America! Democracy! Whiskey! Sexy!
Oh my,

Democracy to elect inept candidates
with the Haliburton Seal of Approval.

Whiskey–We’ll toss down shots of diluted J.D.
to celebrate our newfound freedom.

Sexy–well the whiskey should make it appear that way.

Coda to D.W.S.

Fuck the Democracy!
The whiskey told me so
and I still don’t feel very sexy.


Leaves of grass, my ass!

 but this is no slam on Whitman

nor a drunken ode to Homer

nor any pretense at literature

nor a meager nod to pop culture

in an animated wonderland.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

because I sang the body electric

though the learned astronomer

coolly advised otherwise

and betrayed the beauty of the stars.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

A year of meteors long promised

yet still remain undelivered

I watch my captain cold & dead

and we swore upon children of Adam;

we cursed the setting sun.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

Although I dreamed in a dream

the skewering of fallen angels

and the resurrection of saints;

the cartoonish folly elicited.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

O eternal love restore me;

lead me down the path of enlightenment

eternal truth is all we seek\

be it in leaves of grass, swinging pendulums

or other images broadcast thru our mind’s eye.


I always get people who worry about what kind of furniture or pieces of furniture, I have or don’t have in my apartment.  They say you need to have a coffee table or the chairs at your kitchen table should match.  I get the alarmed queries about what are people going to think.

I’m usually sitting there thinking, “What people?  Who am I inviting over all of a sudden that I have to worry about impressing?” I live alone with a dog.  There’s 2 people that need to be happy with the place.  One walks on all fours.

Anyone that is already a friend already knows I’m completely insane.  They probably won’t be alarmed.  If they’re offended by what pieces of furniture I have or don’t have, the dog will be happy to show them the door.  He’ll probably hump their leg first and then show them the door but that’s a story for another time.

This is like the people that are obsessed with making the bed.  They get panicked when I tell them that I rarely make my bed. And I have them hysterically shrieking at me, “What if someone comes over and the bed isn’t made?”

First off, I live alone so I pretty much control the flow of traffic through my apartment.  Second of all if you really must know, let me explain what will happen.  If someone comes over on a day that I didn’t make the bed and they find a reason to walk into the bedroom, they will most likely witness an unmade bed.

It probably won’t be the end of the world.  If they need to respect me less for it that is their prerogative.  But Hell, the way I see it, if you aren’t tough enough to handle witnessing an unmade bed, you probably don’t deserve to be my friend in the first place.  It’ll be no great loss if I never see you again.

UNMADE BED | PostPoems