he'd fuck everyone if he had the time

i almost forgot

On The Road

was written a long time ago

but Jack K

is still here in memory,

hunting

for Old Bull Lee

who is somewhere shooting bullets and drugs,

lots of drugs.

Jack K drove to Boulder on the hunt,

but the Institute

wouldn't admit him,

so on their Buddhist front steps, he started to read an important poem,

Howl,

and the pages still held power,

although the original author was a former mental

patient from New York City.

A listener standing on the top step said she didn't understand the words or the work!

And to “Please return tomorrow or never.”

Jack said, in his courteous Catholic way, that he used to hang out at Columbia University,

when the poem's writer was once a student,

but the comment dropped on her like an unwelcome flash of insight.

Picking up the insight idea was Cassady,

who threw it into his car,

along with Jack,

driving off with great haste,

listening to jazz played at the highest volume,

and began yelling that he'd fuck everyone if he had the time,

though he seldom stopped speeding,

and took every turn he found,

looking for adventure.

Jack said he'd write about it

as soon as he found a working typewriter and a long

scroll of paper.

maybe he didn't need Old Bull Lee after all.

But Cassady didn’t hear none of it.

the dog was envious

all day splitting wood
without a woodie
but my nails are polished
a bright purple.
the dried white and red oak
is piled in a neat pile
ready for burning but
there is no fire.
it's a Monday and the market is
freaking down and out but i'm
sweating with the good love of work.
climate change or a normal warm February sun?
regardless, it's a pleasant day without cold or snow
in the northeast of America which is still
above sea level in Pennsylvania.
all day the dog watched me chainsaw and swing the axe.
she developed an appetite.
i drank a Manhattan and sipped a homemade soup
which had bits of broccoli and small pieces of potato.
it was more typical of a stew, being thick and delicious.
the dog was envious.

if anyone heard its' cries?

the clock hanging on the forest wall
started ticking when i raised my hand;
i didn't try to stop the sound
as i stretched my legs to stand:
i saw a dead raccoon with black eyes
and wondered if anyone heard its' cries?
i heard a white dog bark and call my name
but i felt wild and forgot what it was to be tame
and the sun was fading and i was suddenly in a hurry
to put some distance between myself and worry.
there was a path i assumed the nearby deer made;
it was narrow and seemed to ask me to follow but i stayed,
and the white dog came near me with big brown eyes
and wondered if anyone heard its' cries?

i gave her all

and all aboard
a queen and a lord
ready for their ride
with nowhere new to hide
steel tracks up and down each arm
funny thinking about the harm
punching thru the public crowd
screaming in and out loud
waiting for the boot to kick
always feeling high and sick
and Mary was her name
Mary was her name
playing needles was her game
but what was i to do?
i didn't have a clue
she grabbed ahold of me
i got down on one knee
everything a blur
it wasn't all due to her
i gave her all i should
she took everything she could
and when i tried to rationalize
she disappeared before my eyes
stealing my last breath
tattooing me with signs of death
and all aboard
a queen and a lord
ready for their ride
with nowhere new to hide.

absolute power

absolute power is a poison,
a taste so pure in pornographic content
that the moneyed class
skins the tax-collector regularly,
at the beginning of each shift;
and as the sword is passed from hand to hand,
the young become bold,
while the old
sit in fear they would become its victim,
decapitated and thrown into the nearest river.

Mr President: #45

there's a B-52 hanging from the ceiling;
underneath is a President who is masturbating while self-dealing.
on the Capitol steps he's blowing smoke
up his ass he's dealing big-time dope
rolls of loose fat falling far from his Mar-A-Lago chair;
combing his orange spray-tanned facial hair
on the white house south lawn
no generals seen but two wives gone:
it's enough to make you puke
hearing that he thinks he's too damn cute
in the morning all the official staff prostrate on the Oval Office floor
disowning personal honor by asking if he would like some more:
he'll miss this and all the fake news and other stuff
always pretending to be Mister Marlboro Man tough
but he's got those damn bone spurs
playing golf while wearing daddy's borrowed furs
looking into the mirror asking who's the fairest one of all?
banging his head against the Constitutional wall.
grab your loaded guns and your hooded masks:
deny involvement if Homeland Security asks.
a scorched earth and refugees in Central American rags
wading across a river cradling hope inside their paper bags,
anxious for when the public school bell rings:
no, it's not over till the fictional fat lady sings
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee,
or say can you see from sea to shining sea.