bad poems

reading

some of my poems

that've been published

here and there

most of 'em are

pretty good but there's

some that are real

shit

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;

sunlight;

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

anyway.

blonde

policewoman

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

did

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.

rosaries

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

eggs

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

beside

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

schizophrenia

and yes,

I considered myself

happy.

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

everywhere

and the whole thing

was so pretty

and that was about

the only good times there were.

the intellectual

unshaved, unwashed

unemployed

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

something).

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.

X

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.