Am Not A Poet This is just some shit I wrote on the bus. I cut myself shaving this morning Imagine my surprise When my blood ran black as India ink as it oxidized. So I filled my chromed fountain pen with this ebony excretion And wrote this poem
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Vagina Monologue Blues In E Flat Live From The G Spot My inner goddess is posting duck face selfies on Facebook. My inner goddess is Crip walking to Oingo Boingo ‘Grey Matters’ on YouTube. My inner goddess is improvising confessional poems of urbane Ennui mid coitus. My inner goddess talks before, during and after intercourse.
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True Bromance He was my first hipster hat on his silver head, harmonica in hand 2002, 50 year old Mike on the mic Clay man takes the stage at the Velvet Hookah, a genuine too cool for Sunday school house rocking stray cat scatting our grateful dead white and blues period. This is not
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