I’m full on Thai soup and ready
For the main course
Of alcohol and virgin girls
In pink babydoll dresses
And no panties. Mirrored tables
And low bar fines. Affordable virgins;
More brilliant marketing.
Keep the drinks coming and save the stories
About your family, hun—
How they sent you to the city
To make it big as an ornament
During this annual American exercise
Of diplomatic debauchery—
Economic stimulus by way of
Physical stimulus.
Read MoreAmerica is a dream. It’s not real. It’s a concept. It’s a vision of a shining city on a hill, conceived of by impudent children berthed by tyrants. America is the ridiculous notion that Lady Liberty wears the only legitimate crown, and her court extends to all lands. America is the petulant assertion that men should always lead, but never rule.
Read More-For Stacy Pearsall and all the shooters who have seen what can never be unseen
A shutter click in combat is deafening.
Light and shadow—boxed up like muted souls—
Cheap imitations of what once was.
Click-open—Click-close. Click-open—Click-close.
Read MorePC is for Proletariat Control
The future brought to you sooner
By the consumer consumer,
The baby-boomer Anti-Prole,
The dropout genius, eating
Newton’s fruit, forbidden—
the bite heard ‘round the world.
Technological Renaissance flag unfurled.
Read MoreWe heard some poems by Bukowski,
And I felt sad for never knowing
How much you loved the old Barfly.
I wished we could have shared more time,
So I went up and remembered the you I knew
From our rocky years of adolescence—
How your kindness was always a cushion,
How your humor always healed.
Read MoreA demonic stretch of arterial suburban sprawl that hijacks souls. Between the hours of crawling and creeping, a proletarian pipeline pumps labor cells toward a plastic dream: world domination via celebrity apprenticeship. Mercedes zooms past Mexican landscaping business; swank sunglasses brooding at rusty lawnmowers. Vanity mirrors trace red lipstick to the tune of hurried honking – an orchestra of sexist sentiments in the rearview. The clunky Corolla in her J.C. Penney discount rack watches longingly from the wrong lane as BMW with the sparkling conversation in her ear whips past in the right. And muted behind safety glass, a stretched and spray-tanned face laughs wildly, bleach-blonde abilities breaking away from the pack. BMW gets ahead; Corolla watches bitterly. Across a double-yellow ocean of longing, the whip and whimsy of Prius glides past, ass in the air, flaunting environmental care. The radios, all tuned to the same station, blare theme music for the boxcar shuffle. And the zombie cells do their horizontal leapfrog dance, bottlenecking toward the grand promise of a wide-open road ahead.