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…Ah.
Where am I?
Hm…
Oh, yeah, that’s right…

Do you ever get to worrying
When New Years comes and goes
What the coming months will bring
And what you’ll have to show?
I urge you now, please, not to think
Jumping years will be that hard
When you hear my yearly struggle
Is just getting it to start.

I’m spending New Year’s in the E.R.
Since my heart’s stopped seven times –
The sentence for the crime
Of living past my prime –
It’s been like this for twenty years
For no reason, with no rhyme.
So, pardon thee,
It seems to me
To dread and hate uncertain Fate
Who still has yet to start
Is for those he’ll never satiate,
Namely: the sick at heart.

See, my soul’s in poor condition,
Wracked with spasms from the fear
Of a liver in consumption
Brought on by leagues of beer –
Draughts to drown the pain
Of rusted staples in my gut
Infecting toes to brain
And filling up fresh cuts
With festering bacterium
That reek of mold and milk –
All this, and more, makes me glum
As the Reaper’s bill I bilk.

That bill I reap come January
At midnight on the first
Restarts the vicious cycle,
Gives my health an ailing thirst
Which can’t be quenched by anything
And so I can’t but wait
To see if my poor failing heart
Fulfills what, at this rate,
Will be the dismal ending
To an otherwise bright New Years.
And, if I wasn’t sick at heart,
That might just bring me tears.

That is – it might have.

If my body weren’t raw from every skin flake
If my bones weren’t like glass, just asking to break
If my jaw didn’t jangle all loose on its hinges
If my throat wasn’t sewn shut by two hundred stitches
If my scalp wasn’t pared right down to the skull
If stones weren’t what make my kidneys so full
If oxygen didn’t cause allergies
If standing too long didn’t contuse my knees –
My ribs are shrunk
My muscles gunk
My teeth are cracked
My nerves all jacked
Holes for ears
Shedding beard
Drooling nose
Seven toes –
The list only grows
The more New Years that show.

So, I’m spending New Year’s in the E.R.
Since my life’s ceased seven times –
Stumbling down an uphill climb
That could give way on a dime –
It’s been like this for far too long
That death would be sublime.
So, pardon thee,
It seems to me
To worry for a New Year
Before it’s on the fritz
Pales before anticipation
For when my heart inevitably-

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I came downtown to N’Awlins
To fire off the N’Year
But found it wasn’t quite the place
That Mem’ry makes it appear.
This ain’t no Princess and the Frog,
This ain’t no La-La Jazz-land,
Harry Connick’s got it wrong
‘Bout this old N’Awlins!
Papa Noel
Fled swampy Hell
Ruined by drink and drugs-o;
The beggars sheet
On every street
And the rich puke up their guts-o.
So stay away!
You’re bound to pay
To make it what you dreamt-o;
Or else you find youself knee-deep
In a N’Awlins New Year shit-hole!

I came to N’Awlins, upriver,
And fancied it Jamaica;
The weed and coke keep it afloat –
Oh, the places that they take ya!
To shacks and packs of tourist traps – Hack artists trail ya, bawlin’ –
There are no bands, just freelance hands
Who toot-toot for N’Awlins!
The folks at Preservation Hall
Play their own funerals daily
While tourists tip them cigarettes
And fall asleep quite gayly
Halloween’s
The time to be
Passed out in the streets-o
Since this is not the tight-knit town
You imagined on the bayou.

N’Awlins, I like to say,
Though only tourists talk that way –
Those who ain’t been here before
Never seen stores that only sell cork
Nor penis-shaped lollipops
Nor Mama’s discount voodoo shops –
The whole city is one big sham
Left from years it earned that glam
(though we can’t act like it’s the only offender;
L.A. has also gone through one big upender).
New Orleans is old, it’s trash, it’s done,
And it takes inebriation to have any fun.

I walked through Armstrong Park
When it was dimming, close to dark
And witnessed it abandoned –
Overgrown with weeds and dreams
Tangled up in isolation –
A stamp of times gone by.

A homeless man rode through the park,
Metal on concrete
(his front tire was missing),
To join his fellows sleeping under the lights
Of the main public library.
Seeing that, riding the bus back from a ghost tour,
Took all poetry out of my form.
So now I stop rhyme and rhythm
To flatly state that New Orleans has lost both –
By cutting the crap, we realize that
We like to delude ourselves
Into thinking the sparkle’s still there
Since it was there once,
But now no more.
A raging lunatic

Her flabby folds flapping with fury
Called my mother a bitch
And a piece of shit
Because we were taking a carriage tour
And she thought the horse
Was undergoing a sort of slavery.
How blissfully lost in an illusion one must be
To worry about extremist ideas
Of captivity
When New Orleans holds its rotting people in bondage
Without holding them in any expectations at all
As they hold out for a bygone dream
Swept up in Hurricanes –
A mix of drink and disaster –
Spat out on the curbs
Where misery dwells
Like that enormous theatre of boundless potential
Destined to ruin by location alone.
Or those twin abandoned hospital with terrible stories
Destined to ruin by character alone.

It’s easy to forget how new the year is
When you celebrate it so close to death
Or in a town where the only thing New about it
Is the next ailment or disease that kicks the glittering corpse
Of what once was Green and Gold New Orleans.

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The Sun is high
The Son is nigh –
Easter Sunday

The world in dew
Cleaned green anew
Heralded by more than few
In grateful retribution.

The hawk knows
The shark knows
The sheep know
The leech knows
Today more than any other.

At 9, the church is full
At 11, all but full
The message is joyful
The pastor is lulled
But coffee is free, thank God
To keep us woke in the Garden.

The songs raise high
Bright jubilant sky
And, might as one tries,
It won’t darken from lies
Since God is the reason
For our very existence
And Jesus the reason for living it out.

We leave God’s house
I thank the greeters
“He is Risen!”
“He is Risen, indeed.
Have a wonderful Easter.”
“I’ll try, Lord knows I’ll try.”
“All right, then. Have a Hell of a day!”
I have no more to say.

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Say, ain’t you pleased
And a little teased
To witness a night so clear
As we head with this crowd cheerfully
And ring in the New Year?

It’s a fancy reason
So that every season
Can take a brand new spinner;
When every sin can start again
Everyone’s a winner!

Do you see the shrine,
Its idols fine
With a fresh new coat of lacquer?
Let’s hurry on up to the front –
Don’t be a slacker!

Just twenty yen
Will fly right in
And everyone will be gay-o!
But wash your hands and rinse your mouth
Lest your luck go wacko!

Tie your prayer
On that branch there
For your loved ones, dear-o,
Since that is how the New Year comes
In dear ole Tokyo!

So, clap your hands –
The bow demands
Good fortune for the year new!
And now let’s go get blinding drunk
In order to prepare you!

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Cumberground
You helpless dalcop
Nothing but a flapdoodle
Quite the pathetic raggabrash
Less than a loiter-sacked lubberwort
Wimpy, worthless wandought
Moronic whiffle-whaffle
You filthy bedswerver
A simple boob.

The man in the mirror calls me names,
His list of insults long –
I therefore daily set my aims
In an attempt to prove him wrong.

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let’s all play
the game of LIFE!
The classic Hasbro
game of LIFE!
BUT with rules updated
for our age
since LIFE has since significantly changed

RULE 1
the cars are now colored
white yellow black brown –
leaving everyone out
weighs everything down! –
and anyone can choose
college or not,
but the white cars must wait
five turns at the start

RULE 2
Your career is determined
By the cards that you pull
with thousands of choices –
be it tech, fed, or school –
but, the higher your gross,
the more you must pay
since less-fortunate earners
need it to brighten their day.

RULE 3
when wedding your mate,
be it man, dog, or lamp,
remember that monogamy
makes marriage damp –
it’s better to sleep around
then go once-and-done;
though it’s worth less in the end
you’ll have way more fast fun.

RULE 4
your degree is worth shit
so why buy a house?
you’ll never quite settle
for kids or a spouse –
invest in a camper
since you love the road
and aeroplane tickets
to lighten life’s load!

RULE 5
when you retire
you’ll haven’t a dime
not spent on drugs
or wastes of your time –
the dirt is your home
and the pitch-black expanse
your one claim in LIFE
and your long-hoped advance.

let’s all play
the game of LIFE!
the new, progressive
game of LIFE!
it may not sound fun,
and you may have no chance,
but come! join the dance,
and we’ll make you feel good
being part of our group
where you can quit at your call
since LIFE’s just one pointless cruel game
after all.

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I saw a sign when I was walking:
“Free Hugs for Sale”
With an arrow pointing southward
Down a sunlit alleyway
With beams bouncing in puddles
And flowers grown in cracks
Under splintered windows glinting –
A serene scene like a dream
Where free hugs were being sold.
But I saw no hugger down that path
Only embrace in solid wall,
Which made me wonder how free hugs
Could possibly be sold for less.
I’m sad to disappoint that poor soul
Who is longing for a hug
And turn to carry on my path
Since I cannot discern
Whether hugs were certain down that way
Or a painful lesson to learn.

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Why exactly do I feel
Connection with a time that is not my own?
Is it possible in this 60’s-esque diner
Of rockabillies and pompadours
That I know what I missed?
That this little Watson’s Pharmacy,
Stocked to the ceiling with phials
Replaced by new drugs served at the bar,
Makes me feel nostalgic for something
Of a shapeless dream?
These wood and red-brick ceilings –
A clever disguise of normalcy.
Tonics carefully labeled

But not at all accurate –
‘Long bleached walls, hanging orb lights,
Checkered floors, a candy bar;
Nothing like this
Could possibly have existed in the 60’s
Surely?
Yet, as I finish my burger
And await my apple pie
All alone on this uncomfortable stool,
I cannot help but not care for reservations
Since this spot is all my own, and I can think what ever I like of it.
If it was true to form, a real 60’s bar –
Welp, I might not return,
So better an ideal than a copy.

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You might find me a trifle weird
When I laugh into your face
After you trip over your beard
And crash into the fireplace.

You might think it rather odd
For me to give a cheer
When you were last caught driving
After one too many beers.

You might see me as pretty strange
If I do the opposite of frown
Once your dog has died from mange
And your tears plop freely down.

I hope you’ll please forgive me
When you stub your toe on the ottoman
For your swearing brings me subtle glee
And your crying turns me on.

I’m just a simple, humble sadist
Who finds pleasure in your pain –
I cannot help that which latest
Brings me easy joy to gain.

If it bothers you so terribly,
I advise you cheer up now
For at least it’s you who makes me happy
And not your force upon my brow.

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I have friends in the strangest of places
With the frightfullest fleshiest faces,
But none quite as strange
With a hint of derange
As Richard J. William, my friend estranged. 

Perched in a hidden thick crooked spire
Sprouting red bushes, strumming a lyre,
He keeps one eye peeled
For a woman to steal
Affection on high, a pyre of desire.

When he spots a young lady of appeal,
Strained efforts made, commanding him heel,
Are all spent in naught
On his socialite lot
As he does what he wants, not what he ought.

With the sprightliest sproing in his stache,
Muscles poised and primed for the dash,
That suave fellow sings
A tune promised to bring
Passion and pleasure and rash.

When rough Fun meets morning’s wet hem,
Promises curtail and hightail it with him;
So all are distraught
From the short-termed plots
Of that trampish Richard J. William.

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