DRIVEL ON THE TOP-40

Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts. – Jim Morrison

I can no longer hear happy words
of a unfamiliar pop chorus.

Instead, I hear cries, the crashing of ideas,
intermixed and entwined with thought,
sugarless coffee and strong drink.

The mind registers what it needs to hear.

So, you’re happy –

Breakup songs never sounded
so pleasing to the ear.

The Doors on vinyl never sounded so
crisp, clear, conscious and sober.

Morrison, the drunk posing poet, reaches a truth.

So, you’re heartbroken –

Every song written with uncertainty,
melancholy, and pensiveness is
suddenly written about you,

the listener

the selfish

the guilt free.

MOM SAY HE’S BEEN DOING THIS FOR YEARS

Go ahead Dad,
(I’m calling you that now)
misquote that radio,
replace words like rock or clock for cock.

Jump to conclusions as you limp
over pot holes,
spotting prostitutes,
offering them advice like Adler and Freud,

the divine piston shooting steam.

After all that last piece you gave me did wonders.

Son, that slanty eyed shit aint no good for you.
I've always had a thing for orientals though.

A drink or two later you told me
Even a fat guy looks good with a tan.

Ah, fuck yeah. The lady behind the bar said.
See Dad, the bartender agreed.

She was squeezing you for a tip,
don’t worry we’ve been down this road,

you gave in,
you always give in,

nothing another coat of white primer can’t fix.

CHASING EDIE LIKE A WILD BOAR

There’s something nice about picking the same person
over and over again to play “break-up,”
like how you once played house. Or later,
doctor, taking turns exploring
the human reproductive organs.

So there’s this girl. I tell my brother over lunch.
Her name is Edie and she keeps finding me,
serendipitous in nature.

I remember his fries looked cold,
dipping their feet into the ketchup,
testing the waters, tip-toeing around
salt and cheap seasoning.

Like a stalker?

Yeah, I thought.
Like a stalker.

YES, MAYBE WE WERE A LITTLE CRAZY

It’s called folie à deux, not this, not the wine, but
the madness shared by two. We pass love like smoke
trapped in a French kiss. (The boy calls it a shotgun.)
A blowback. Delusional beliefs from another human fulgurite,
a castrato, trussed up like a Christmas ham or a modern day
Matthew Barney. The girl whispers and calls him Kyle,
a soft name, wonders why he keeps his charity a secret
and quietly prays to be the boy’s Icelandic lover.

I CRACKED MY FIRST BEER AT 5AM

I watched a scene develop below me.

For a moment the men turned
black and white –

a flash of Hitchcock.

Suspense is like a woman.
Well that’s what he said, right?

They paused, I paused
still watching,

a god’s pause,
long and mythical.

Perched on the balcony, laughing,
I spat, shaking my fist,
making a cameo in my own film.

If they do something drastic
I might end up having these clothes
on in the morning,

crazy, I know,
loco as the Spanish say,
running a feverish pace

through the night, escaping,

still drunk
with understanding,
still awake
with power.

And did he cut ‘em? Asked the waiter,
returning to my table,
Nah, and I took another pull from my beer.