The author reflects

The author reflects on getting his first gray dick
hair.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me, I didn’t even
know that pubic hair turned gray?!?!?!!?”

If this is part of aging, screw that, I aint old.
Am I? Momma, Daddy, am I?
I feel mortal now.

When I discovered my new abomination I was
drying off after a contentfull shower. I was
wondering if I should allow the world to smell my
naturally clean self or slap on some Drakkar Noir.
Don’t laugh; I’ve used it since 11th grade. It is my
security blanket.

My eyes wandered. Down there.

At first I thought it must be the damp reflection of
the 70-watt bulb over the mirror. I dried, then I
dried and I dried and dried and dried. DRIED,
DRIED, DRIED, DRIED. My drying became
feverous, faster and faster. A man possessed!
Getting nowhere, but pleasantly provoked.

No time for that, but wait, isn’t there always time
for that? No! Not this time. I used the hair dryer.
OW! OW THAT FREAKIN’ HURTS. Tear it
out, yeah!

But like some evil Hydra from the days of brave
Ulysses eight more grew in its place. Cut ‘em off.
Eight more. Cut ‘em off. Sixteen. Cut ‘em off.
Thirty-two. My GOD! I was becoming a geezer
before my very eyes. I was old, decrepit. I
couldn’t stand the site. I was broken. I was old.

I am old.

You should’ve seen the look on the pharmacists
face when I asked him if Grecian Formula Sixteen
burned your wiener.

 

Beer Too

Beer makes me feel good and I like to have it around. It
helps my writing and thought process yet I suppose it
could be a crutch.

I don’t love it and I don’t need it. Apparently a lot of
people in my family have loved it a great deal. Loved it
until it killed them or screwed up their lives. It
really did kill people in my family. I am not kidding or
being dramatic.

It is fuel.

I like it and you can bet your ass on that. I say to
you, all of you, that beer is okay. I know you like the things
that can change your mood and disposition. Makes
you feel better, for a while.

I’ll bet you’re fucked up right now.

Your job has been really hard lately. Don’t you need
more money for the effort? You aren’t even doing what
you wanted. You settled for this vocation. I know, you
wanted to be a writer, and artist.

Your lover doesn’t show you tenderness. You miss the
cuddly stuff. The warm touches. He was so sweet then.
Now it’s just let’s fuck. Like machines, animals,
weren’t you a princess once? In somebody’s eyes?

You look horrible. It is an agony to look at yourself in
the mirror. How did you get that way? Can you fix that?
Can ANYONE fix that? Drove that car too long without an
oil change.

Keep drinking. Self medicate. All that shit goes away.
It is an illusion. There are no bad times; there are no
bad people.

I avoid the depression by being always depressed. I
can’t fathom any other feeling now. I'm not fazed by
anything.

To me Beer can be a beautiful and tragic thing.

The essence of poetry.

 

Trotsky Beat the Drum at my Doorstep

Pester the servant and he
will rise up. The wrath of
the weak may be understated
until he dines on your
flesh. That strength will
fuel the revolution. You
are just the appetizer.

Rise up my people and seize
your biscuit. Take it from
the mouths of the
advantaged. Cannot their
babies eat dirt and suckle
at the breast of the lowly
conch? I see my people dig
mollusks and party until
dawn to ease the pain of
subversion. Liquor and
shellfish are a poor
substitute for Pan, Techo y
Abrigo!

Power is as real as
anything that has ever
been. Only the smoothest
cut will sever the pigs
head. I don’t want to hear
them cry. I find no joy in
their suffering. Just
eliminate the problem and
drive the nail of truth.
Drive it into their coffee
break. Non-dairy creamer,
indeed! Non dairy
uprising!

SEIZE THE DAIRY!

NOTE:
Every good poet needs a
political piece to give
him/her credibility.
There you go.
There’s my Soviet flag.
There’s my Billy Bragg:)