The Goose Dealership

In the car horn valley
I attend a blowout sale
at the Horn Emporium
goose owned & operated
since 1979

My quest for a new tune Hope
it should fit the old Honda
the one with the busted honker

I want it to be in the vein
of Snoop Doggy Dog
or in the spirit
of Tommy Tutone 2

you know the song
all the tiny geese inside me

Just Wrestling

Skintight in leotards. Iridescent
in our reluctant vessels.
On a plane to Paradise, full
of tiny sugar luxuries. Sugar
wafers. Cheese crackers.
And I’m jealous
of your tiny domestic dreams.
Cottage with coup, but mine
always so Mankind
atop a metal grudge
match cage, turn
buckle, or Chicago
street fight. Now it’s difficult
to stand,
let alone

walk. Each day
rubbery top-rope plummets.
Each day more blue-black
in the stadium sweat-light.
Steroid muscled meat headed, still
grappling with thoughts of future
divorces. Not worried
about my sagging
muscles, worried

about failure. Never drink
a sentimental wine.
Everywhere everyday
angels are broken. I saw
you on the corner of third
and Bowery, just outside
a gentle cemetery.

Our first fuck April Fourth.
Now your bronze stripper pole,
worn but vacant. I moisturize my abs
in preparation for you.
Before the big fight
you paint my nails dark beetle. I say to you,
it’ll look like El Toro took a hammer to them. I say to you,
when I look at them, they look like yours. I say to you
my hands are yours,
my hands are yours. You tell me
to Karate Chop you
in a sexual way. I ask you
how will you explain
this kind of love. You say
it’s Monday Night Raw

Drunk Driver II

10 till & I’m sloshed
By God the ocean is vast
All my friends are here
Red strings of Christmas
lights lead to the bar food
A mystery shot of mouthwash
and then they’re gone

How should I be upset?
There’s no way that makes sense
Everyone is capital I
Independent I

broach the street Catch your voice
Promise me you’re a safe drunk
driver Of course The world spins
My body I trust can lead
safely a nation of doubt
There’s no one in the world
I can safely say this to

Stella I thought we’d be a pastoral

When I drive drunk I clench my teeth
as if fucking you from behind

How should I hide the filth I am?
Just get me a professional already
I can’t stand all this amateur porno
Reminds me of what
sweetness I’m capable

I’m the worst years I’ve ever lived
Snuck up like a dry ball gag
Why should I submit to simile?
Let this be simple
My heart is beaten
This is how it sounds

Because Our Pope Rides a Harley

I leap from the hamster-wheel
half-marathon of my own creation
Transform the tourniquet of chugging
a half-gallon of Most Pulp!
orange juice into a catalogue
of a human leg’s endurance

Good God!
I can’t believe we’ve let a gopher arbitrate our capacity to experience spring!!
So I stockpile weapons for an imaginary revolution I want everyone to attend

Good God!
make Excalibur the cocktail cutlass
what skewers the martini olive
Enthrone it in my armoire
of collectable arms It feels natural
to wield it in the name of abstract justice
Half for sword-box foreplay
Half for acts censored by the FCC

I won’t remain frozen
in the vitrine of my body
I’ll vivisect any fair-weather groundhog No
I won’t let a simple rat stop me

Confessional: Paranoia

Dude I just want to howl
The way you mediate
hostage situations buttery
smooth without gunfire?
Hot damn and syrupy
chicken waffles! Me?

Twenty-seven on a Tuesday
Loud as hell and crying
Every other week
figure hurling
myself off a bridge
Doesn’t every person here

absolutely fucking hate me?
Joke! Joking! Just bought
a new suit and pants combo
from the opportunity village
Don’t bother with fitting rooms
there’s cameras everywhere
in the corners where you expect
hardened pieces of gum to be
what’s been collecting since ‘98

Yeah there’s cameras

When I get home
the pants don’t fit
I don’t tell anyone about that