bad poems

some of my poems
that've been published
here and there
most of 'em are
pretty good but there's
some that are real
the editors musta been
crackheads when they
published them
a bad poem
is a flea bite on my leg
nothing to
worry my balls over
certainly not nearly as bad
as poverty
and the endless wars.

nothing much to do

when I was 15
I put a rock through
the window of some
house just to hear
the sound of glass
shattering. the quiet
afterward was like
poking holes in the
clouds. then I ran
like hell for a while.
then I sat on a green
bench and stared
at the passing cars
which was better than
smashing windows
I guess.

learned a few things

sitting at
the kitchen table
a glass of water
reposing like Buddha.
I look out the window
at the white winter sky
over the rooftops.
a smoking chimney.
the silence of the white air
after getting fired,
wondering what to do
now. so much white air
filling my head. I remember
wanting to be a cop
when I was 5. it was either
that or a fireman. everything
was simple. now I’m thinking
maybe I should become
a dope dealer.

the right to remain silent

a million miles
of insanity
have brought
me here:

an open window;


a breeze flutters
the curtains.

I used to live in
New York―

what my parents
didn’t kill
that city did.

now I live in Ohio.

I remember sitting
in the back of
the squad car

the policewoman
reciting my
Miranda rights.

I told her to
to save her breath.

she recited them

with a big ass

you’ll always have
a place in my dreams.

long ago and not so far away

working as a temp
light assembly
$6 an hour
no rights, no benefits

hated the job
but couldn’t afford
to get fired

imagine death
by boredom
like drowning
in a bathtub
in the suburbs

if I had a soul
I’d say it was like
an opium poppy
turning to stone

there was one boss
I wanted to punch
in the face but never

I kept on working
doing the same shit
day after day

my soul scattering
like dust
to the universe.

the eagle has landed

death of the spirit as
a dove falls from the sky;
think of death
as a killer clown like
John Wayne Gacy
or Ronald Reagan;
Ronnie, I jerked off to
your daughter Patti
when I saw her
on the cover of Playboy
with some black guy
grabbing her tits
from behind; it didn't
take away from all
the carnage of
your dirty wars in
Central America but
it was something;
Ronnie, you were
Maggie Thatcher minus
the mustache; and when
I think of death
I think of you and
your big phony grin
like a Nazi death-head
with moussed hair.


we watched the
Irish girls
home in pairs
St. Mary’s school.
they were all
or redheads
thin and pretty
not saying a word
not even to
each other.
pale white legs
coming out of
green plaid
they drove us nuts
but we didn’t
have the balls
to go over
and talk to them
so they remained
a green-clad
in the grey streets
of Manhattan.


ask anyone who was ever poor:
eggs are the cheapest food.
we used to eat eggs a lot
and no matter
how many different ways
of cooking them
you might know
you get sick of them pretty fast.
one time in the supermarket
I saw a woman
her cart was filled all the way
to the top with egg cartons
I guess she was fighting
inflation and
that might seem funny
but war on the poor
is standard business
in America
and if you’re not
on foodstamps
then at the very least
you’re cutting coupons
or maybe shoplifting
and so the “lazy and stupid”
as the rich call us
are multiplying like flies
and someday
we’re taking over.

family heirloom

went for a walk
round midnight
the streets were empty
save for my insanity
the yellow streetlamps
and a few neon lights--
the starry night
sang an ode to
my cage of the mind
I wandered lonely
as a purple orchid
a rusting steel mill
lonely as the last cricket
on a cold night
I felt like tumbleweed
riding the wind
to escape the fire
I was circling
the electric night
in a Ferris wheel of
and yes,
I considered myself

tax cuts for millionaires

when I used to work
at supermarkets
and warehouses and the like
I always belonged to some union
or other
we never went on strike
cuz the rich only tolerate
the toothless unions that sold out
a long time ago
so I got treated like shit
along with all the rest
I think I was the only one
who ever complained
cuz the American working-class
are cattle
(it was like I never left Bulgaria)
so I worked and sweated
and bitched a lot
while the rest seemed content
playing cards on their lunch breaks
(I really hated those sheeple)
but sometimes I walked home
at night
when the rain had just stopped
and the streets seemed to glow
under the streetlamps
and there was the sound
of water dripping and trickling
and the whole thing
was so pretty
and that was about
the only good times there were.

the intellectual

unshaved, unwashed
and planning
on staying that way.
I drink beer in the morning
and look out the window.
when the welfare checks
run out
I'll have to leech off my parents
(they're finally good for
I walk in circles in the cold
of the April sun
while the pigeons
plot their uprising.
I read Plato and wonder
what it means
then fall asleep on page 2.
I wake up and watch
Busty Christy
getting it from Tina Holly
then open a letter
telling me to report
for jury duty
and now my criminal record
is finally good for something too.


waiting outside the court building
the pigeons marching up and down
like Nazis
I figured the judge would give me
a small fine
he gave me that and a year’s probation
I went straight from the courtroom
to my probation officer across the hall
she was a redhead with
big tits under a white sweater
and a big ass in jeans
talked like a Southerner
told me to get a job
and come back same time
next month

walking home the sun was low
in the afternoon sky
the spiders were sucking
the guts out of flies
and I was one of those
goddam flies
hollowed-out, thrown away
angry at the sun, the flies
at the goddam spiders
angry at everything and everyone

but there was nothing I could do.