Mid-Life Crisis

the young die like

screeching metal

at 100 mph

riotous streets

at red dusk

violent tirade

of the day trippers

and rough wash

of atomic warfare

the old die like

hollow trees, leaning

to whichever way they’ll fall

settled dust in a settled house

on a settled back road

iv drips and hospital gowns

and aldehydes of the damned

and somber reminders

of Eliot’s eternal whimper

then there’s you, poor soul

in the middle of this sorrow

too slow to go too fast

too fast to go too slow

Wyoming (Just A Rumor)

nothing exists in Wyoming

no planes, trains, automobiles

ketchup, liquor, and other shenanigans

living, dying, and other gravitas

street corners, prescriptions, tricks to pull

poetry, cigarettes, tabletops

highs and lows you could adjust to

make believers you could relate with

sunsets to capture in your grip

and the rises, to write up as

just the beginning of

the rest of your life

every day, you promise

to yourself

no, not a thing

in fact, Wyoming doesn't exist

it’s just a place I made up

just now, just for coping

with not knowing exactly

where you are, darling

you still kill me that much

Evelyn K.

my little

hazelnut

bit of

radiance

in this

spectacle

of sadness

you’ve already

made me

proud

even if

you only

exist in

my thought

Rearview

the great going on

what’s in the rearview

flashes of light, bursts of energy

screams, like a chorus

lustful, painful, it’s all identical

neon bugzappers of war

commercialism’s fake tendrils

societal norms’ intricate snares

one big flash every halfsecond

enough to contend the doldrums

of a discontented under-a-rock dweller

but enough to break a true soul

and I cannot say I am this

the hypnotic everything

has left me a well-fed psycho

but there’s always that someday

somewhere on this ticking plain

and when I find it

it’ll all be in my rearview

just like you

whoever you are

wherever you are

View From The Roller Coaster

I see people dancing on roofs

To the birds’ symphony

Picking at their oranges

To escape the monotony

Hush up the cacophony

Blot out the misery

Running away and towards to

The ever-constant fete

This machine’s unpredictable

Although the path’s so straight

And we must dictate

Each choice roughly translates

Kissing in rising water and fighting

On the dry, shrinking land

Crashing cars for excitement

Playing dodge ball with sardine cans

Because this is the fall of man

No return to where it began

Mutually killing to share the pain

Of what they mean to the other

Drowning themselves in the paint

To leave this world in color

A thousand rainbowed lovers

Realizing the ride is over

Holywood

If another letter tumbles off

It won’t make a difference

The bloods and crips

Still humping away

Smut films being made

10 for a dollar (cheapest shit, anymore)

Old men in old clothes

Crawling under overpasses to expire

The forever summer and variable rains

Talks of revolution, secession

And secret volcanoes

Morons begetting morons

No more brainiacs to help me out

Just my people

The millennial hipsters

Wannabe beings

Fizzling out

I’m no better

Oh, if you could see it now

You’d laugh and get drunk, again

Wallflower

Out there, in the open

You feel so medium-sized

Not worthy of the bricks

Not worthy of the paper

Just a semi-solid, malleable

Better-off-leaving kind of character

But you stay, blending in a corner

Believing it could swallow you up

Make you part of it; what a concoction

Sadly, mixtures are for boozers

Painters, lovers in the night

And the like

You’re none of these things

You’re a whiny poet

What good can you do?

You give nothing to

A rehab clinic

The puckered art world

A woman, melting in your bed

You’re just a wallflower

Beaten the shit out of

By yourself
For being as such