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My white horse with the tobacco colored mane
rides me
You can smell it a mile away
The smell of manure and smoke a mile away
This horse lives in the bottom of purses
And in Bugler bits, scraped off the floor
Swiped from outdoor ashtrays
Picking through the biggest butts
Rolling and rerolling until there
Are no dusty specks of tobacco on the floor
Or in the dustpan
Hooray, I copped a Kool Mild about an inch and a half long
I have the skid row roll down, saving all the bits of bugler
And even the smoked butts to roll just one more
Always begging here and there I ride my white horse
After the ride
I feel the life being sucked out of my chest as I inhale
Higher than a kite from the lack of oxygen
Well, hell, I plug into my nebulizer
Breathe deeply the Albuteral
Turn on the oxygen concentrator at night
Shit, they don’t tell you about this stuff, the “other” lung disease
No lung cancer for me, no quick death from cells mestatisized to the brain
Not caring if I suffocate
My parents smoked
I smoke occasionally
And only if I can get them free
I choke and ride the white horse
Hoping that I’ll never make into a nursing home
They’re bad places to die!
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(for Bellingham Jimmy)
Dear Jimmy-on-the-road
with the milk crate on the bike piled high with
worldly goods, packages to be mailed
my new toothbrush
and a few poems
for the side roads
for the old roads
new roads and cosmic
skyways
makes me wonder about
strange entomologies
new words and honey buns
crazy mystic
with Jesus on the road
and an edgy longing
to not be owned
by corporate America
the gov’mint
or young women
Thanks, Jimmy, for not leaving me
old , skid-marked boxers
Thanks for putting down the toilet seat
and bringing me a cold drink, Sprite,
in the middle of the night
(Oh fuck! Cheap shot rhyme!)
I tell him he’s a fool
for loving breeding stock
with tits
the crazed kind of vamp
the young ones
literary types
who need constant reassurance
and ask if they’re pretty
and sexy
and does it make my butt look fat
at when they’re sixty
left me with a list
of things old poets hate to hear
So, here’s mine, Jimmy,
these words makes my blood run
colder than liquid nitrogen
It’s your fault.
It’s your job to clean the house.
Hey, baby, am I gonna get some tonight?
Girlie girl
I need you
You complete me
Marry me
Your ex is a great guy
I was once damn fine athelete
Oh, that’s nasty
I gotta call my sponsor
Smoke outside?
Who you kiddin’?
I quit my job, today, fuckin’ asshole pissed me off.
Don’t try that teary stuff on me, baby
You got the clap, babe
Come give your old daddy some lovin’
Bye, so long, Adios
I’m outta here
Lemme tell ya, Hank,
this fat’s lady’s singing
so listen up…
breeders tie you down
and murder you in your sleep
wielding knives and broken condoms
poison and insecurities
and a blow-job’s worth
of jimmy juice
go celebate as a priest
or you’ll have kids
and turn into your dad
when you get too old and fat
arthrirtic and sick
and ready to go to the old poets home
crawl here,
come back, we’ll hold hands
and a quickie friendly smoochiefor the old times
we’ll take about how fried John Trudell looks
and how Ginsberg was an old queer
and Luke Warm Water’s new baby
and my crush on Corso
and his huge world
gone small
before I fondly put you on a bus
back to Mendota
I wish you a room of your own
a nice stay in a detox
or looney bin of your choice
more poetry slams to win
and a street corner to sing on
paper on which to write
pens that never run out of ink
that you never loose
and fame, babe, fame!
You’ll do fine in Ireland, Boy
they love their poets there
P.S. I wrote a check for $15.85, you know,
the mail man brought it back here
for that package you said you’d send
C.O.D. must have been too much hassle
or that blond sour puss thought
you looked way too weird. Huh?
Your Post Office hustle
didn’t woirk this time
Don’t loose your edge!
P.P.S
Guinness
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