Perfect
Everything is perfect
My torn Band-Aid
Is perfect
My ragged cuticles
Are perfect
My heavy eyes
Are perfect
My sweaty palms
Are perfect
The glint on the wing of my plane
Is perfect
The sour burp in my mouth
Is perfect
The clouds
Are perfect
The sun
Is perfect
My seat
With the long legroom
Is perfect
The dump I took earlier
Was perfect
The wine in my mind,
The patio in my heart,
My folks waiting for me quietly
On chairs that fold
Are perfect
It’s all perfect
My life
Is perfect
….
Ask the Clowns
Sometimes
Especially after a long night
Of drinking
A spring comes loose
In my brain
And the madness that wells up
Sends me with the crows
On a one way trip
To the Moon
When this happens
My poor mother is always around
And I start asking her questions
Like
“What do you think a blowjob from the Dalai Lama feels like?”
Or
“How would you like it if, at the opera, you went to clap your hands
And they exploded on impact?!”
Inquiries of this sort
Usually fail
To peak her interest
So I move to more drastic tactics
Like
Stretching my face apart
With my fingers
Or
Whistling “Twisted Nerve”
Whilst doing somersaults
Across the lawn
My mother tolerates this crap
For a time
But after a while
She loses it and says:
“Hans, what gets into you?!”
This invariably makes me howl
But underneath the river of dead clowns
Surging through my brain
I’m wondering
The same
Thing
….
Wine Country
As the vineyards whipped by
Our Lexus windows
My father’s friend
Sat in the front seat
And laughed
“I got a buddy out in Israel,” he said.
“And when I talked to him on the phone yesterday,
I says, ‘Hey! Watch out for those Hamas rockets, haha!’”
My father laughed too
And both guys started talking about
The horrors of war
As if they were discussing
The logistics
Of cabinetmaking
….
As the Sun Sets
The average American
Has never seen war …
He’s never seen his pregnant wife
Forced out of the house at gunpoint
And shot on the lawn
Like a rabid dog
He’s never had his teenage daughter enslaved
And fashioned as a receptacle
For soldiers’ cum
He’s never felt the sting of a phone call
Delivering the message
That his only son
Was just murdered
He’s never had the rights
He paid for with the blood of his loved ones
Crumpled up and used to
Wipe the shoes of the rich
He’s never seen the bombs drop
From the bosoms of roaring planes
And watched the buildings
Of his beloved city
Light up with flames
He’s never had his head blown off
While sitting in his favorite lawn chair
Or had his precious Cheetos
Poisoned with strychnine
He’s never heard the screams
Of a nursery on fire
And he’s never been told the Truth
Behind the greatest lie
That ever was
….
Oh Yeah
On my last night
In town
A funny thing happened
I was out with the guys
Drinking
And we stopped at all the old haunts,
The Ale House
The Blue Bar
The Good Times …
Round about one
When we were all good and pissed
We went for pizza and doughnuts
And on our way out
I felt that THING
Curl up through my veins
And into my brains
And light up my system
Like a nest of fireflies
Till every nerve in my body screamed
MOVE!
So I ripped off my shirt
And plugged in my earbuds
And switched on a song called
“Oh Yeah”
That ran my joints like
Liquid jazz,
There in the parking lot
I DANCED
Under a shower of moon-gas
And morphed into
The Most Furious Wizard of the Times
Sure enough
A police car rolled up
And the cop that stepped out
Had his hand on his gun
“How ya’ doin’ there?” he asked me.
“Great!” I said, still dancing.
“Wanna join?”
The cop laughed
And I saw the wall he’d built
Magically melt down
He said there was no law
Against what I was doing
And told me to
“Have a good one.”
I stopped dancing,
Shook his hand
And said the same
I then watched him
Get in his cruiser
And drive away
After he was gone
Two scruffy guys
From my high school days
Walked up to me with
Big smiles
“That was the coolest shit we’ve ever seen!”
They said
I winked sweetly
And thanked them
As I walked off
I patted my chest
For bullet holes
....
Note: I reserve the right to occasionally alter the
character names, descriptions, and/or event details in my posts for the
purposes of identity protection and “fluidity of story.” If this puts a kink in
your panties, read someone else’s blog, homey.
