Monday, October 29, 2012

Afterschool Special

Brian Le Lay


After the porcelain town

With its lyme ticks hidden

In tall trash-heap grass lots

Had gone to sleep

Dreaming

Of Samsonite briefcases,

Debaucherous fishing trips

Season finales

Stadium hot-dogs,

The good old days

Of segregation,

The cashier girl

At the Pick-and-Pay

Performing fellatio

And the Fourth of July,

The children

Could no longer

See inside your soul,

Sitting stiff-necked

In your assigned seat

Staring enigmatic

Into your arithmatic,

Trying not

To be noticed

You were cocooned

By the soupy

Almost searing warmth,

Provided by

The piled skeletons

Burning in the attic,

Still trying not

To be noticed

 

Friday, October 26, 2012

FRONT END LOADER

 Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has short fiction pieces published or pending on over forty online sites. He's been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, lied to, and often misunderstood. He's currently retired to a dusty north Texas Ranch where he doesn't much give a damn if school keeps or not. Clifton has an M.S, from Abilene Christian University.

 
            Kobock, after forty years of dedicated hard labor and daily danger as a DEA agent, interrupted only a few thousand times when he dicked off or got some strange in the Motel Peekaboo, had finally had it.  His mainspring was gone, his eyesight screwed, and he needed a triple dose of Viagra to get old Big Wally to even look out the garage door, let alone spring to action.  Then management, ungrateful bastards that they always were, and being younger men and women one and all, told him he was through - shit canned - slam dunked.
            So Kobock was cast adrift - nobody to kill - no reason to violate some citizen's rights - and mother of hell, now responsible for paying full price for lunch or a movie.
      
      "But you gotta have an exit physical," group supervisor H. Brooks Ligon sniggered.   Ligon's primary qualification:  he lacked the sense to pour piss from a size 13 cowboy boot.  "You gotta see the pecker checker before they'll pay you that $200 a month pension," his laugh was a cross between a fatally wounded mule and ripping tin.

            So Kobock sat, and sat, and sat in the doctor's waiting room. Suddenly, a soft voice floating on sexuality: "Mr. Kapock, you're next," said the sweet young thing from the opened doorway to the inner-sanctum.  She was 22, gorgeous, with huge, blue "come do me eyes", and boobs the size of a fat boy's head struggling to escape from that tight nurse's suit. 

            "Uh...Kobock," he stammered as he squeezed between boobs and the door-frame. Up close, she smelled of lilacs.
            "Of course it is," she swished precariously top heavy, down a long hallway and ushered him into an examining room, so small he'd need to step outside to change his mind.  "Strip boy and put on that robe," she pointed to the white garment folded neatly on the examining table.  The force of her order was - or should have been - sensual, but at his age, Kobock knew any serious sexual fantasy was only  a venture into wishful thinking.  But thin he did.  "Mr. Kapock is in Room 23," he heard her say as she closed the door.

            Kobock, dedicated to order as always, pulled off his clothes and stood naked at room center.  Only then did he realize the "robe" was actually a baby diaper which wouldn't cover his ass, let alone qualify as a garment.
            Nurse all-tits burst back into the room, followed closely by Doctor Feelgood, who in the name of disorders anywhere, was a direct knockoff of Bride of Frankenstein.  Kobock instinctively covered his scrotal area with the diaper and cowered in a corner like a wet rag.

"Ah, Mr. Kapock," said Dr. Feelgood in gravel-voice authority mode.  "We mustn't be shy.  Nurse, please step out. Sometimes shy men do better if I disrobe with them."
            "Oh shit," Kobock exclaimed from his corner.

            Nurse All-tits slinked out like a rejected urine specimen.  "Now Mr. Kapock, bend over the table while I get out of these old hot clothes," the good doctor continued.
            She began shedding clothes like an orangutan in heat - which, Kobock feared, might just be the case.  He looked frantically for a window to jump out - but they were on the tenth floor.

            "Help!" cried the once valiant Kobock.  He was trapped in the closet sized room with a medically trained rapist.  "Nurse All-tits, get back in here," Kobock could be heard three floors down and a half block way.  His heart rate and blood pressure shot to critical mass.
            Preceded twenty seconds by her bust-line, nurse All-tits appeared, just like Ronald Reagan in one of those old B grade cavalry westerns nobody ever watched.  Kobock expected a bugle call.  He stood, intent on a nude break for freedom and inadvertently dropped his diaper.  Christ, trapped with no loincloth.  What could be worse? It was the end.  Could he learn to fly during a ten story drop?

            Both the rapidly becoming nude Doctor Feelgood and nurse All-tits had oddly fixed upon Kobock's vital area.  The nurse spoke first. "Look at the schlooz on this old bastard," she covered her face with a clipboard, leaving the barrier low enough to continue surveillance of Kobock's pride and joy.
            Doctor Feelgood gasped:  "...hung like a polo pony. My God look at that thing."

            Kobock looked down.  Divine music began wafting in, possibly from Heaven.  In the name of the omnipotent God of miracles throughout the universe, Big Wally had come back to life.  The combination of stress and excitement had re-charged his battery.
            "Mr. Kapock," there was urgency in Nurse All-tit's voice. "I get off in fifteen minutes, but fuck that, I'll leave right now.  I can hide you from this evil at my place."

            "I saw it first," countered Dr. Feelgood petulantly, standing lamely at room center, adorned only in  pink thong and one white medical shoe, breasts drooping to her navel.
            Nurse All-tits gave the good doctor a karate chop in the throat, followed with a full NFL field goal kick to the crotch. "Get some clothes on, Kapock," she gasped breathlessly.  I only live seven minutes away.  Here Lovie," she grabbed his member, "Let me help you hold that."

            "But what about the prostate exam?" Feelgood gurgled from the floor.
            "Die bitch," Nurse All-tits replied, helping Kobock pull on his pants.  "You won't need no shoes, baby." she said as she inserted a nimble tongue in Kobock's ear and parked one ample breast under his armpit.  "Or should I call you Front End Loader?  Just stay focused on the raunchiest porn movie you ever saw, dude."  Suddenly she turned a tender ear upward, listening carefully. "Kapock, what's that damned music?"

 

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

A BUSY BIG SHOT GOLDEN BOY, ARGUMENT?, POET IN LACK


√Čric Dejaeger is a teacher and bricklayer. He lives in Belgium and edits the magazine Microbe.

 A  BUSY BIG SHOT GOLDEN BOY
 

He goes down to the gent’s.

He slams the door,

locks it up,

has a puke

and while he's in there,

a good liquid crap.

He wipes his ass

and gets out

(no flushing).

He changes his mind,

goes back in,

locks the door once more,

has a 2nd puke

and while he's in there,

a swift wank.

He finally leaves

the crapper

(no flushing no hand-washing)

And goes back to his seat

between the human resources

female manager

and his old chairman's

pretty young wife.

Great end-of-year

banquet!

 

ARGUMENT?

 

“Your ass smells

crappy,”

she belched,

“your prick tastes

old piss

and

your mouth stinks

sewage.”

“Who are you?”

he answered back.

 

POET IN LACK

 

In front of his blank sheet

the poet remains dumb

despite all the gulped-down pints!

Nothing goes out,

nothing  comes out,

nothing digs out…

Pissed off,

the poet

stuffs two fingers

far down his throat

and unwhitens his sheet.

 

Poets are often

so disgusting.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

THE TRICKSTER


Alan Britt believes the US should stop invading other countries to relieve them of their natural resources including tin, copper, bananas, diamonds and oil.
 

Trickster to coax nature into revealing wondrous

mythologies is tough enough. To live & die in the

rust spot, largest of four eyes on the tattered wing

of a saffron moth struggling through Whitman's

leaves of uncut grass, avoiding treachery after two

peeps from the napalm female cardinal. Tough

enough surviving primordial reality without having

to deal with the trickster, mercury flowing backwards,

in appearance only, but, then, what else is there?

 

Friday, October 19, 2012

The "F" Bomb


Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. He has been twice nominated for Best of the Net, which proves that even a broken clock can be right twice a day.

 

I don’t know why it’s so difficult
for me to say

what so many poets
have said so many times before—

the “F” word, I mean.

Ginsberg told America
to “F” itself

(which it promptly did)
and Bukowski let it spill

like warm beer from his mouth
(which it often did as well)

and I can’t even say the word
not even once.


It’s a good word
as good as any in the OED

no worse than “screw” or “shag”
and better even than “shtup”

and “boff” and “bang.”

I try, of course:
“f” “f” “fu” “fu” “fu”

but can’t get past that consonant.

Is it the image of my mother’s ghost
hovering over me with a bar of soap?

or the deity, any deity,
about to strike me down

(as he or she most surely would)?
or my sense of courtesy, chivalry

propriety or the politically correct?

How would Freud explain

my reticence?


I’ll try again:
“fu” “fu” “fu” but can’t.
 

This repression thing
has got me down

which is why
I’m all fucked up.

 

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Dear Baby Jesus


Michele McDannold is corn fed and redneck bred. She has an extensive collection of flannel and rubber chicken heads. A devoted member of the Cult of the Honey Badger, she is also the Head Copywriter for the popular Watchtower pamphlets.

Thank you for the best childhood ever

for the nicely manicured lawns

dutifully tended to every Sunday

after church

for the sun tea baking on the porch

and the strawberries in the patch

Thank you, baby jesus

for the community free of minorities

and forward thinking

for the streets free of gang violence

for the jehovah's witness even

and the evangelists

thank you for putting the shame on

all those unwed and/or single mothers,

those people with the weak-minded mental illnesses

and the ghastly homosexuals

in general, just thank you so much

for putting a clamp down

on all the SEX stuff

I didn't know what my period was

until I got it one day in gym

that kinda sucked

but thank you

and maybe while you were hiding

all the dildos and other adult fun

you could have taught the old people

not to stick their fingers and whatnot

in the young people

that would have been nice
but oh well

maybe that's why Joe's uncle

is also his dad

I never met anyone conceived from incest before

COOL

thank you, baby jesus

and thank you for teaching the parents to beat their children

spare the rod, spoil the child!

Susie never would have developed that limp otherwise

it's only about fifty feet from the bar to the motel anyway

I know. I know

some people want to give all the credit to Satan

Lucifer

the Devil

whatever

he's busy with wars

tsunamis

and shit

he wants the glory of all those big fatality numbers

you.. you are oh so patient

killing them softly and gently

with shitty lives contrived of stifling rules...

call it morality!

Shame, shame

the bent and twisted

call it love

BABY JESUS

I want you to have all the credit

saving us all from the fires of hell

I can pray to you for forgiveness

I can pray to you for the Friday night football game

we can all join hands and pray pray pray

then sing the star spangled banner

oh, thank you, baby jesus

for making me an American

thank you for making us better

than every other nation in the world

so what if we drop in rankings

in education

economic freedom

global competitiveness

and innovation

we are responsible for FACEBOOK

Honey Boo Boo

and taco shells made out of Doritos!

this is all thanks to you, baby jesus

taking the time to give us all some

PERSONAL ATTENTION

(that's what the reverend said)

personality suppression to the point of psychosis!

Tea Parties – Yay!

I have more rights to my guns

than my own body!!

sweet baby jesus

thank you for

Women that know their place

in dresses

in kitchens

in the delivery room

children, children, children

let's have more babies, baby jesus!

Every last one of them precious

until they learn to breathe

in the polluted

but free as all fuck

liberty-laced air

 

 

Sunday, October 14, 2012

It happened

Sarah Edwards lives in Montreal, Canada. The only thing she consumes on her birthdays is vodka, a lot of it. She is engaged to a Frenchman.

 

As sweat drips from your forehead

licking your salty lips

I think of nothing

but to fill your sweet cavity

with

warm

ivory

gold.

 

Friday, October 12, 2012

You're Gone Into The Clear Blue

Jessica Harman is a human being: nothing more, nothing less. This
should not necessarily bother you more than the laws which govern
pretty much most of our galaxy.


Truth is most precious, now,
As the sunflowers close
At the end of the day in florist’s shops, as you close,
Under the clover, under the thistle, the clouds,
Between the thoughts of wild onion blue flowers.
As your death makes the bookends
Of eras—bookends made of geodes
That haunt Natural History Museum gift shops.
And I finished a book,
And sent it off, on this day when you died, today,
And so the wings of the bird,
And so the peel of apple,
And so the city I loved
And so the golden sunflowers in Coolidge Corner’s
Flower shops
Looking like pulverized
Orchids, looking like the moon on fire. And the way we pray,
The way we pray as we stand around
Waiting for Salvation, or something better
Like a TV Show we could get into
In this fallen world, we get so into it we forgot about ourselves,
And this zone is where I loved you,
Where we discussed God and ate Doritos,
Where there was rain, rain, rain, the color of your eyes.


Wednesday, October 10, 2012

I DON'T CARE IF YOU BELIEVE IT OR NOT

Jay Passer hails from San Francisco but sleeps on a bed of nails in Oaktown. He hates the Yankees, loves cats and elephants, and won't answer his cell phone for fear of extraterrestrial intervention. His newest chapbook, At the End of the Street, is available from corrupt press, based somewhere in Europe. One may view his novella, I Can't Wait to Never See You Again, on the inimitable arthouse-slash-brothel, Horror Sleaze Trash.



Richard Nixon killed John Lennon
Daisies stink like swamp gas
All men are born faggots
Cows drink petrol by the barrel
Television replaced God in 1980 with the creation of MTV
I am the center of the universe
Embryos are manufactured in Taiwan
The world is as flat as a spatula
And when they finally pull the plug to shut me up
You will wipe away a tear and wonder why
Most people are partially cybernetic
Sharks brandish umbrellas when prospecting for dreams
Nuclear physicists are less relevant than housecats
King Tut survived on the flesh of vampire bats
Baseball is considered a winter sport on planet Mercury
The Bush Administration was responsible for the massacre of 9/11
Submarines were invented to explore
The cosmic intestinal passage of History
Unicorns are for real, I saw one in a porno once
Grandmothers are to blame for
Everything wrong with society as a whole
I use ketchup to marinate my genitals
Before climbing into bed at night
Texas is beautiful and I want to grow old there

Monday, October 8, 2012

Entertainment Options

David S. Pointer lives in Inkville on the wrong side of the tracks. He was never a punk rocker, but would like to extend a warm “Fuck You” to all the lovely ladies in small press land. And all the poser dudes, well, they don’t rate time, bullets, reviews, shout outs or bitch slaps. See you on the other side.


In the floodwaters
I watch streetlamps
clanging together
like logs, and a
Calico cat swims
toward them but
bobbers under as I
rapidly remote
into a fluid blue
rush of expanding
sky on a nature
channel before
power slamming a
mighty pull on
my imported can
of gladiator beer.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Noctambule by Cathy Garcia from France

http://ledecompresseuratelierpictopoetiquedecathygarcia.hautetfort.com/archive/2010/10/14/noctambules-1996.html

Friday, October 5, 2012

MY TALKING DOG


Andrew Hilbert lives in Austin, TX, runs the Cheesepaper, and eats fucking Doritos.

 
Fido was a good dog. He rarely barked or shat inside or bit anyone but one day, while I ate breakfast and read the paper and, while my wife slept in, Fido sat beside me.
“Who was that strange woman over yesterday, Bob?” he asked me. His tongue was out and he was panting like normal and looking up at me with dumb eyes that seemed perpetually incapable of proper grammar or complex thought.

“What?” I asked. I put the paper on the table and spit out my bagel.
“That strange woman who came home with you on your lunch break, who was she? She quickly undressed, you unzipped your pants and you took turns eating each other’s lower parts for lunch.”

“Shut up before Angela hears you!” I whacked him in the head with my paper. He whimpered and cowered away from me.
“Can I have some of your bacon?”

“Only if you promise never to speak of my lunch again.”
“What if Angela offers me more bacon?”

“Then don’t ask for any bacon and don’t say a goddamn thing.”
I could hear shuffling from our bedroom. Angela was waking up. Her footsteps down the stairs were slow and measured. She was probably still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and walked slowly to avoid falling down.

She wrapped her arms around me from behind when she finally got down.
“Good morning, love,” she said to me, her eyes still adjusting to the reality of the work day.

“Good morning,” I answered with one eye straight ahead to my newspaper and another eye threatening euthanasia to Fido if he decided to show off his new found speaking abilities.
“Did you toast a bagel for me?” Angela asked with a kiss on my ear.

“Shit, I didn’t expect you to be up so early,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“I heard you talking to someone and that’s what woke me up. It’s okay.”

Fido let out a little bark and I kicked him as hard as my cotton slipper could manage. He yelped and hobbled to his dog food bowl.
“Why does Fido look so sad?” Angela asked. On her way to the kitchen to toast her own bagel, she pet Fido and gave him kisses. His tail wagged wildly.

“I love you poochy-poo,” she said to him as he slobbered all over her. She walked into the kitchen.
“I like her better than you, asshole,” Fido whispered to me. “Give me more bacon or I’m talking.”

I grabbed a few strips of bacon and threw them on the floor.
“Arf!”

His tail wagged in delight and Angela took a seat next to me.
“You’re feeding him bacon?”

“Why not? The dog deserves bacon every now and then.”
“If he gets fat I’m blaming you!”

“Arf!”
Fido was sitting between us, staring at the bacon.

“Arf!”
I looked to Angela. Her eyes were daring me to give him more bacon.

“You’re going to spoil him,” she said.
Fido started growling.

“What’s gotten into him?” Angela asked.
I grabbed a few more strips of bacon and threw them at the far corner of the living room. Fido ran to the corner and chowed down.

“I can’t believe you’re giving him more. That much bacon isn’t even healthy for a human.”
“Well, whatever. I’m in a good mood.”

“He’s going to get sick!”
“The he’ll learn the hard way, won’t you Fido?”

Fido’s ears perked up and he walked slowly to me. I could hear him growling. Angela got up to put her dish in the sink.
“Hard way, huh?” Fido taunted. “I know my limits. Give me more, you fuck.”

I grabbed for more but mid-clench Angela walked back in. She was angry.
“Bob!” she yelled, “That’s enough!”

Fido’s growling got louder and he started barking.
“You’re turning him into a monster! Listen to him!”

“Listen, lady! You’ll shut up if you knew what was good for you!” Fido barked back at her.
Angela’s face went flush. She didn’t know whether to be angry, confused, excited, or all three.

“What’d you say, Fido?” she asked.
“Arf!”

I grabbed the bacon and threw it to the far corner of the room again.
“Did Fido just talk?” Angela asked me.

“Your imagination. It’s acting up again. Are you off your depression meds?” I asked.
“Don’t blame this on me!” Angela got up and started crying. She was definitely off her meds.

“There was nothing to blame on anyone! I wasn’t blaming anything on you! I just asked a simple question.”
She threw her slippers at me.

“I know what you’re getting at! Everything’s in my head! All my questions about where you’ve been – the answer is always, ‘You’re just crazy, baby!’ Fuck you! Fido spoke. Are you off your deaf meds?!” she was wailing, red-faced, and violent.
“There are no deaf meds, honey. That makes no sense.”

“Ohhh – I’m the one not making sense as always! Of course I’m off my meds! I never needed them in the first place!”
Meanwhile, Fido’s tail was wagging like crazy and bruising my leg. His penis was hard and revealed like he was getting off on our fight. He lifted his paw to the table, pointing at the bacon.

“Give me the bacon,” he whispered.
“You fucking pervert!” I yelled as I threw the plate of bacon against the wall. He ran to the pile of broken porcelain and delicious pig and lapped it up.

“What’d you call me?!” Angela roared from the stove. “I have to cook more bacon because you didn’t have the heart to think about me! Some other bitch at work is always on your mind!”
“I didn’t say anything to you.”

“I heard you call me pervert!”
“Maybe you heard the dog!”

“Fuck you, Bob. Fuck you!” she walked out of the kitchen and threw the burning bacon grease at my face. Fido, having finished the last pile of bacon I made, jumped on me and began licking.
“Fuck you, Fido! I’m burning here!”

He put his two paws around my head and pushed my ear toward his mouth.
“Think about what you say,” he said.

Angela walked in the living room. Calmer than before she threw bacon grease at me. She was chewing on her own bacon strip. The bacon must have calmed her down. I threw Fido off of me and ran toward the kitchen, knowing that my only tool for Fido’s silence was in there; Angela’s fresh pile of bacon.
As soon as I grabbed for it, Angela jumped on my back.

“You’re no taking any of my bacon!” she yelled and kicked and screamed.
I gave up.
“Fine,” I said and watched Fido as his interest shifted to Angela and her bacon.

“You’re the only thing that loves me,” she said as she pet him.
Fido went closer to her ear and I heard him say, “I’ll tell you a few of Bob’s secrets for some bacon.”

Angela fed him a strip.

 

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

invitation to my ass, baby


 

Patricia Hickerson’s  true bio

her Mommy and Daddy were hot blooded New Yorkers who loved a speakeasy so when Patsy slid out of Mommy one hot and heavy Sunday morning Daddy fox-trotted down Amsterdam Avenue hootin’ and hollerin’ into the nearest pub to fuck a barmaid and bless his darling baby girl with a gallon of booze…after that Patsy went into hibernation till she got old enough to dance the fucky duck and spit out grown up words like cunt and jism and make a name for herself in the porn world.

she has her fingers on my lips
the hidden ones, the very pale pink ones

parting them ever so gently

setting them up for the camera

I imagine their ridges glistening

swelling a bit under her tender pussy touch

hair straining at its roots

cold and slick, go slowly, okay?

am I getting wet? now the camera licks the edges

click!  a few more clicks, then it’s done

pull up your jeans, your high-heeled boots

go home

done your duty for the artsy


 in this big Tribeca studio of hers
walls hung with tapestry

deep couches for dalliance

she must be some rich bitch

who’s taken up hot photography

hopes to make her name

recording 35 cunts

to be exhibited at her know-it-all show

(“been there, done that”)

you can’t tell one hole from the other

all alike, I tell you

maybe you can get it up for one or the other

but who’s that discriminating?                                         

 

Volley Tit

 


http://data.whicdn.com/images/31966827/tumblr_m3ioswNBat1rne5x6o1_400_large.gif

Monday, October 1, 2012

Starving Artist


Ryan Swofford edits the online magazine The Weekenders.


Salty portrait of a poet, so young
Yet out of breath
Standing beneath the heavenly stars, hanging blue
In the sky, midnight sky
Dreaming, but realizing
That his dreams are dreams unworthy
Of being seen in print
With his goddamn name on the goddamn cover
Of a book of poetry
His words are not pretty enough
No matter how he indents the next line
Or talks about pretty midnight skies
Nobody
Cares about his little poesy ass

Of poetry and cum and rum, lily-stinking

Rummaging through words and words of truth

Reading Jack Kerouac every evening in his bedroom
Wearing underwear and drinking hot tea from a mug
Pretending to meditate to achieve Zen, but Zen
He figures this out later

Zen is not even a real thing!
Yak-yakking to late-night women with ankle tats
And big tits to comfort his sleepy poet-head

Beneath a field of corn somewhere

In rural desolation, having visions and forgetting who’s who

And what’s what
And is that the moon or is that me?

 Dreams that can be altered by a single word, not affecting someone

The right way, all feel-good, by not giving them goose-bumps on their superficial hairless arms

Of literature and of magazines and of publications publishing only the fuckers

Who’ll make them some money, who know the business inside and out,
Who don’t know the word “obscene” because oh my god, if you say fuck

Fuck fuck fuck

Then you’re out of here, you’re not making any money, you’re not making them money

           Fuck fuck fuck!

You’re going nowhere in this business
I figured this out a long time ago:
While I was writing ten-line poems for non-paying magazines, not concerned
With money for college, with my lifestyle, with Jesus H. Christ (whether or not

I should please him or myself or neither)
While I was blabbering away about how underground I am, how hip, how cool, how ugh
Dumb the whole literary scene was, all those pretentious fuckers wearing $300 suits
With coffee mugs and nice hair and expensive writing machines, participating in

All the poesy events, reading at all the poetry readings, networking, blah-blah, whatever
Now I’m done talking about them
No, I’m not, because I hate them
Mama said if you hate something, burn it to the ground
Mama said knock you out—ha!—and you said my poems weren’t clever, just
Pretty words meaning nothing with no substance, okay, whatever, but
I remember a time when that was all there was:
Pretty words written on a rock somewhere in the Nevada desert
On Christ’s pillow behind his head
Really, when you think about it
Jesus was the biggest hipster ever to breathe

So who are we?

Shining brightly, stapling together paper poetry booklets so our friends won’t be seen as
Nasty obscene psychotic
What have we become?
 
What has America become?
Now we don’t own our own words
Or cocks in the mouths of whoever we want
Or roach, or rock, or words tripping off the tongue
And onto the desk of the FBI on suspicion of being Muslim
But they’re just American
They’re confusing Buddhist
With Muslim
With Hindu
With Jesus (who?)
But either way, we still own our vocal chords, so:
Hoot!

Ah, but even if I was allowed to say what I wanted to say
It wouldn’t matter anyway
Because a poem’s a poem, the value of this goddamn thing
Is decreasing as we speak
So I’m always gonna be a bum, hey