a roulette number

i'm not even the promiscous

                                        ball
i'd rather be the gun
that shoots the damn thing
amidst its pointless travels
            and calls it the clincher

from carlin

                                                                        (1937-2008)


Personally, when it comes to rights, I think one of two things is true. I think either we have unlimited rights, or we have no rights at all. Personally I lean towards unlimited rights, I feel for instance I have the right to do anything I please, BUT! If I do something you don’t like I think you have the right to kill me. So where are you gonna find a fairer fucking deal than that? So the next time some asshole says to you “I have the right to my opinion.” You say, “oh yeah? Well I have the right to my opinion and my opinion is you have no right to your opinion!” then shoot the fuck and walk away…  (its bad for ya,2008)

the poster boy's delight

The air is trivial
for it stinks like scum
that hangs from the roofs
of gutters
that show love to me

this kid i watch rubs his hands
mercilessly
trying to get glue out of his fingers
that sticks to him like a bad word someone once said
that i know all about
A man comes by and hands him a folded paper plate
i launch my umbrella towards the sky
for the air is heavy and poised to vomit

he puts out his hands as if to beckon punishment
As the drops grow heavier
his hands return to softness he had forgotten
the adhesive drips like molten lead to the ground
he manages a smile,i think
and then picks up the plate
which is gluey all the same
but he doesn't mind,neither do i

my chauffeur arrives and i board with relief
the rain is causing a mess
i look out towards the boy

his paper plate sits filled and untouched on the pavement

i twist my muscles further and i see him fighting
to keep photographed heads above ground
the poster almost falls upon his embrace
as if to save him from the rain
but he doesn't mind
before i can see anymore the cold engine
lets out a rant
and runs me away
from the blur i can hardly open my eyes to

Bootleg

i sleep with half my face off the bed
probably mishearing
a bereaved child's prayer
that renunciates off these plastic walls
his naked moans of brutality as focussed
lens keepers summarize him
i snort and die in front of me
lined up
alongside him
a jingle would wake me up
maybe would wake us all up