Truth is I don’t remember roaring through my twenties.
Those succubus years; flying high as gods,
snorting Fresno whores misguided who could not

spell narcotic or philanthropy
so they switch off with lightning in a bone bottle invariably back on.

Somewhere some mental masturbation is an opposite polarity.
 
Weed on Friday morphs into bleach white
Saturday awakening in a gauze of hungover haze
stolen every 7 minutes by the exhale of a transit bus.

A beaming sun strokes the lids &

behind it are red napalm’d eyeballs cracking

like used white cues

still unable to rearrange discernible futures

of this wallering out of a godawful truth.

Poverty shares house wine & carved out moving boxes

across this uneven green of revolting felt,

or asphalt, out

where the eyelids stand lopped off

half from the view of being seen again

& half from wanting to remain blind,
of getting pasted over Margaritas in helmets

& drinking from fish bowls with
cocks in prowling hand in dark circles of cunt.

Standing is not an option for an empty bag.

Somewhere a lazy man moves so slow

his poverty righteously overtakes me
watching my friends plick ends of choking ciggies
into paper ash cans between brick & bones.
I stand in in circles of jowls & biting cold just to feel

closer to anything,
closer than the suicidal womb I was extracted from,
head tearing loose from the cosmic insides
of a seventeen year death.

She loved my sister best; let her rest now
in her self-professed Auschwitz & ashes

of memory still wreaking like smoke.
Tormenting herself inside a new bottled womb,
lost & not buried, sacrilegious & beheaded
although it was wroughtly accidental.

At least until the sleeping pills annunciated

her last breath from the liquor.
Strapped to my life by her hands of drug induction,
her photonegative apartment still sings to me,
making that two drug induced abductions
with console television still tuned to a cooking show.

Somewhere an apartment in South Boston

is annulled in the gasp of vomit & emptiness.

Seattle is

waking up wet in her eyes & stone-groggy,
a disfigured Queen Anne head in a thick cotton fog,
me running from surreal moments that I exist,
away from that forged fire poker rod
with starving iron teeth & small hooker hands
studded with baby faced diamonds
always whining over me for more to eat.

Feed them teenage skin from my shoulder,
stuff your groves of rotten cucumbers
insane by vinegar into my nine year old gagging gullet,
anything away from George Jones seeping like dirty tar-fingers
through the epidermis of carpet & floorboards.
Let me sleep into those broken cans of metal
resembling more now rusty dead sleds than once rumbled,
smoothed-out, out-loud red heads

with their rubbery legs unshaven.
Let me become sun chewed jerky out of this chasm of black suede,

pull my rib from the Eve of chrome & polished steel.

Slick snakes from a creek still hang from green afro tree tops
faded to black under a pressed moon thumb
& the pencil line easement trails away from a burning house,
through our old chain-link & ravine of over growth.
The smell of stale cigarettes & chemical dependency

still diffuses in an early morning spew

of wide sun beams through the shirsh of waking trees.
There is a fingernail still tapping against the skull clear windows

of that scrawny man-child left locked in a jar.
There is still shining from her cycloptic eye over cum stains,
her unexplained wet spots aside dry crusty carpet,
ring-wormed cup circles seeping into antique wood
where that fucking George Jones hung up
like smelly old man socks in bourbon stale air.

Yes, I forget to remember those succubus years,
those juke-boxed drowned black-bebby nights
with record players with foreheads torn off,
girls cumming in palms on rooftops of pasty old men,
above the sifted exhales of stale bar breath
in emerald backyards of beer-bottle brush.

I forget sharing alleyways of rhinestone vomit

with stolen shapes of crack-whore skeletons
behind their oblique, alabaster faces, blowing hard:
somewhere the angelic baby girls are turning blue-faced

inside these Californian movie stars fisting scrotum with dollar bills;
wiping corners of the drizzled mouth,

like staring out the lace linings of blank caskets

& waving smiles through the windows of White House

I forget faces from the UTF bigotry riots,
forget the broken negroes hanging in window ways
& the uneducated crackers with whipping handguns,
a pink t-shirted, college drop-out, hidden under pig tails

& amber waves of breasts,
splaying legs of porn propaganda in bourgeois media,
the damp smell of CS gas in that Northwest morning fog.
I forget until the wet flea bites of military chemistry come.

I forget the crawling lit fuse along arms of dynamite,
noses untapped & spouted & stomped red by riot boots.
I wash out those sheets of disengaged motorcycle rides,
smoke weed at 4:20 with strangers I used to know,
in an adjacent park where no one really mattered anyway
& framed in a fence of no one cared.
I let loose bulging black coughs into pasty echoes

of human frailty via hookah pipe
that we used to blow smoke into each other,

watching the taunting police in short-shorts & Ray-Bans.

I would forget the bullied, hot days loaded onto trains

like an oxymoronic hobo in a fishtank boxcar

or shiny new spoons loaded into hulls of a Jesus.
It is liberating to burn holes into the suburban history of sophisticates
with their downtown, white lab-coats tending flock,
shipping packaged minds anywhere but to sanity,
counting rickety railroads & interstates between universities

& beneath the holistic wing of a raven nighttime.

It is true I have forgotten

under pretenses of finding Indians lost in hymns

of Black Elk & Cochise & Hiawatha & Tecumseh.
This is how I forget angels exist in Western prairies
sitting my ass in milled paperback, sniffing white powders of poetry
inside leopard print pews where words make them sweet
as virgin fruit from aching vine, where flashes of moonlight & arse
by curtainless apartment eyes: barefoot & broken versed.
I forget fingering snatch with page turners;

misshapen screams climbing walls &
flicking neon against brittle creaks of a well-worn headboard.

So we keep time pushed back at her miserable bay
discarding yellowing books for prophetic white ones,
emptying psychoses by the tankards,
through reverberations of beer head
& walking numb-toed into northwestern waters.

The ice sears flat feet in blue clumps of feet,

to forget ingestion of life I guess,
the indiscretion of a disfigured birth.

I forget to weep

with homosexual boneflowers wilting on unforgiven stems,
having forced out imaginations of normalcy

into rabbit holes of ecstasy & martinis on Capitol Hill.
Somewhere a military is giving a medal for a man killing two men

& discharging another for loving one.

I forget to keep vantage lateral & unfixed.
I see them wake under the red eyed mornings

like hung over pandas unsmiling with glittered hair & sore asses.
They stumble from unemployment lines into empty parking lots of bars
with the rest of us, writing alternative country lyrics ‘til passed out.

I forget to breath in deep mountain air

from millions of dead victims littered in green beds,
when Asians were chased away into the cedars,
when governments dropped notices of ticking intervention.
They were subtle reminders of an enlarged penis, pissing

on islands to make continents, making blue eyed brunettes

from slanted wombs or dying from crabs of unwashed sailor
left bruised & beaten naked on steel sheets.

I watch the ghosts with squinting eyes

rearranging the internment to truth so their porch lights stay on.

Jackson Street flips the bistro switch
& heads hang on bony posts forgetting what alarm clocks wake them.
I forget the orbital prisoners encaged

staring out the self-serving of retinal bars,
looking oh so intelligent & busted like congressmen at elections.
I see eyes plunked into foreheads,

shaped into a porcelain face of rejection.
I hear the after-moaning under bejeweled toilets.
Overhead a ghost of Nina Simone whispers smoky in one ear
with the smell of yesterday’s vomit in the other.
I see mouths blowing chunks like pennywhistles

into a circle of plastic rim,
their face framed from the inside; reminding me of egg soup
then a smell of noodles & sour mash
contorts with that familiar, pungency of piss.
   
This is forgetting

so this Saturday turns cognizant on Pine St.,
its unrelenting forgiveness under its veil of Catholic fervor,
its squawk of middle eastern taximan with his patchouli & cheap cologne.
The smell is of a city diesel under cloud of frothy libation,
mowing lawns of literary sod, leaving excrement as compost
wandering 4 a.m. moon licked streets of downtown,
gathering fedoras along fuzzy red velvet sofas
& one handing headless cappuccinos
until we make our ways in a morning grumble
of heavy metal chests rattling in tin can hearts.
We listen with ears to winds like shards of broken glass to come
to sickly remedy our entire minds width apart.

We listen to seagulls, fish throwers,
to ripe stagnancy of decomposed ghosts
& like all Saturdays of succubus,

the uncured cancerous in a daybreak.

I forget to suck the bone for life’s marrow; scrawny & unwilling

yet resenting & unable to be removed.
I realize that I will be plowed under new roots: re-sod

for some other hysterical boneflower of life’s machinery.
I will be rewritten in a new, sick language to masturbate to

for themselves, whether be it in offices in a fourteenth floor
where they are eventually thrown from
or inside of corpses of empty bottles.
I will turn sea green where an undertow has turned

me up sadly beneath her salty-tongued pitchfork
& come to the necessary end I was told about.

I have but forgotten

the eventual blindness to this myopic eye

& hide in the millenia of a million abandoned festerings.

Truth remains I don’t remember menstruating through my twenties
in fragments of broken radio, under rose-oiled fishnetted thighs
or staring at negroes still being beaten

or the Chinaman making me soup,
or the buried headstone for my parent

or the suicidal urn for a jewelry box.
I won’t remember those things so they can haunt some other head.
I release them to dirt or air or shallow rooted grave
& with a shovel of words I cover their limbs.
Let them butcher their barking bone to an open sore,
& leave this piece of sarcophagus prose for this year,
so the worms will feed for a thousand more.