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.

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.

Piss Poem duet performed at Centrally Grown located in Cambria, CA

Poet Brandon Follett and ASL interpreter Susan Mackey entertain at Centrally Grown.

Thank you Rita for the nice compliment!

Eggs Won’t Rot and Sperm Won’t Spoil spoken word video

your food doesn’t rot
your sperm doesn’t die
your eggs don’t spoil
your breasts won’t sag
your 85 year old medicated penis acts 21
and your smile never turns to sad
everything is not alright

always new beginnings
Everything always ending
this is the way
life’s supposed to
be

1 Cor 13​:​13 And These Three Remain Faith, Hope and Love. But the Greatest of These is LOVE

lets strip mine the mountains, lets burn the rain forest, lets dam the rivers, lets kill nature
LOVE OF COMFORT
lets kill 6 million, lets rule the world, lets burn books
LOVE OF FASCISM
lets make nuclear missiles, lets kill charlie, lets kill indians
LOVE OF CAPITALISM
lets destroy our body, lets break moms’ soul, lets overdose
LOVE OF DRUGS
lets pioneer gulf war syndrome, lets be chivalrous, lets kill Sadame
LOVE OF OIL
lets kill puppies, lets kill kitties, lets kill the unborn, lets build more rest homes
LOVE OF ME
Love is killing humanity

Love can’t get me home by 6 for you
Love can’t get me to draw a bath for you
Love can’t get me to buy a $2 rose for you
Love killed our relationship
because I love someone or something else
Love invented divorce

America loves new Sony TVs, iPads and iPhones
America loves new Chevys, Fords, and Chryslers
America loves Carnival Cruise Lines, United Airlines, and Circus Circus
America love Nordstroms, Macy’s, and Neimun Marcus
America loves the nonafordable
America loves credit
Love birthed inflation

Pharisees love of God killed Christ
Christians love of church is killing our perception of Christ
Love replaced spirituality with man made isms

Too much love makes the world go mad!!!!!!!!

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.

God in the Field

God in the Field performed by Veronica and the Mental Foreplays
Brandon Follett on vocals
Josh Kindelberger on guitar and bass

lyrics by Brandon Follett
music by Josh Kindelberger

Might have saw god in the solitude of a field.
Might have felt god in the grass between my toes.
Might have seen god in the undeveloped skyline.
Might have heard god in a blue jay’s chirp.
Not sure if I do believe in god
but at least I feel at peace.

The next year
a church had been built
in the field
where god might have been.
There I met a loud, guilt-driven, reincarnated Adam Smith.
He collected dollar bills
that read, “In God We Trust.”
He calls them testimonies of faith.

I told the preacher about the field
so he took me to the gift shop
and said, “You’ll find all that peace
in this consumer Jesus doll for $5.00.”
So I bought it.
He then proceeded to pray,
“May this Christ-like bobbling head
forgive your sins,
corporate salvation save your soul.”

Not sure if I believe in God
but do know I’ve been swindled.