December 2009

“Caterwaultz”

A thin vein jutting between two American milestones,
in cattaract eyes it would make you smile, all the while
the cats convene on a neighborhood overthrow
too loaded to notice, to busy to know
that furry tail is a tyrant.
do you hear the lullabye of the sirens?
do you hear the abandon babies crying?
do you hear the caterwaul of the tiny lions?
you say no, but you’re hardly trying
the mothers are too transfigured, fine wining and dining
on sale, $5.99′ing, because the rest went holy mountain climbing
and the middleman is just long hauling, sighing
considering dying.
one day when the time seems right, on a distant future night
we’ll give into the white light, and this place still won’t feel right.
my three story castle is neck in neck with decay
my temporary quarters are almost entirely spent away
i’ll give a sincere goodbye to the bandit cats
and the next day they’ll infest like little rotten rats
and all the half-humans that creep around
will eventually fit into this circus kinda town
the kind that many trip into and rarely come out.

“The Ugliest Part of Your Figure”

is it your knobbly knees? or your tired brain?
is it your broken jaw? or your fluctuating waist?
is it the small planet upon your face? the scars on the back of your hands?
is it the tick in your neck? or your tangerine tan?
well if anybody is to care, then you’d better beware
because they’re surely not seeing through.
maybe it’s their tiny astigmatized eyes? or their crooked rotten smile?
their elephant ears? or their skin like broken tiles?
how about their bent nose? or six mile long neck?
their toxic attitude? or their beard grown in specks?
well if anybody is to care, then you’d better beware
because they’re surely not seeing right
peel of your mask, burn that little book
stand up tall and ask me, “how do i look?”
always good.

“Plymouth Rock Sock Hop”

The chief picks up his tin-can telephone
dialed the east, king says “leave me alone”
a few days later, a bunch of drunk ships rolled in
bearing arms, two per man, to commit an array of self-made sins
and there I come in, like a gust of ragged wind
said how about a war where everyone wins?
threw down my burlap bags with rifles pointed at my throat
i had mocassins on with a british tailored long tail cotton suit
Pointed to the water, my hand painted sign read:
“Plymouth Rock Sock Hop”
We’ll laugh ourselves to death until we naturally stop.

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