Baby Albatross the Plastic Death

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

Where is my Heart

The combination
to late to change.
Smiles, laughter, a hug, a touch, you
You unlocked the door.
My heart it’s stolen
GONE.

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.

I Love Pretty Boys Chasing Balls and You

I promise not to wear your make up and panties in public unless it is game day.

I think your name is beautiful but I could never wear it on a shirt.

Yes, I’m more attracted to you in a little Patriot’s jersey.  I like it when you remind me of Tom Brady.

Your wedding ring will be on my finger
but I will always wear my man’s number over my heart.

With HD Triple play costing $159.99 a month which doesn’t include the price of beer, game tickets, and sports apparel.  We are so lucky to have fallen in love.

NOTE:

How Much Public Money Does Your State Spend on NFL Football? Click HERE

Rotting Democracy

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,
war,
immigration law,
and revised medicare plans.
The consumers stuff themselves
on processed fatty government.
While the fruits,
vegetables,
nuts,
and grains
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.

Keeping it in the Family

Adam took a look at Eve
then took a look at god
and said,
she’s so hot and sexy
I need some womanly love

god said,
love love family love
that’s what makes
the world go a round

Adam took a look at Eve
oh yes oh yes
hey hey hoochie coochie spouse
lets get this race a started
lets go and have some fun

Eve took a look at Abel
then took a look at god
and said
I got this funny feeling
I need some sonly love

god said
sin sin sinful love
that’s what makes
the world go a round

Eve took a look at Abel
oh yes oh yes
hey hey hoochie coochie son
lets get this race
lets go and have some fun

Cain took a look at Eve
then took a look at god
and said
momma’s makes me horny
I need some motherly love

god said
sin sin sinful love
that’s what makes
the world go a round

Cain then took a look at Eve
oh yes oh yes
hey hey hoochie coochie momma
lets get this race a started
lets go and have some fun

Adam took a look at Abel
then took a look at god
and said
he’s so handsome
can men make babies too

god said
gay gay love
doesn’t make
the world go a round
it’s just weird

hey hey hoochie coochie momma
hey hey hoochie coochie daddy
hey hey hoochie coochie son
let’s get this race
a started
lets go and have some fun

A Poem for my Mom Who’s Son still Pee’s in his Bed

Sometimes my thoughts
embarrass her
like a little kid who still
pee’s in his bed at age 12.
Whose sleep and dreams
are too peaceful
to be tossed away for protocol.

I’m an adult.
I still piss on myself
but in my head.

My mind mentally pisses
a stream of thought
after thought
after thought
into the toilet ears
of normality.

I would rather piss
on myself
and lie
in a urine soaked bed
of imagination
than be disturbed
by the dictates
of social norms.

My mom
however
always blushes
and with her apology worded wash cloth
cleans up my mental mess.

The Baby Boomers Dead Decade

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?

Mechanistic Lover and the Video Game Kids

She’s almost beautiful,
Her touch hard but squeezable
With enough body friction
plastic becomes somewhat
malleable, feelable and almost
Pamela-Anderson real.

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.”
Squirt, Squirt
Damn It!!!

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.

Ones and Zeros and the Lack of You

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
while reading?
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
love.

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 Temple and Blood of God doesn’t Taste like Mouthwash but a Day of Surfing

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
and says,
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.

Whale spouts
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
I’m kissing
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.