He's Got Like that Bluish-Gray Beehive Hairdo

We're cooking from a summer kitchen 
just south of the Phlegethon— 
All sweaty tits and swamp ass, 
watching his big red hands 
dice kittens for gumbo— 
Lucy's been cotton balls and 
dripping evil polish on his toes— 
Smoking a cigarette in the heat 
between sulfur pie and grip bruised thighs— 
Just south of the Phlegethon, 
Big Red's slapping dough and working up 
a merengue made of eye balls— 
He's whispering spider's silk promises 
as sticky as knuckle deep— 
And we're sweating succulence in 
the kitchen sauna, 'cause he swears 
it makes our bacon more tender.


Live Evil

What I say craves a madder red— 
blood-flow purple 
from a hole in Mardi Gras, raining beads, 
blue and gold from a balcony— 
where this atheist 
prays for empty chambers 
to an un-championed god— 
where wreath to candle burn 
banner to pyre burn 
wicked jazz and rise crooked 
with the acolyte's fury— 
my own buckeye swims poisonous 
in gasoline, and a saxophone squeal 
burns to war drums 
burns to black forest from here 
to burial mounds in lubricant 
and children's eggs 
fry on the devil's trumpet— 
Bunny whistles on the cross— 
say a prayer.


Feats of Strenght

His guts are hangin' 
parallel Newberry Hill— 
he's got a crowd, 
we're drinkin' 40's and 
doin' shirtless bear crawls— 
when the irons up from 
his lungs and on the 
back of his tongue— 
and then it's a guzzle of 
Cobra 
and ten more for posterity 
and foamy vomit, 
also for posterity— 
and like everything 
else, we've turned 
nostalgia into a 
drinking game— 
sixth grade 
football practice, and 
Coach, and 
that time Paul puked 
during every practice 
and a few times 
during games, and 
recess football trades, 
basketball trades, 
locker room fights 
because of recess 
basketball or football 
or kickball 
trades— 
and we're all laughin' 
while Paul's at the 
bottom of Newberry Hill, 
spewing Cobra 
just like it's always been.


Cartoons for Grown-Ups

When I die 
please bury me casket-open 
in the purple trash 
so that I may watch the beer bottles 
and condoms wash over me— 
leave my eyes unclosed 
so when they stare down into the blue 
one last time 
they will say 
          he struggled every day w/ the burden 
          of existence. he liked his ale hoppy w/ 
          sadness, his scotch w/ 2 ice cubes, his 
          pornography w/ 2 women—whom have 
          2 teeth between them— 
and they will laugh 
and they will say 
          of course he wrote his own eulogy. 
          he would do that. 
and they won't muse over honoring me 
in the garbage— 
they'll know it's where I belong— 
I taught them. 
they'll say I was a brilliant man— 
          sincerely sticky 
          w/ a tooth for debauchery and 
          a heart of gold—it's too bad he was right, 
Amen.