placing them on cards with illustrations:

the dead man, the drunk man, the spider,

the bat. We are alive, unfortunately sober

after several weak margaritas,

and there is no spider here to bite us

and nothing to swoop down, hideous-faced and black-

winged, to harvest us like hapless gnats;

the troubles are all elsewhere,

and frankly we don’t really care;

we are lining up our beans, ordering

shots of tequila to strengthen our drinks

and we are going to get good and fucked up

and lie like the dead on our chaise lounges, happy

to be lucky, lying row after burning row

here by the pool in Rosarito.

Body and Soul

BODY AND SOUL

Where do you think the soul is?

Do you think it looks like a small paper bag,

the kind that contains one item—

candy bar, liquid soap, pint bottle?

Is it crumpled up behind the heart?

Is it folded neatly, wedged between the ribs,

is it wrapped around the balls, is it damp

like a cunt, has it been torn?

The body isn’t the house.

If the body is the house,

is the soul up late in the kitchen, sleepless,

standing before the open refrigerator,

is it tired of TV,

sickened by its own thoughts?

The body has no thoughts.

The body soaks up love like a paper towel

and is still dry.

The body shoots up some drugs,

sweats and weeps—

Sometimes the body

gets so quiet

it can hear the soul,

scratching like something trapped

inside the walls

and trying frantically

to get out.

Blues for Robert Johnson

BLUES FOR ROBERT JOHNSON

Give me a pint of whiskey with a broken seal

Give me one more hour with a broken feel

I can’t sleep again and a black dog’s on my trail

You’re singing hell hound, crossroad, love in vain

You’re singing, and the black sky is playing rain

You’re stomping your feet, shaking the windowpane

I put my palm to the glass to get the cold

I drink the memories that scald

Drink to the loves that failed and failed

Look down into the river, I can see you there

Looking down into the blue light of a woman’s hair

Saying to her Baby, dark gon’ catch me here

You’re buried in Mississippi under a stone

You’re buried and still singing under the ground

And the blues fell mama’s child, tore me all upside down

This Poem Wants to Be a Rock and Roll Song So Bad

THIS POEM WANTS TO BE A ROCK AND ROLL SONG SO BAD

I’m gathered with my friends in my parents’ garage

between the Toro mower and the washer,

practicing this poem at a deafening volume

while inhaling non-stick Pam from a Ziploc.

This poem captures the essence of today’s youth,

a raunchy perfume named Fuck It,

excreted from the balls of a civet.