write fast
somebody
anybody
respond
to this poem.
i feel puke
between the
back of my throat
& my heart, surging
upwards,
outwards.
i am ozzy osbourne.
i am ozzy osbourne
without
money,
without
20 million dollars.
i have
to pee.
i need ozzy
drugs.
friday morning, fried
d states government
has the technological ability
to listen to any conversation
in the world.
the united states government
has the technolgical ability
to listen to any conversation
in the world.
this is a direct quote
from last evening's
news. nothing else
is especially expounded upon
in regards
to such an
incredible
condition of existence.
they don't mean
by means of wire-taps,
or ear-pressing
against walls.
the united states government
has the technological ability
to listen to any conversation
in the world
in the air,
whisper'd,
yelp'd,
mutter'd.
ann smiles, looks upwards,
FUCK YOU
she yells
like bela lugosi.
i,
so very quietly,
just compose
this poem.
outside our door
there we are
outside our apartment door
with my key on my thousands-of-keys
keychain aiming for
the golden knob
in one hand
in my other hand i hold
a bag from burger king
& under that arm
a 12-pack of rolling
rock cans. ann has
her purse, a bag from country fair store.
it's 7:30 in the sunny,
chilly, early may evening
& after we are secure
in this tiny womb of rooms
we eat a week's worth of saturated fat
& get moderately drunk
"this IS a little
strange for old people
to be doing,"
i announce.
"i'm not the one
with the double whopper
with cheese
sandwich," ann corrects
me.
sheepish me.
almost 48
gobbling on a double
whopper with cheese
with my bottom dentures in,
gulping
grog.
but it's
so delicious.
so
delicious.
building drama
we've been tumbling a long time,
since the middle 1950's,
tumbleweed amerikan baby-
boomers booming across
this wide, smile-shaped land.
& it's all been lies,
all the politics,
everything society creates
in a free enterprise
system. we find ourselves
alert'd, alert,
but with less cash
than everyone around
us. like i sd, we've been
tumbling, round'd hedgehogs
rolling down a deep, very
slippery drain
of democracy. the catholics
are bristling
with embarrassment,
a christian history
with the scabs ripped off,
& it's all been
total shit.
ugly people
it's true. ugly people exist
with that sense of ugliness bulging
like liquid lard in a long meat-
hooked balloon; drippages,
too, sweatings. rotten melon-
smelling girls with smudges
of shit on their thighs.
guys with breaths of chopped, blended worms.
green snot nose seepage &
worse.
sunday morning blue
s
we have a thin, blue-yellow box of fish-
sticks in the freezer, & not much else.
we've bought single rolls of toilet-paper
these past 2 weeks
as things run out & tho we can afford
to shop, we don't, we hold off, we
work hard, stay exhausted, find excuses
not to venture within quality market
pushing a big silver cart.
yes, we're a little eccentric, ok,
it's true. soon we'll emerge
from our red jeep on a rainy april
sunday morning, waddling thru
the supermarket's puddled parkinglot,
grabbing two carts,
& it's ann to the right side of the store,
me far left,
& we more or less
need everything.
click to view movie/poem - eggs