Grasping At Straws

I wish

I could write

Eloquently

About sunsets
Over mountains

And trees
And flowers.

I always
Have to throw

A drug addict

Into any setting
I create.

Or a guy
Stalking a girl,

Or shooting
A cow,

Or setting fire
To his house.

Sometimes
I wish

I could
Write like a girl.

I need depth.

I'm Pretty Vacant

Like the old
Sex Pistols song.

Turf War

I tried to walk around a homeless man
In the parking lot of the used bookstore
On Thirty-Sixth Street and Indian School Road last night

What are you doing here
He asked

I bought a book
I said

What book you buy

Many Are The Hearts

Who wrote it

I looked at the cover
Richard Goldhurst

Who that

I don't know

What's it about

I haven't read it yet

Everyone who buys a book reads the flap

I read from the cover
It's about the agony and the triumph of Ulysses S. Grant

Imagine that
Do you have any cigarettes

I gave him one

He pulled a book of matches out of his pocket
Kid at 7-11 gives me these
A man needs to start a fire sometimes
Like now
He lit his cigarette
This is my turf

You can have it back
I'm going home

To read that book

What difference does it make

All the difference in the world man

I turned my back to him
And walked away

Hey man
he yelled

I turned around

Greed is the goose that laid the golden egg
Remember that
And don't come back
I never forget a face

Ode To A Poet

Instantly
After
Truman
Capote
Sucked
My
Dick
I
Sighed
Cried
Said
My
God
Right
On
I
Can
Finally
Write
Like
A
Fag

Dream Job

I plucked the moon
From the sky
Like an orange
From a tree,
Took a bite
And tossed it away.

Or maybe it was a basketball
Rolling down
The street.
I scooped it up
Dribbled behind my back
And between my legs.

Or maybe I was just sitting
In my cab
In a deserted
Parking lot
Reading
The Thin Red Line,

When she walked up
And asked if I was busy.

I don't want to go home, she said.
Where do you want to go? I asked.
She sighed, I don't know, she said.
Well I have to take you somewhere.
Just drive around in circles.
So I did.
For a couple of hours at least.

The Water Inside The Water Is Cold

An angry red curtain
vibrated
back and forth.

“What's wrong with you?”
She asked and tossed an empty
can of beer into a plastic garbage can.

The curtain
scared me.
“Get me a beer.” I said.

“Get it yourself and while you’re up grab me one. ”
I did just that.
What else was I supposed to do?

“Did you get the mail?”
I did not.
“There was none.” I said.

It was snowing
and the wind was blowing
hard.

I didn’t want to go outside.
“It’s pretty cold
out there." I said.

“Do you think the car will start?”
“I doubt it.”
“Go and warm it up.”

“I said it wouldn’t start.”
“So it probably will.”
She smiled.

“In a minute.”
“I don’t have all day.”
But she did.

“The roads will be pretty bad.”
I said.
“You’re such a little girl.”

“What’s wrong with the curtain?”
I asked.
“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I’ll tend to the car,
where are the keys?”
“You had them last.” She said.

Fresh

I'm taking a chance
Coming here tonight was not my idea
And frankly I'm concerned
That no good will come of this endeavor

I have an extremely early class
My dorm is a mess
I smell something
What is that

Somebody should call an ambulance
I'm leaving
I have cab fare
But I was hoping you would be a gentleman

My mother told me
A smart girl always has cab fare
Because boys are unreliable
And most men are creepier than they look

Digging A Hole In The Cold Hard Ground

Tom and I were chain smoking dope and drinking whiskey and writing a song about a broken radio and John Prine and I guess we were in it too somewhere. Tom's wife Kim walked into the room and told us to keep it down. I'm trying to talk to my mother on the phone and by the way you guys sound like shit, just like you always do, she said. She ain't wrong, I said. But she's a bitch, Tom added. Kim came back. I heard that, she said and took the joint out of Tom's hand. We're one line away from a classic, Tom said and he wasn't wrong, and we still are twenty-five years down the line.