28 Minutes Later


28 Minutes Later


in the days before assigned seating

and the post cold war assassination of bangs


your Peter Coyote voiceovers appeared

to favor the turtle

but your actions say otherwise


your actions smoke cigarettes

with the predators while trading

your phone number for plastic cups

of warm beer in the backyard

of someone else’s lame party

                        where people say shit like:

“What have you got there Richie?           A pack of gum?”

                                   “No. It’s called the clap.”


and the stereo says shit like:

                                    She doesn’t like to lose

                                    She only likes to win


which is just Phil Collins’ way of saying

she only likes the opposite of what she doesn’t like


                        and tied to the tree

                        I see a wet hammock

                        and a ceramic dog pretending to be asleep

                        on top expensive ceramic pillows


and Helen, I can see you

holding hands with a guy that’s built

like a canceled sit-com


            wearing a smug fucking look on his face

            because everyone has always dug the hell

            out of the way you hold a banana in public


and the guy who gave him a ride to this party

had to uneventfully split early but that’s ok

because his other car is now my girlfriend


                                             “Bring momma her bone pills!”

                                           “But momma this is gin.”

                                             “That’s momma’s bone pills!”

shit Helen


we were like two cars

sharing the same set of tires

on a road that snapped like burnt rope

                                    but that’s ok

                                    we’ll always have sunset

            just like that walking man purse you’re seeing now

            will always have his mint julep in a can


your wingspan has shown me

the dumpster and the dumpster

has shown me its soul

so I spit empty Halloween candy wrappers

into dead grass


and walk inside into a room

that looks like a cross between

Wayne Newton’s worst nightmare

and an unsuccessful magazine advertisement

for uncomfortable pants


                       where I’m down to cotton mouth

                        and raw instincts


                        thinking about your vagina


roller skating through the park

where my face first met you

                                    balls to balls

                                    clitoris to hard on

                                    limp dick to limp dick


can you tell me Helen

where exactly the fuck

we went wrong?


you can’t of course

            I’m sorry

                                    you’re busy right now

                                    tongue humping a stern circle

                                    of young republicans


these blinds that you’ve picked out

for what has no longer been left

of our house now see clearly


god bless America

and everyone else

our bought out politicians

are trying to screw

                        the street sweepers around these parts

                        who spit fat pigeons and outweigh the streets

                        that they’re sweeping by three thousand pounds

people who spontaneously combust into popcorn


                                    Helen I skinned my knee tonight

                                    on your short cut

                                    Is bukaki cheating?


god bless the clap

(from my book, Avenge me. Baobob Tree Press)

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