Three Bucks Out of Luck
I met God the other day,
on a Tuesday afternoon.
He was smoking French cigarettes
and drinking black coffee.
“What this meeting all about?”
I asked and sipped my own
liquefied Arabica beans.
“You’re right; you’re all damn fucked,
just like you thought you were.”
And then he laughed and put a pair of Oakleys
over two different colored eyes.
I watched him raise a pigeon from the dead
as he passed on down the sidewalk.
Once roadkill of taxis that didn’t give a damn,
now it bobbed and waddled in the muck
of our humanity.
“We’re all just fucked anyway.”
I played with the spoon on my saucer
and watched coffee droplets turn into constellations.
The Milky Way is only a figment of our imaginations—
Andromeda is one of a thousand daytrips we can take
anytime we’d like.
I tip the mug and watch the coffee pour.
I leave without paying because I know it doesn’t matter.
Three bucks and a dime aren’t worth a damn
when we’re all just fucked anyway.
with heavy legs i make
the world turn
on its gears.
i hiss vapor,
from my joints.
my road to conformity.
just apocalypse and
Work’s been adorable.
Old guy next to me
is rollin’ down the window of
his big rig.
He lifts a match and
lights up on his cig—
Got the ugly kind of face
my darling dis—
Mister Beauregard has no heart. He keeps an antique, silver watch just above his breast coat pocket, just above his heart, so that the tick-tick-tocking mimics the thump-thump-bumping of a normal man’s heart.
He drives a Chevelle‘69, just to pass the time, as he listens to the tick-tick just above his breast bone, just across his chest, in his powder-blue, Chevy ’69. It’s leftover from the times he drove ‘till sunrise on the strip; ‘till he drove all night chasing phantoms in his vision while he looked at Mars. Now he sees shadows when he stares; he sees clouds when he knows it should be Heaven in the stars.
His eyes are made of glass, they say, because to buy his poor wife’s ashes he had to give his real ones both away. Her ashes sit near the magazines he never reads, and by the urn that keeps the fattest tabby you’d have ever seen. Its name was Max and it chased cedar waxwings in the yard.
He smokes cigars when he drives so far, and the smoke curls like clouds along the Sunset Boulevard. He dreams he’s somewhere that’s neverwhere and notquitehere because he can’t quite see or hear the ticking of reality the rest of us all breathe and fear. He’s someone else who isn’t here; someone who is nevermore…the ghost of Mister Beauregard.
(March, 2012…although I could’ve sworn it was older.)
I’m stressed. Here; have a Kerouac-inspired poem.
Photo by…ME! HA.
I was born of concrete and
scorching sun on black top.
Mothers swayed in doorways,
In another life.
Tomato juice tastes sour
a hangover tongue leftover
I’ll buy a git-tar,
and strum tunes
down the block
when it rains.
a cowboy hat
and pretend I’m
It’s just a lie.
The ceiling fan don’t work.
My t-shirt melts
a second skin.
I’d walk ‘round nak’d, but
That was a dream.
Take a drag,
Pass out on
Revised September, 2015