Primate Behavior

1. Once bitten, twice bitten.
2. It doesn't matter what you do, you're going to live forever.  So try and get it right.
3. What ever you do, it's going to stay with you.
4. There is no rule book, but that doesn't mean there are no rules.
5. There are lots of lies, lots of truths.
6. If you didn't have fun the first time, chances are you won't the second.
7. If you're not having fun, give it up and find something else.
8. A woman can teach, a man can learn, but an asshole just process' shit.
9. Enjoy it now, you might not be able to later.
10. Support promiscuity, spread it around and cut down the population.
11. Support abstinence, help stamp out the human race.

                 published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

AIDS

They cursed Spokane; I laughed.
Don't fuck with the gypsies.
Of course it wouldn't take much.
I know what Power is,
but why work any harder than
you have to.  It's America after
all.  I've read Mark Twain;
I know what good, old-fashioned,
Yankee know-how can do to a brace
of knights.  Funny thing though,
the one spell that worked
sent the bastard back.  To Hell
with all Yankees in America.
Love it or leave it!
I will love it and leave it when
the stupid thing won't come after
me and hunt me down.
One and a half million cases
of AIDS in the country,
who says gypsy curses don't
work?

                   published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Reservoirs

They stud the skylight
waiting for somebody to twist
a spigot.  They wall the v
in hills to make lakes.
Water wombs, water wangs,
turn on and flush
shit and piss out
of the toilets of America.
Sun and storm wash paint,
fade the colors at dawn or
evening.  It takes all
the many shapes spilling
over town to grow.
Confluence, affluent:
who cares if
the water is tainted
when the source itself is
so filled with rot
gathered inside for ages.
The putridity of the human
spirit is purged by flesh:
flesh in contact with water,
water of the world,
the world and her wonder.
Sometimes, when the stink is
too much, I have to walk
out to the edge and touch
a water-tower.  It is cool, even
in the heat of day.  I look out
from there to what is
beyond.

                    published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Older

Do you know how I can tell
that I'm getting old?
I can't set a dime on edge
at the bar anymore.
Sure, a nickel, but
not a dime.
Too much time, too many drugs.
And there is the shooting.
Take a fifty foot target
92 and above is an A.
Four years ago
I could do that.
In fact, I did.
Today, all over the board.
Ooops!
Fuck me royal!
Just set up 3 dimes
in a row!

             published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Pissing in the Wind

I have heard
that changing the diapers of young
men is a hazard.
They piss hard
in your face.
Perhaps that is why
I had a daughter.
The older I get,
the more I feel like the trunk
of an old tree
in a world of dogs.
Too many of my breed
don't mellow with age,
or learn to govern
their stream.

             published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

The Good Shepherd

Shepherd, Shepherd
kill your sheep,
hang them in the shop to eat.

If in winter
you wish to be warm,
fleece them, you are forewarned.

Sleep protected from the wolf,
the fence is strong ...
a fancy in pastoral song.

                    published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

A Creed

By profession I am a pornographer,
I look for the perfect orgasm in lines.
By love I am a poet,
I touch things with my mind.
My religion is sorcery,
I am woven into my world.
My life is eternal,
but I have forgotten what I was
and what I will be.

               published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Lawyer Lady

Hey lover . . .
why will we never touch?
Doom is out there.
In a billion years the sun
will fade into itself
leaving worlds to wander
for themselves.  A little sooner,
a peaceful death in bed
may come.  Violent death,
surprise makes life interesting.
Is it despair or boredom?
What do you feel which makes
you work those fingers bloody raw?
Fry your brain over books? 2n
Blind yourself on small print
and worry?  You certainly aren't
looking for joy.
I'm only looking
for jollies anymore.  That long spiral
to Hell or Heaven isn't worth it.  The End
will catch me soon.  I'd like
to take a few pleasures
in the moist scents and flavors
you put out along the way.
Up or down, over or under,
through.
Which ever way is fine
with me.  We might rest
for a moment, . . . no more.

                   published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

For the Love of Death, the early years: Comments

     When I published the second edition of this collection, I broke it into sections that seemed relevant in some way.  The sections are Obsidian, Chert, Flint, Cores, and Flakes.  These are all stages of finding artifacts in lithic technology.  If you ever find a copy of this collection, you can see if the section titles fit the poems in them.  Poetry is similar to making stone tools, but does not require as much blood, mostly . . .
     Most of the material that is in this volume was written well before 1993, so it is very young, and very experimental.

Vending Machines

After three or four days without sleep
there isn't anything I like to do better
than walk up to a Pepsi machine
whistling Coke is the real thing.  Then
I sit down with my back to a concrete
wall and try to decide.  Usually, I
wind up just staring at the sucker.
It's hard to find a machine with bottles.
They're all aluminum cans.  So why the fuck
do they have a bottle opener on the front?
I know the first thing that I do
when I come home from the store with
a six pack of bottles is to go out
and look for a vending machine.

It's a Pepsi generation, coming at you, growing strong.
Pepsi Cola hits the spot, twelve full ounces, that's a lot.
It really is a lot if you're on a space shuttle.
Sixteen million and the damn toilet
still doesn't work.  Hey, pull over to the next bush,
I got to take a leak.

Little plastic rectangles for maybe seven selections,
orange light, make another.
I don't want another.
Correct change only, but I don't have it.
Shit!  There has to be a better way.
This is why cotton costs more than synthetics;
after three or four days without sleep,
people sit alone in concrete corridors
bathed in the glow of a machine.

                     published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Apocalypse

The Horn blew; the Horsemen came.
A child was trampled as they passed.
On so little was it sent to hell.

                   published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd. ed., S.I.N., 1993.

The Mathematical Explanation of Why I Don't Have a Tan

There are 7 days in a week.
24 x 7 > the number of hours
in a week . . .  168.
I work in a building for 8 hours
a day, 5 days a week.
5 x 8 > 40
40 from 168 equals 128 hours.
Now figure in sleep.
8 x 7 > 56
Assuming I do it inside,
no rays.
So . . . 128 hours minus 56 equals
72 hours.
Even if we count eating inside
at a leisurely pace,
say 3 hours a day
times 7 > 21
72 - 21 > 51 hours.
There are 51 hours out there
I could be in the sun.
No excuse.

                 published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd. ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Shadow-paint

Outside the glass, across venetian blinds,
the setting spring sun
puts a gash of light along the wall
to the floor, with shadows.
Stark limbed bushes waver in wind,
moving shadows, stationary blinds,
hot light, all sloping down.
The pattern will rise up the wall
until florescence smothers it all.

Outside the glass darkly,
cold to the touch,
limbs of bushes still
rattle in a wind filled night.

                    published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Bar Time

Table of circles
marks the passing drinks,
passing time


more than ashtrays
which women take
as they get full.


Reflections from neon,
brighter rings for
newer drinks,


beer signs add color
to a dim, ill-lighted place
of standing circles.


Fuck bar towels anyway.
Dry ringlets tell me
how long.


                  published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

Statistics

Incoming.
Sitting in a muddy shell-hole,
you never know if
lightning is going to strike twice.
The only thing that keeps you
sane is a pack of smokes,
and one dry match.


                 published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.