Tag Archives: life

Tools of the trade

Like the fat fuck doctor handing over vicodin
to the boy in pain who doesn’t yet know
he should say ‘go kill yourself’
instead of ‘okay’

Like dufflebags full of crystal methamphetamine
that used to be made in America
until it got outsourced
just like everything else

Like vacuum-packed on diplomatic flights
to South Korea—China—the Philippines
by the psychopathic soldiers & agents
without an ounce of morale left

Like making billions pushing synthetic opiates
while thousands of misled victims are dying
turning to heroin laced with fent
chasing their own tails until the end

Like turning a blind eye to the kilograms
of legal fentanyl analogs
exported from China—
North Korea can only dream of such success—

Like Duterte’s son getting caught
red handed moving millions in shabu
Triad tats on his back
—no one does a thing

Like shooting up after eating McDonalds
driving your Chevy Geo out of the parking lot
onto the road chucking your used needle
into the gutter from an open window

Like not even knowing there’s a lethal threshold
that you are going to want to pass
to get the same degree of feeling
you had the first time—it’s already gone—

Like taking your usual maintenance dose
that you thought was from the same source
nodding off on the toilet
never waking up again

Like writing a book about the Clinton’s
cocaine Arkanicide rise to political power
getting shot in the head
—suicided on the top of a hillside

Like the opium wars all over again
forever without an end in sight
whole entire neighborhoods set up
to be harvested for prisoners

Like feeding them risperidone for profit
in solitary confinement
guilty of nothing
but a lifestyle

Like how my generation statistically
is the drunkest one ever to walk
the face of the earth
—I wonder why that is

Like how before it was legal
for the CIA to brainwash the public before 2011
there were shows like Friends
all the chicks wanted to watch

Like no matter how much effort
you put into unlearning & training
your mind—there it is again every time
you talk to almost anyone

Like not giving a fuck
if you don’t like my poem
—go shove your head back into the sand
pretend everything is perfectly fine—

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Dicks & drugs

You can have
a hard dick
or a slurred tongue
but you can’t have both

Or hey what do I know
maybe you can
I knew a dealer
in New York
who had little blue pills

There’s actually something
I’ve never done
his neighbor told me
it fucked with his head
they both looked at each other
nodded & agreed

He had a couple pit bulls
they were lounging beside him
with their tongues out
as he smiled reminiscing
the fond moment
he was fucking this chick
& put her head thru a wall
verbatim

I could write tragedies
about some that I’ve met
back before there was Weedmaps
when gangster wannabe’s
stood between me
& some moldy catpiss that
hardly took the edge off

But I won’t—

A cock is not just
for playful pummeling & painting
piss murals on everything
a cock is like a barometer
a cock gives you a choice

                 Someday I predict
                 I won’t care as much
                 if I make it another thirty years
                 come smoke me out with sap
                 on the side of the trail
                 on a sunny day
I’ll have had so many
thousands of deafening orgasms
by then—tens of thousands—
it will all seem like one
about to happen

                   







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Jasmine in July 

       We made a pact
                                        never to tell
                a single soul
how long did that last
    I wonder
                  I don’t know


             you made up this word
                                snaggleclatch
         you’d bark it incoherently
                                   until they banned you
                            from saying it at school


             we made a pact
’cause we even knew it
                way back then
there’s only one thing
worth living for


         how were we supposed to know
       a pact
                  like anything
            can die
                        a friendship bracelet
                        that no longer exists
          & once bound us together
     like bearings in San José
      near Nickel City


we made a pact
never to tell
                                                a single soul
     chugging jolt cola
               watching porn      wondering
                     how to pronounce cüm
         scrubbing the history
          even though we’d always hear
          your hot nurse mom getting pounded

Grandpa was a retired sniper
                  he’d let us scope in with no loads
                  on neighbors from behind the blinds
                  with his tricked out h&k
            we were out on the pavement dreaming
      of handrails
up to our chests
      we’d never be able to hit
             not in a million years


      I’ve never
been much a stranger
 to being watched



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It takes a belief

I almost forgot
I wanted to write
this poem
with a J hanging off
the side of my lip
I was out the door
after a cup of coffee
& before the river
evaporated cool
on the way home
you can hear the sound
of the beetles ticking
like gears that move
without touching each other
at sunset behind the hill
the oak leaves waltz
in the desperate hot wind
everything hunting
being hunted
I can count a dozen pine trees
both sugar & ponderosas
that have died & dumped
their carbon for the others
still living, still fighting off
the clock ticking, the invasion
of the weird little clicks that dot
this forest into a dry death
giving more sunlight for the others
that will someday thrive in their place
after I cut them down, burn them, &
once the beetles have had their way
with the sap that doesn’t bleed
well enough to stick around
& stay to see the moon ripen
a global hawk drone winking silently
flying toward Reno like a starlit ghost
& the bellowing cries
of a dying horse for an hour & a half at dawn
a single gunshot & it’s quiet again
a pound of oil
an ounce of flowers
an hour and a half in the crockpot
the water boils off




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What was that

It sounds almost as if a squeaky toy
Became animate just long enough to feel
The piercing of a red foxes teeth
Puncturing its once faux fur bleeding
Into a warm helpless slumber & a spine
Left by the poison oak beneath the sugar pine
At twilight quiet & succumbing to the static
Of darkness in the forest




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