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Monday, January 22, 2018




Politico had an article about human organ printing and manufacturing which has crept into my psyche, and I am working it out through this week's cartoons...


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Monday, January 15, 2018

Memoir of an Ice Cube 

I am an ice cube in a sea of soda,
lolling here for hours. I am among
this caravan of swirling ice cubes,
stale sea of soda. Sit here
in the shallow end, feet swinging, swirling, shriveling:
how small this tall glass is. I once thought
it was everything.


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Albino Corporation
  
Summer
& the kids are dropping
aluminum cans like business cards
that read “I’m young, I’m wild, I’m free.”

Skateboarding beneath a rotisserie sun,
Delicious skins frying across the tippy toed length
of June, July & August. Meanwhile
a man collects up all their cans

like a stooped November custodian
gathering musky gym towels
“I will make a profit of your sinful youth,”
he grunts while a sticky genie

composed of sugary pools
of caramel colored sodas
entwines
his albino corporation.


Monday, January 8, 2018


Suicide Beard 
Once we go beyond logic,
and have faith in the suicide beard,
we can accept that the luscious little ladies
will spot the white claws
in the fur and run, for the nearest fountain of youth,
as that is their privilege.

And as this seine
of aging bearded men tightens
around the one lost little lamb, squeezing
all the love out of her, we will run our fingers
through these white swords,
and she will run her fingers

through these white swords,
drawing kisses, never blood,
& the suicide beard
will dream of pennies on the eyes,
as the nubiles haul ass
through the valley of the shadow of beard.


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Hip
The doctor’d prescribed a pill, it’d killed the crocodile
in my hip. Instead, it turned the rest of my body into a swamp. 
So I’d given up the swamp-pills, and nature breathed new life
into the crock.  I’d gone a week with the crock in my hip pocket,
till I just had to get away from his gnawing companionship. Popped
a pill and all was well.  Till the dizziness returned. I started fantasizing
about just hacking the leg off.  Kept thinking about that
mythological bottle of booze: the civil war solution. 
Those few numbing swigs of whiskey, as some sawbones
amputates the drumstick, dipped in the gangrene
flavored batter.  I fantasized about going on Disability, 
buying a cheap van, stealing a page from Steinbeck
and traveling the US of A .








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Monday, January 1, 2018



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dog
dog has a name
dog loves to bark
dog runs like a fugitive
dog is in love with the cat
the orange one
with the bad temper
the rat killer
the killer of rats

dog has an address
dog rarely receives mail
from credit card companies, or
publisher’s clearing house
dog never worries about identity theft
no social security number
no investments

dog has a name,
a bark, a reputation
all the old ladies wave
and call her by name.


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Lost
 Currents
invite me---
I swim away
from my work.
I am free
                & lost.