“Jesus Stole My Lunch Money”

In line for the grub of unknown origins

I whip out my wallet to pay for the privilege

of dining with the misfit toys of Easter Island.

Between my fingers the crisp bill flickers to

the florescent lights of garden green and gold.

Behind me I look and see the flowing robes of

a desert monk with curled brown hair in his eyes.

“What the hell do you want?” I ask this strange man.

With the strength of Ali he knocks my front teeth

down my throat and snags the paper from the air.

“The special” he says with a wink and a smile.



“Shampoo Is Not For You”

Six miles downwind lie the dead souls

who dared stand before your putrid stench.

Beyond fly burnished bats as fruity faraway trolls

trample through the locks to quench

their impossible thirst for fresh buttered rolls.

Shampoo is not for you who turns wrench

on oneself and strips the screws from scrolls

written and read by three-fingered French

friars of the underground smellastic holes.


“Paper Cookie Cups”

Caught with the hand in the till with chips

down and out spread eagle on the tilted table.

Sweet delight licked from the lips as laughter

fills the smoke-filled room of your imagination.

Red liquor drunk from paper cookie cups spilled

on satin stain the ceiling with orange-cream smoke.

Luscious ladies in lingerie deliver the jaded June

dues in ebony envelops torn at crusty corners.

Opened with a wish the paper cookie cups

reveal the raspberry-flavored writing on the wall.