casa la reina is
home
to spiders
crickets (they
came back)
grasshoppers
lizards
ants
various other
squiggly things
i cant or
wont name
(we will not
talk about the
m o u s e)
cats (not inside
the house)
possums (with the
cats)
various birds
including
hummingbirds
sparrows
crows (occasionally)
as well as
fairies
satyrs
elves
dwarves
nymphs
(depending on the
party)
and others
and ghosts
some demons
once in awhile an
angel
and even a few
unwanted
visitors
but i am the one
who has to
write
out the check
for the water
and the power
you cannot
be
a star
without
power
and it
seems you cannot
be
a hermit
without
an entourage
i wake up
in the morning
(well what i
call the
morning)
with a headache
a new set
of wrinkles
and a bite from an
amorous insect
on my cheek
everybody has
to eat i
guess
i am
a meal
for many
the spider or
other
bug that sucks
my blood
gets eaten by a
bird
which is caught
by a cat
which poops
at the foot
of the
persimmon tree
which produces
fruit
that strengthens
my blood
in winter
when all the
bugs and
everyone else
want to be
inside
with
me
* * *
there is no
electricity
at two sockets
in the bedroom
i thought i
was too young
to have no
electricity
in the bedroom
but apparently
age is not
a factor
when it comes
to spark
if you have it
you have it
if you dont
you masturbate
the temporary
sleep
of wine wears off
during the quiet
time
but i cannot
turn on the
light
to write
the list of what i
cannot turn on
increases
the need for light
increases
and the actual
writing
is without
juice
a possum walks
its scratchy
walk on the roof
over my
dread
its vision
so poor
it could not
see if i
were a football
stud
or a rockstar
or the boy
who reads shelf
by shelf
in the library
also squinting
at the
light
* * *
the clothes
need to be washed
but i
cannot seem to
gather the
energy
for it
i need
to be washed
also
both of the
body
and of the
soul
but i
cannot seem to
gather the
energy
for it
i am the great
unwashed
from hole
to shining hole
elizabeth
walks in the front
door
and fills the
kitchen sink with
hot soapy water
letting the dishes
soak
then starts a load
of laundry
she talks the
entire time
but does not notice
i dont
listen
it is the
perfect
relationship
the essay on the
abstract
painting is
finished
and she says
wow
i thought
you only looked
at porn
on that thing
gesturing
toward
the computer
art is porn
i say
at least the
good art is
bad art
is anti porn
the cold
shower of the
soul
but she listens
to me less
than i
listen to her
she makes
a couple plates
of food
crackers
avocado
sardines
humus
olives
and we eat
in the back
the stick garden
budding out
the sun
clicking its teeth
the air
fresh
and clean
* * *
a word
nazi
attacked me
today
the word
nazis want
to control
speech
and by controlling
speech
control thoughts
and by
controlling thoughts
control behavior
and by
controlling behavior
control people
completely
the word nazis
do not care
if i say
fuck
fuck fuck fuck fuck
fuck
they do not care
they do not even care
if i do
fuck
they promote the
illusion
of tolerance
and when it comes to
fucking
and me
someone somewhere
will need
some tolerance
the word nazis
do not care
if i say
cunt
well in america
cunt
is worse
than fuck
and though
they might
not like me saying
cunt cunt cunt cunt
cunt
they would promote
the illusion of
tolerance
but would not
invite me
to their
dinner
parties
henry millers
great line
when i fuck
a cunt
it stays
fucked
is no longer
invited to
dinner parties
either
nigger
is another
word
if you are
black
you can say
nigger
as much as you
like
young black males
seem unable
to communicate
without it
sup nigger
but if you are
white
nigger nigger nigger
will get you
shot
stabbed
beaten
and raked
through the news
there is no illusion
of tolerance
there is no
tolerance
there is no
equality
even mark
twain cannot say
nigger
anymore
jim is now
a slave
which is worse
because it has
no style
and style is the
hope
of the unfortunate
only a nigger
can say
nigger
only a fag
can say
fag
only a whatever
can say
whatever
what ever
(insert your
favorite
politically
incorrect
term here)
(insert your
favorite
profanity
here)
thank you
but the word
nazis
do not care
if i
say these
words
as art
as part of my
poetry
fuck
cunt
nigger
shit shit shit
etc
but if i
say
i am sad
i am poor
i am lonely
there is no
illusion of
tolerance
there is no
tolerance
the word nazi
jumps down
my throat
as if he or she
could push the
words back
to the source
back to another
reality
the word nazis
want me
to say i
am
happy
i am rich
i am surrounded
by love
those lying
fuckers
the secret is
that affirmations
are a
lie
and blowing
sunshine up my
ass
wont make me
happy or wealthy
or loved
but if you
use a breath mint
you can
try
so if i
want to convey
any honest
emotion
or condition
i have to
say
i am fucking sad
i am nigger shit
poor
i am goddamn
motha
fucking son of a
cunty bitch
lonely
(you wonder
why
i swear)
and maybe
just maybe
my
tears
can pass
uncensored
* * *
i thought
i would write
tonight
i got into bed
like i like
and sat
up with pen
and paper and
light
but didnt
write
nothing
presented itself
to the paper
nothing
stimulated
the pen
and my pen
needs
stimulating
these days
or nights
once in a dream
i saw
nijinsky dance
he was young
and
i was younger
he was the
dance
itself
that night
i did see
baryshnikov dance
afternoon
of the faun
when he was
young
and i
was younger
and he was
himself
light
a poem may
remain
on the page
longer than
the paper itself
lived
a dance
leaps off the
stage
of life
and only
air
remains
only twinkle
when the star
is dead
some would say
my poems are
air
hot air
farting actually
but a rose
by any other
smell
would still have
thorns
maurice
would make quite
a faun
tangled in bramble
munching roses
his naked
form would
stimulate
pens for
decades
one leap
would live
longer
than any
poem
i could write
one step
would live
longer
than anything
that
arose
from my paper
tonight
* * *
i could sit
on the chair if
it werent
piled with junk
i could eat
at the table if
it werent
piled with junk
i could walk
out of this
life
like an angel
my feet bare
ly touching
the floor
if it werent
piled
like a new york
barge
with junk
but it is
i am a
junkie
and this this
this life is my
dump
what a dump
jeanne comes to
casa la reina
to bring me
a book
walking in the
front door with
a shout
a newspaper
that was lying
in the street
and a coupon
for razors
maybe this is
a hint
to make a clean
start
or a messy
finish
she looks
for a place
to sit
she is not
the buddha
who could sit
anywhere and
did
on a corpse
on a cloud
on a candy machine
i move
three mountains
of
miscellaneous
papers
books
boxes
a small forest
of clutter
all important
in the scheme of
things
the scheme
of things
from the end
of the couch
so she can
settle
and from across
the room across
the universe
of my life across
the stupas
of trash
she looks
at me
with a smile
* * *
it is cold
casa la reina
is cold
and i
am colder
an electric
heater is bare
ly an orange
light bulb and
a prayer
and i
have never been
a praying man
i
have never been
a praying mantis
i
have never been
a praying
abolitionist
there is nothing
worse
than a cold
praying
abolitionist
someone
who wants to
change
the world
but hasnt the
sense
to light
a fire
expects
the fire
to light
itself
expects
the world
at some point
by some means
to change
itself
in
the fireplace
i light
a fire
using early
drafts of my
poems
it might be
kinder
to the world
to use
final drafts
but they
dont burn
the fire
gone from the
soul
