Lazy Saturday on the Bayou

Soon enough I’ll be sippin’
Hurricanes
again
horns blowing
thunder clappin’
and words flowing like the floods

Those ghosts always make me believe
there really are things that are right with the world.

That is why I am afraid of New Orleans…

that will be where life is gunna start all over

(and it is just about time to jump)

af

(written with pen on paper, reading omens)

I do not want to stay home

I need to walk

I do not want coffee either

I do not really want anything this morning

I do not want to go anywhere

…

…

I just want to walk

…

…

I just want to be sad

af

(written with pen on paper)

Please help me!
    I am not on drugs!
        I Am Just Trying!

the begging of silence on deaf ears
passes through car after car as a ghost

Then this girl
more beautiful than I have ever seen before
pulls him close
takes his hand

You really believe in Jesus?
    You really believe he guides you?

he looks at her, shocked with affirmation
and she pulls him even closer

Then I will pray with you.

and right then and there
on an ordinary sunday
on an ordinary N train
unbeknownst to anyone else
oblivious to anyone else
two humans
who had no cause to ever meet
prayed together…

af

(written in little notebook)

The petrified housewife
perpetually beaten
insulted
made to believe there is no escape
there is only so far to run
frightened to speak up
watched, hunted in her own house
inferior, subservient, insignificant
appreciative for what she has
guilty for having desire
defeated
reluctant to accept
this is how it is
this is how it just is

Nothing I can do about it.
         …Just the way it is…

af

(written in little notebook)

Made to believe
I am
so ugly
so insignificant
so annoying
so selfish
so weird
so awkward,
I find it impossible
not
to be intimidated
by beauty

af

(written in little notebook)

The circus is pulling me back
and I shall rejoin it soon.

Whatever phase of its incarnation it is exploring at the moment
it is still the only true freakshow left
for us bohemian nostalgic misfit freaks;
Those of us who like to read a book in a bar
and write drunk poetry inspired by the drunk author
about life and love and passion
which is really about bourbon and boredom and pussy.

The carnival on the beach

Soon
I will be back with the misunderstood;
Back to the closest thing I have to a home.

af

(written in little notebook)

“Stop being such an American,” she said to me.

I knew exactly what she meant, with my cum stains dried on the inside of my pant thigh, crumbs of cake stuck on my face (those that did not make it to my stomach).  My preaching had reached obnoxiously righteous levels, but I argued anyway.  I knew exactly what she meant, but I am trained to question.

I searched through all of my wise epitaphs, searched soul, searched for wit and deduced it all to:

“Fuck.”
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