Who Has Ever Heard of a Heavy Drinking Writer?

Deviance stands at attention.
Wine and liquor and beer bottles
keep cheering for the next word
to be colossal in omnipotence.

An unthinkable task.

One that’s harder and harder to
achieve in this recycled life.

So suffer the merriment of
self-medication, children’s lies,

panoramic bouquets of gore.

Like a drunkard falling down to
the ground carrying the burden
of someone else’s tribulations
and lightweight continuation.

Grocery Shopping Can Be Similar to Sex

Done with fraudulent, patriarchal
sexual society playpens.

Bring a dowry to the main man,
clutch a personality switch.

Go past oak trees that are south
of a death pit, next to a coffee shop,

crisscross through a cake baking,
stumble on starved homeless uniting,

run with their hunger strike.

Bring sugar and salt from aisle 26.
Push past the fingerless kids who

know no hump-day, drinks after 5.
Push past the images pimped out,

slapped on soda pop cans
(exploding when opened),

sprinkled on doughnuts
(filled with a cherry jizz),

and run naked with red bulls in an
empty parking lot while love is lost.

Antichrist

Throughout my life
I’ve heard all types
of different people
called the antichrist.

Rasputin, Hitler, Elvis,
Johnny Rotten, Faldwell,
Reagan, Clinton, hell,

even Emanuel Lewis.

Their influence
troubled some
similar to the ones that
have overreacted to
the Cross of St. Peter.

Inverted interpretations
of an unworthiness,
a false belief of possibility.

Maybe it’s been the Popes,
the devil worshipers,
the generals, a mother of one.

A type of transfiguration,
a basilica to a

Christmas Day tomb.

Jane, You Ignorant Slut

Incorrectly seal canned vegetables,
create mass-produced botulism and
inject that organic Botox into your face.

Bought and stolen looks are always in fashion.

Look at the beautiful in a magazine rack
of a checkout line and feel inferior to the few.
Ingest it like cheap wine and healthy frozen
dinners, maybe soak it in like feet after long days.

Tattoo a heart on your neck, a ring on your finger.

Fuck the oak trees. Head for palms
that sway with the rising and setting of the sun.

Crash phony scenes; make them your own.

Control them with sundress dance and algae eyes.

Martini bar escapades ended around the corner.
Night filled with mango flavored dry humping.
Have multiple conversations about giggles and
how angry blood lipstick covers smiles better than

a pinot noir rollercoaster mouthwash session.

Faded Jesus

Tough Decisions for Central Coast Living

While cops were drinking beers and eating
sandwiches at Pescadero State Beach
you swayed at a wave’s speed, but never
quite able to achieve that crashing effect.

At the Henry Miller Museum there was
a small bonfire and coffee for a donation.
Motorcycles and RVs could have been
driven off Big Sur’s cliffs without notice

as that lost look in your condor eyes grew
hungry for something unfulfilling, something
that may appear near the end of the word,
something that failed to linger Cannery Row.

The stink of Monterey sea lions and salty
wood, the disgust of scammers and pushers,
the warmth of living fog from sea to mountains
all fought inside of you, trying to get out of

an migrant child’s last school year breath.