ching. ching. gone.
a quarter of an hourly wage dissappears into the doorman's virgin cup.
even a strong man can't live off of pb and jam forever.


fisticuff swaggering , and old vinyl testimonials
pretty girls idolizing betty page.
Who will cut your hair, if everyone present is dead?

amputated audience thumping jazz-like.
only got a right leg to spare.
upper bodies remain solitary
out of sync like so many modern encounters, and lovers.
resolute waist resisting the music.
war not on anyone's mind.

one armed primitive fist pumping--
as marilyn monroe confesses her sins from the loud speakers.
poor JKF is dead—won't see that great pussy no more.

drumsticks rain down like hail on saints.
god bless.
I am the anti-christ.

pissed tributaries run off porcelain mountains.
don't these future bad cops know how to aim?
Christ.
what would mother think?
fuck it--beer mouth wash is a preview to 21rst century oral hygiene

this band sucks balls.
margie smells sweet--perhaps it's something she brought from Russia.
bolshevik nations shifting from revolutions to pomades?
America has won.


sing rough sex like, my man,.
huffs-UFF! UFF!
those zombie mother fuckers still remain @ rest.
go home and check off your existential tallies.
statuettes gyrating, afraid to touch—afraid for an emotional connection.
again dead voices crackle up from behind.
lament. lament with me.

gloomy neon orange ear pieces dances with me.
sweet come on, but
when did man invent such bull shit.
dear, sir, don't whine:
“Why can't we all get along?
cree indians have the answer.