The Faces of the Future

Criminalicious

If eating the teeth
of your enemies
(mainly children and the elderly)
is a crime,
then consider me an outlaw of the highest
and most terrible order.

If This Poem Were God

If this poem were God,
It would know everything,
and It would be very angry.

The Fruit of Long Labors in Love

Packing, Packing, Packing, and Rolling

Poem Written from the Perspective of Ronald Polar

Hi, I'm Ronald Polar,
I have a skeleton and two balls
and I am afraid of doctors with
barbecue sauce behind their eyeballs
or ebyallz or eyballoonsss, or whatever
other type of swiss custom knife they have in mind.

I also believe in the exorcism of a bag of Doritos over
the mind control of a harmless plant,
although I extol the virtues of a nutsack.

I have a friend on the internet,
his name is Hilton Hightower, of the Highland Hightowers
of the Intestinal Fortitude of Unknown Animal Bladders
and he appears a worthy foe at my archaic, and artistic
yet altruistic and altheaistic parlances at truth and
unconsiderable vindivindivindivind. I have nothing more to
say about this.

I am a mystery to some, but
completely known to others.
I am a secret fraternal order
in my pocket, but in my heart
I am only a man.
I eat skunk, and pass on beef.
Yet I love cow, and I pass on fish,
yet I heart salmon.

I have a pet named Deniro Pussycat
and three dwarves in my hip, I call
DYNAMO, although they spell their
name with a (W), for Po(w)er.

I ask myself, not once, but %, about
how often I should do my breast exam
against the walls of crime, but it is really
of no matter, for that bacon will still
be warm when I get there.

If I am ever looking for an Internet partnership
in secret societies, I will look up Mr. Hightower
on his e-mail and see if we can work out
a deal to have a blogsite together doing
dada and other abstractions. It would be most
excitable to me to do that, for I know deep down
he is just an artist in search of friends. His e-mail is
easy to find, and I will tell him no otherwise.

I have no shame in eating doughnuts in front of
starving children on my right and peepkins on my
left hand side. I have 6 shooters in my mind,
but my eyes don't work any more. Do you know me
because where do I come from but here?

Breakage

Assets of Human Beingness

You cockamamie bullcrappers
all sprightly with your demands
and terrifying in your inability
to construct actual sentences
out of the words you've been
taught by the confines
of your society and your
completely overrated
desire to find your television
faces and to fill your pockets
with assets of ill-gotten
or well-gotten retrospection.

You're all the same, you and you and you,
and still you smile and say, "Ho, oh, oh, I'm
so different than that manwomanchild, and I'm
a unique individual, and you cannot, sir, pin me
down in your normal way you do."

You're not different, you're just you, just part of
the cog, part of the wheel that spins this thing
round and round down the decaying halls of time
and sin.

You're an asshole just like the rest of them. You
don't look any different to me because I've learned
to see the inner sanctum of the human condition and
deep down I understand that the human soul is
the same color as swampwater and it smells as foul.

You're a robber and a murder. You're a mother and a father.
You're a soldier and a child, a creampuff and a popcorn ball
a sword and a telephone receiver of calloused rejections.
You're just what you are, and that is terrible.

To the upsandownscentric nature of your mentally obsessed
I say that you have nothing to fear but life itself.

Tribute to The Worst Poet of All Time

Maya Angelou is
the worst thing
to happen to poetry
ever.

Her poems are stinkier
than catshit, and filled
with boring imagery.
Seriously, if you ever
need help falling asleep
at night, just read some
of her boring, horrible poetry.
Side effects include suicide and murder, however,
as the terrible nature of her bullshit can make
you lose your mind.

And also, would someone please wipe that
sick smile off her face?

squawkmawkin

Success

People who brag about
how hard they worked for success
are fucking liars!
There are two key
ingredients for success:
luck
and
timing.

It doesn't matter how hard you work
so stop trying.

You Are What You ARRGH!

Drooling

The most pathetic creature in the universe
is the human infant. It is so weak and pathetic,
lying around drooling all the time and annoying
the hell out of everyone with its incessant crying
and vomiting and crapping.

Loads of Fun

Impossible

That's a Big Black Belt!

Even though you're
a professional karate
practitioner,
you just can't help
eating doughnuts.

How very disciplined!

Quick kids, sign up for classes today.

Hilton Hightower says . . .

If I were a bull, I would have
gored the hell out of Pablo Picasso.

Fight Back

For Christ's sake,
you human beings
are even more pathetic than I thought.

I criticize you heavily,
insult you outright,
call your children stupid,
and even make fun of your hilarious weight problem,
and still you’re too lazy
to fight back.

Elementary Explanation

Kissing and Thinking

Parental Discretion

Nothing can stand
between the love
of parents for their
children, right America?

Oh, except for your
insatiable appetites
for doughnuts and
fast food french fries
that make your children
obese and give them
diabetes.

Nothing says love like giving
your child a disease,
right America?

Resurrection of the Trinity; Or, On Physical and Emotional Trauma

A Complaint; Or Anger in Three Lines

Goddamn
hippie-loving
swashbucklers.

Heroes

Heroes are only
heroes
through coincidence
and luck.

Given the right place,
the right time,
even your heroes
will let you down.

Oh, Steve, What a Time You'll Have Unwinding This Mess

Zelda

One night after sharing
a bottle of whiskey
and some pills
with Zelda Fitgerald,
she told me she thought
Hemingway was "phony as a
rubber cheque."

I told her not to give him
that much credit.
He was just a gigantic asshole.

"Bah," she continued
and at this point, I encouraged
her to drink more because I love
to watch pretentious assholes
get drunk and emotional.

So she tore into another bottle
and before I knew it she was tearing
her clothes off and vomiting all over the place.
(Zelda Fitzgerald was a crazy broad, that's for sure.)

Then she told me, "You know, Hemingway's not as macho
as he let's on. It's a show. I've caught him
in bed with my husband."

I convinced her to go public with the truth.

Hemingway and Fitzgerald laid out such a campaign to
discredit Zelda that they drove her nuts,
but still carried on their excursions in Paris.

This period of my life was a treasure.
These writers were all a bunch of troubled
drunks, and I loved
watching them all unravel before my very eyes.

American literates, these are your heroes. Not mine.