I am throwing ash trays

I am throwing ash trays
onto cheap canvas
I purchased used
From a friend of a friend
who lives in his friend’s mom’s basement

Not only do I write poems
I make art with actual stuff man
I break the ashtray into a single point
Launch it like a baseball
On the square
and it becomes sticky
Like omission
Not quite lies but half truths
Just secrets really
that spread like a bloodied glass web

A cigarette burn point on a canvas
that has already been covered
with a frightening attempt at the Mona Lisa

The friend of a friend is in his mind
A high businessman
An artist among conmen
More worthy than the originals

No one can ever say again
that I don’t tell them
I threw it right out smack
in the middle of Mona’s smile
so it looks like her mouth is a bunker
of broken teeth that along swallowed
charcoal kisses
And only she,
not the dead men that kissed her,

It is enough to disturb me,
but not to satisfy me

If she could speak
mouth spilling with clothed blood
She would say
Well that was uncalled for
And we’d laugh like old friends
already in ecstasy


There is my pet under water

There is my pet under water
Swimming not permitted

My soul is only half wet
The rest long limbs
Hips used to balls of feet pressing
hard and steady

The shallow end is black
And rich with blood
That I expelled
During my last visit

I’ve got quite the trick now
I don’t try to catch the bastard

I just shake my head
And coo
Now not as nicely

They told me
Only drowned souls
ever surface

Out to shore they bring them
Their lungless bodies heaving
A blue face staring at me
In recognition

There is my pet
Going downstream
Instead of upstream
Catching water
In the ears

One shake and the world
is the-what? The oyster?
Two shakes
And the season of mermaids
is alive

I watch several
Rip off sanguine limbs
One by one
Until the water is the healer
A holy spring
Made of the sweetest little boy

I’ll listen to the sound
Of the drift and slap
Eternal recall standing still

There is my pet
Turned to myth
Only hooked once

I got all the old horror

I got all the old horror
In my jeans

Enough shades
For thirty picnics
Where we talk about Thomas
And dining
On the regular blood

Of congenital spirit
And flying
Through barbed wire

Our limbs cut
into a million pieces
And splashing
Across the hurried faces

I make paintings
with severed arms
of old friends
And share fake stories
with beauty queens

Open my fridge
And a perfect head talks
All lips should be frozen together
Only perfect eyes blinking

Once for yes
Two times for no
And a tear
for everything in between

I set no traps
Look at my card
I look like a serial killer
I’ve deceived no one

The light bulbs
turn off
in little brains
While mine dangles
Above some ice cold table
As I cut hearts
Into chests of lovers’

Mad man they call me
And yet every morning
I don the girly suit
And smile for strangers