Wednesday, September 10, 2014


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


how many times down to the last quarters and dimes
headed for the store to discriminate the cheaper bottle of vodka
the street like an eyesore to the spine after lack of sleep,
the itch of epidermis defeating
full body armor.
we’re quite alike, me and my enemies.
they crawl the ceiling in myopic territory, staring down 
with microscopic litanies of radar,
communing surely with alien intelligence
bent on enslavement of every rapture.
I don’t mind much, kill on sight,
fingertip against the fruit fly
using the bottom of the drinking glass against the cockroach,
staring at me from the verticality of hotel room
floor, with feelers bold and contingent on
ten million generations of progeny,
conspiring to consume the food supply
not to mention will to survive.
which is fine I guess, we as a species haven’t really been
very much the genteel hosts, let alone life of the party:
and even then our ship mates
don’t bother to discriminate.


I am addict
of small rooms
lots of loud noise
I can't prevent
and pornography
in my head
not bodies per se
but oil percolating
running slim
beneath the ground
I am sound as I notice
the dubious air
sneaking features a floor above
somebody the son or daughter
of another 
plots and plans the demise
of my conscious
it is no small rule
a blue pint bottle
a little whitewashed fool
girl reckoning womanhood
demon asthmatic hands amidst
clouds ponying up for pollution status
I am big feet
gray hair and brain
need shampoo
a break from logic and opera
industrial streets


just after 6 a.m. eyes reeking hate and a fight
the garnish of love grumblingly succumbs to victory
so we celebrate get a steak
drive to the store over paved-over soil
jacked on foreign oil buy some beef
salt and pepper it good then broil
kitchen good and filled with smoke
drinks in hand smile of wine traffic going by
who cares there is a sun up there it’s just you and me
celebrate and toast ‘to the roasting flesh’
can’t wait to eat yank it out of the oven slice off
ends against the grain once taught to do by a sot
at a campfire years ago after a U.S. Government commodities score
St. Johns Santa Fe New Mexico
that bastard used my pocketknife he later pocketed for good

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