Morning Pollution

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

Shower running.
Wake up.
Snort the coffee.

Eardrum piercing screeching baby.
Listless daddy, exhausted mommy.
Pebbles of poo.

Cavalcade of homeless dumpster divers.
Mexican Santa Claus and Fred Sanford doppelganger.
Aluminum cans crunching; plastic bottles smushing.

Empty green craft beer bottles.
Passive-aggro donation fund.
Trickle down hipster-economics.

Green-cardless gardeners.
Blowers strapped to their backs.
Spraying power-vacuum-sized packets of earaches.

Another illegal raking the scraps.
Metal scraping against concrete.
Another ear-jolting mess; bad vibrations.

The fat Berbers refurbishing the slum.
Power saws whirling and swirling.
Annoying buckets of noise.

Another cherry stargazer arrives.
While another dream withered up and dies.
Millions of shattered dreams for sale at the 99 cent store.

Dejections, rejections, no more callbacks.
Jilted dreamers.
Pilot title is: Dunzo.

A hairdryer moaning.
If they all go on at the same time, will it cause a black out?
Perfect hair is God's work.

A honking horn.
From a pissed-off mom whose turn it is to carpool.
Those two jewish kids are always late.

Helicopters circling above.
Aerial cacophony.
Ghetto birds, paparazzi, and traffic copters.

Garbage truck coughing.
Garbage man in greasy overalls casually rolling the dumpster bin.
Smashing over potholes.

A hungry cat meowing for food.
A dog barking for attention.
A Facebook addict frowning about the low number of "likes".

A mechanical juicer liquifying fruit.
Bacon sizzling.
Ivory Coast blend percolating.

Alarm clock buzzing and buzzing.
Lost in slumber.
Deaf in real life, but attentive in the slumber world.

Car door slamming.
Engines starting.
iPod cranking.

Shower running.
Wake up.
Snort the coffee.

Wednesday Poem: In Between Fighting Souls

Doomsday is near as soon as the politicians go honest.
Bad thoughts are more dangerous than
Wards, dungeons, and prisons.
While most of you sleep,
I lie awake and yawn.
My thoughts about the subtle flecks
Of emerald green in her sea blue eyes
Casually drifted away towards clarity.

My quagmire of a life resembles
A wretched Fox sitcom,
A Shakespeare play,
A black and white Woody Allen film.
Except that Joey Buttafucco is the lead actor
And stands forty-five pounds overweight.

My unspoken silence is a sullen, dangerous,
Listless lunacy that used to turn women on,
Those who where attracted to the
Orgasmic gentleness of crafty madness.
Cunning souls can be as scintillating as a slice of
Junior's cheesecake when digested with a
Side plate of untamed confusion.

Respect the scorns of time and
Rebuke the erroneous laws of nature, then
Perhaps my quiet dismay will disappear to
A titillating place where no traveler returns.
I mock the lost ones,
Cowards of them all.
Clueless ampersands as they stand on a crowded
Subway platform in between two genuine haughty artisans.

I've sweat heavily in my weary life,
Reflections of my ghostly inaction set against a
Riveted backdrop of flames and plumes of smoke.
Without a tongue, I speak with a bedeviled spirit
Ignoring the weakness that I could cure with a
Drop of arsenic,
Indeed, a foul murder just mere moments
Away from ambitious persons who dare to be more than
Blips on the radar screen.

Random Poem: Yesterday Was 1964

Captured pictures of tears
is the photo I stared at in the
small crowded gallery in Williamsburg
slipping on slush puddles and
watching snow fall in between buildings and windows
shadows of late afternoon light on stairwells
and snowdrifts against cars towering over shivering poodles
on the daily squirt break dragged by
their owner, a spoiled spineless nymph smoking
imported French cigarettes and making an
appointment for an eyeball massage on her
chic cellphone
while listening to golden oldies
on her new iPod,
I overhead the song about
globetrotting
elegantly dressed kings and queens,
dancing in old fortresses lit by
candle light and
stolen celestial reflections while
the soft voices of
late sunshine divas gayfully sing about
former boyfriends and the
sweet smell of the air after it rains.
That was 1964.

3:20 AM Poem

3:20 A.M.
The frigid valley appeared empty from
High up on the sweet hillside, while the
Drunkards urinated on a petrified tree.

I wondered where the soft
Voice spoke last and when I would hear the
Enchanting whispers, and
Heavy breathing underneath the
Northern Lights.

A small cup filled with a
Cheap merlot was knocked over by the
Prevailing winds and nothing
Spilled out.

Friday Poem: Soft Voices

Soft voices make me smile,
During long winter nights
While the sounds of a late
Night drizzle pitter patter in the
Background.
Wispy.

Late Night Poem: The Glimmer

With donuts falling from trees
And laughing monkeys at my knees
I must decline your fancy cheese.
Please understand
I have no more witty
Remarks about hipsters from the West Coast
Skiing in Aspen with their Ruskie
Mail order brides.

Can you...?

Can you do what I do?

Can you look out at a chaotic sea and smell the tranquility?

Can you jump from one worn roof top to cluttered roof top with the ease of a haunting arctic chill?

Can you orgasmically smell the tantalizing aroma of fresh baked bagels early in the morning after closing down the last slovenly bar on the block?

Can you dream original thoughts like fluffy clouds in heaven that looks like thick marshmallows or Billy Dee Williams?

Can you deflect the constant hordes of tongue numbing slings and avoid the orgy of jealousy ridden arrows, thrust upon the royal court from angry, hopeless pallid peasants who have not been properly intellectually fed in decades?

Can you look up at the 3am sky, rub your bloodshot vulnerable eyes and count the stars in the Southern sky?

Can you pick out three painful things that would make you cry on cue?

Can you see without your old glasses, when your fragile vision is skewed with them anyway?

Can you hear the distant rumble of the subways and the eye popping shrieks from well-lubed drag queens from the upper floor of your suburban home?

Can you feel the cocaine attack your languid bloodstream like a possessed vampire roaming the darkened streets for supine victims?

Can you regenerate your dormant taste buds and finally taste the fire in your cup when you wake up in the morning and cannot find your way out of your generic cell?

Can you foolishly slap down the nebbish welfare children that tug on your shirt sleeves demanding pennies and old pieces of bread to eat with their government cheese?

Can you forcibly vomit on the vain bodybuilder who poses into the reflection on the subway window?

Can you dance in between the snowflakes during a blizzard and give nicknames to each one as they melt on your fingers, your steaming body heat destroying nature's perfection in a supersecond?

Can you ride a horse like a cowboy and drink it's urine when you are out of water and have not had a drop in three and a half days?

Can you somberly lick the unhealed wounds on the soles of your feet and pick the vexatious splinters out of your toes with your teeth?

Can you wander the rancorous streets of New Orleans during Mardi Gras and avoid fistfights with drunk tourists from Lagos?

Can you honestly look into my aloof eyes and drift off to an angelic sleep?

Can you do what I do?

Thursday Poem: Holy Water

Swans swimming,
Junkie grinning,
and Julio's pimping
Down by the schoolyard.

He pushed his lackadaisical
Dime bags of Mexican brick,
His gut protruding underneath a
Tight t-shirt.

Little ball of flesh rolled up
Inside a velvet wrapped
Hat box, the stench of old
Mothballs made me cough.

A family of frogs were
Drowned upside down in
Holy Water, the cosmic glue
Threading and deceiving the Mother Hen.

A crowded table of soused and
Stoned newspaper writers
Spun murky tales about the
Hopeless futures of their multiple ex-wives.

Satan's nephew spotted
Snowflakes with odd names like
Alister and Owsley. as he yelled,
"Beware of the tainted Blotter."

Wednesday Poem: Gumball

As a small child
I stood in front of those large
Gumball machines, shiny red in color,
Linked up with three others in
Two rows, where one or two
Sold candy and the rest
Tempted your change with
Prizes and plastic crap, but
Eight-year olds still
Salivated like geriatric degenerate
Gamblers slumped over a
Slot machine in Reno.

Saturday Poem: Sugarcoated

A siren, a flash, then a
Rooftop loses it’s darkness
In a small glimmer of a somberness.
Different heights,
Majestic lights,
On a warm winter nights.

The early evening wind
Blows gently, unlike when
The brazen howl cuts my face
Like a dull razor.
The blood from my
Facial wounds burn like small fires,
But do not taste like the
Wounds from my soul,
Which make my eyes look mean
And I wonder if the heavens can contain
All of my immoral thoughts on long afternoons
When I am desperate,
And I dull my demons with a combination of
Ironic wit and
Sullen pints of cheap ale.

I glimpsed at the colorful stars,
As the ancient jets fly by,
And pollute the defenseless
Air with manufactured toxins
And rude passengers from Queens.

I wonder who really likes
The overrated photographer, and his
Overpriced images
Which look nice at first sight.
His art is nothing more than
Shallow objects of desire.
The realization arises that
Blind men in pajamas have better
Vision that most commercial artists these days.
Ask the out of work
Sugar factory workers.
They’ll tell you what’s up.

Wed Poem: The Scream in the Bell Jar

Sad, tired, lanky girl, Tried to write and channel
Her anger, her agony, her love
Onto pages, but they kept on
Sliding off the page of heavy bonded
Paper, while
Slippery tears and jilted reviews from dirty men
With bad teeth annoyed her,
Crying babies taunted her,
Ghosts poked her,
Until she turned on the gas,
Sealed the cracks, and
Drfited away to a place were her pain
Disappeared.

Wednesday Poem: Candles and Cookies

They reluctantly showed me a picture
Of Charlotte Rae, the wayward
Actress from the 1980s hit TV show,
The Facts of Life.
I snickered at her poorly signed autograph,
The smudges of the sharpie bothering my sight,
while the gusts of afternoon wind,
Blew debris and old, golden leaves my way.

Saturday Poem: Kitchen Kittens

The furry orange kittens
Stalk large ugly rats and
Other small bugs
While we sleep and dream about
Winning Lotto.

Angelic Desolation

Do her cats know that she
Will not be feeding them today?
Or tomorrow?
Or the day after?
Are they aware?

I trudge through the daily reminders,
Like a poor assembly line lifer,
Stuck in a Alaskan fishery,
Slicing and dicing,
Knee deep in rotting fish guts.

The hungover taste of recent misery
Lingered in my shadowy room,
When I awoke from a mediocre sleep.
The desperate sounds of garbage trucks and
Seagulls shitting on tree trunks greeted me.

On cloudy Saturday mornings when I awoke from
My restless slumber,
I made instant decisions on serious topics;
God, Family, Country… and Fear.
When will I be able to whisper all four at once?

The blonde with the sunflowers
Smiled when she
Bought me used books with
Tantalizing aromas
Of decade old must.

The classics were wedged
Among the clutter of
Tennis rackets, over-sized parkas,
And outdated travel magazines in the
Back of an untidy closet.

The hallow emptiness of the surgeon’s den
Lured the neophyte into devious antics.
He toiled eighty hours a week, knee deep in blood and
Guts, Before his junkie daughter
Eagerly sold his old Philosophy text books.

$1.25 she was awarded on the Lower East Side,
The small payout warmed her exposed belly, now
Hoping to score some rock from Julio,
She pawned whatever else she could
Like Mommy’s exalted pearls, to settle the score.

She longed the orgasmic numbing sensation of
Freshly cooked junk, the complete opposite head trip of
Anxiety, before she got busted and
Thrown up against an aging wall and frisked
By trigger-happy NYPD officers.

I read the book, a sad collection of poems, that
The girl with the sunflowers
Bought me from the crowded bookstore,
After the jittery owners bought the tattered book from a
Suburban casualty, lifted from her King’s castle.

I casually flipped through the marked pages and
Only odd and solemn thoughts of her confused gray cats
Greeted me when I slowly turned each page,
While I took a dump and read aloud a poem called
Edge.

Do her cats know that she
Will not be feeding them today?
Or tomorrow?
Or the day after?
Are they aware?

Friday Poem: Drunk Flies

The drunk flies zipped around
My sunken forehead,
Darting back and forth,
Jolly, yet still annoying.
I admired the unusual patterns that the
Inscets seem to effortlessly travel.
When the police are not looking,
I secretly spit on old
Pictures of deceased family members.
Separate insane thoughts of vivid
Inncoent images
Splatter themslevs onto the fronts
Of my seemless eyelids.

A melodious sharp squeal halted me in
My tracks.
I got agitated, just like when forty
Coked up circus midgets tossed
Firecrackers and gregariously played
Hopsotch through the narrow
Hallways winding through my dense head,
Last Memorial Day,
When I visited
Atlantic City and the blonde girl with the
Sunflowers giggled when I stole her a
Snickers bar.

Coastal flooding makes me laugh.
Too many stomach aches makes me cry.
And if you spell the word,
C-A-N-K-E-R S-O-R-E,
I would shit gleefully in my faded jeans.

Sunday Poem: Sleeping Rain Dogs

I searched several weeks for the fountain,
The one "not made by the hands of man."
Alas, I was unable to discover
The secret location.
Maybe it was just a pipe dream?

I woke up to the pitter patter of a
Sober rain last Thursday
Before I wandered into the House of God.
I slumped in the last row and wept,
Where I shed dry tears because I
Could no longer hide the immense
Feelings.

I cried and pulled my hair.
My eyes swelled,
When a gaggle of transparent thoughts
About the tall girl with the sunflowers sideswiped me,
Like a NYC cab out of control.
I felt the fear throbbing in my hands
Knowing that I will never whisper her name again.

Sometimes rocks do float when you
Throw them into a pond.
Ask me later, after I dry myself off.

Saturday Poem: Icebox

My cheddar cheese sandwich melted in the icebox and I sat in disgust and yelled at my
Cat,
Who sat on the edge of the toilet and
Made fun of a
Drowning spider.
The girl with the sea shell eyes
Smiled then ordered in Chinese food,
while we drank several glasses of Merlot with
Stiffler's mother.

Friday Poem: Faded Ribbon

The typewriter ribbon is faded And the melodious sounds of Beatles cover songs
Waft my way, and I giggle at those
Black eyed wiggling girls with the Corona's tucked
Underneath their skirts and the limes wedged in between
Their clenched teeth while the
Young actress sadly rehearses lines from
A Shakespeare play that no one will ever see because
They are too consumed with eating Nacho chips and
Watching Jerry Springer.
We will now retun you to your
Regularly scheduled bowel movement.

Thursday Poem: Incessant Rain

The incessant rain duped me when I woke up
Next to the girl with the sea shell eyes.
She sneezed and I slipped out of a reckless dream cycle
With ancient memories and cloudy flashbacks of
Misty Seattle mornings and foggy Bellingham afternoons,
Where little kids play "touch the monkey" with
Dirty old men in dark trenchcoats.

Wednesday Poem: Unwanted Rain Stains

Unwanted rain stains the poorly mixed concrete
On my cluttered damp terrace
Where little puddles join forces to form small lakes.
Each droplet of acid rain majestically ripples through
Teasing my heavy eyelids suggesting
That I need more rest.
When was the last time I fell into a deep slumber?
And dreamed dreams of long walks along
Crystal blue beaches and white sandy waters?
With those cheesy umbrella rum drinks, glued to my
Itchy fingers, while the lanky girl
With the freshly cut sunflowers once told me a story
About myself and a cat without any ears,
Who ignored every word I said.