baby albatross has a hungry belly parent albatross returns back to their nest after skimming the ocean surface for food parent regurgitate fish and colorful plastic too into babies mouth the albatross family dies the slow death of discarded plastic convenience maybe evolution will someday bless the birds and amphibians with breasts and mothers milk when this happens the only critters with plastic in their mouth will be humans and their babies sucking down nestle formula through a plastic nipple and adult babies sucking down coffee drinks through a plastic straw
to late to change.
Smiles, laughter, a hug, a touch, you
You unlocked the door.
My heart it’s stolen
My heart has been stolen before.
On an occasional sunny day
a long legged girl with a cherry red Revlon smile
will steal it.
Till she rounds the corner or my eyes get distracted.
There’s always the endless party
too sober to have fun
too intoxicated to drive.
A girl spinning, twirling to the Reagan era
will steal my heart.
Her drunken kiss.
My drunken boredom.
My heart always returns in the morning.
My heart never came home.
Has she put it in her tampon box
taken out once a month
after 3 weekends of sour dates?
Is it in her cigarette tin
taken out for an occasional fix?
Could it be in her underwear drawer?
Lacy, frilly, fun to touch
until a new Victoria Secret catalog comes in the mail
then tossed away?
Maybe she put it in her music box
openend at bed time
falling asleep to it every night.
Smell that smell
coming from the White House basement.
Bush says, “It’s broken sewer line.”
But its rotting democracy.
He puts on his clown face
for the American people.
There’s a serial democracy killer on the loose.
He’ll throw fancy picnics
with a buffet of tax cuts,
and revised medicare plans.
The consumers stuff themselves
on processed fatty government.
While the fruits,
of civil liberty, environment, social medicine, and education
are nowhere to be seen.
The nation has been convinced a healthy democratic diet
consists of Krispy Creams and AppleBees.
There’s something rotting in the White House basement.
There’s a serial democracy killer on the loose.
I watch Leave it to Beaver.
I watch I Dream of Jeannie.
I watch a dead decade.
I pay for each syndication.
I listen to the Beatles.
I listen to the Doors.
I listen to a dead decade.
I pay for each new box set.
Pink Floyd, the Eagles, Page/Plant tickets
I want to relive a dead decade.
I pay top price for floor seating.
Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon
make more money now off their dead decade.
I financially support a dead person.
The 90’s are passing me by.
This decade can’t die
leaving behind its little contribution of gay rights, Generation X, age of information and 90210.
How am I suppose to market my generation
with this 90’s rubbish?
I need a revolution, a dead politician, a Vietnam, psychedelic rock, and free love.
How am I going to steal my children’s money
with my blasé dead decade?
She’s almost beautiful,
Her touch hard but squeezable
With enough body friction
plastic becomes somewhat
malleable, feelable and almost
She’s a machine.
I’ll call her Veronica.
She trained me to be the lover that I am
like the Nintendo game that taught me to be Super Mario.
Veronica has 3 speeds:
slow, medium, and fast
powered by double D.
Before each practice
standing naked in front of a picture
dreamily looking at the ideal girl parts
I mentally prepare by chanting a mantra,
“Veronica’s love reservoir will not
vibrate me into premature ejaculated ecstasy.
I must learn to satisfy the woman
with multiple orgasms.”
Practice after practice
I finally prevail.
I can now wear down the vibration
before the vibration wears down me.
Like the video games that teach kids
to be efficient killers.
Veronica taught me to be a better lover.
I am now ready to point my mechanized sex pistol
at something real.
Veronica in the email you wrote about your anger
and our dysfunction.
The one’s and zero’s filtered through your computer,
others’ computers, and finally my computer
does not express who we are.
Printing your e-mail I see
what you learned in grade school.
What you forgot, Microsoft Word fills in the rest.
Our lives took on more than symbolism.
Please write me a letter.
I want to see how stable
your pen is in perfectly shaped sentences.
Then watch the words take on your madness
with each crossed out thought
and sloppy caricature.
Remember last winter when you went to get
the mail and the kids, Bob and Bev, locked the house door.
At first you tried knocking politely then smashed
the window pane to let yourself in.
I want to see your fingerprints’
images smudged in black ink.
Do you recall holding hands in bed
The comfortable silence between the two of us.
Not always having to
entertain with sex, booze, or conversation.
Only needing two books and touch to sustain
I want to smell and see where you are.
Take me to Denny’s with the odor of cigarette smoke
and coffee stained saturated paper.
Do you remember eating mozzarella cheese sticks
at 2:30AM after dancing?
I want to find the short black curly hair
that shows up in the oddest places.
To recall one last time the night in
Salt Lake City where we impregnated our
dreams into our heads and bodies that eventually
blossomed into who we were—man and wife.
If nothing else, a piece of DNA to show my friends
“this is you.”
I want to see a tear stain
where love use to be.
I want to hold as much of you
as I can one last time.
Promise me our relationship
was more to you
then ones and zeros.
The woman with the soft angelic face
lies next to me
in the sun warmed sand.
The breezy salt air
plays with her blonde wavy hair.
I run my fingers up an down
her out stretched arm.
I tell her she’s beautiful.
She sweetly smiles
The temple of God is the body.
I wonder what the walls
of God’s temple taste like?
I kiss her.
I discover the flavors
of todays pinnic dinner:
avocado, onion, garlic, and black bean.
Flavors from the earth
that I adore.
Flavors not found in
the artificial world of
over the counter
toothpaste, gum, or mouthwash.
The full moon slowly rises
from the east.
The sun begins to set
in the west.
The tide does
it’s mysterious change.
We grab our surfboards.
go off like fireworks
on the horizon.
We float beyond the brake.
A harbor seal
pops its head above the water line.
A dolphin fin
glides through the waves.
I lean towards her.
I taste salt water
mixed with saliva.
She tells me
the blood of God.
I taste the same water
on the lips of
whales, seals, dolphins, and all sea life.
She stops speaking mid sentence.
Catches a wave.
Rides it as graceful
as a dolphin.
This book is well worth the money. Rich with well-worded descriptions and beautiful photos, this zine will satisfy the reader who has either travel-curiosity or no idea what to make for dinner (which, of course, would be omelettes).”
-Tara Blackmore from Broken Pencil