Even were you not to melt like snowflakes on a hot, moist tongue, I’d still sing your praises—you, general of the proper taco, king of any pizza not made to order for      one       of        those         really          creepy           vegans

“Sorry, but if I can’t wear my cardinal red pant suit, I fucking quit!”

“Bless you—and may the Lord keep you. Unless you fucks nix my shed request…”

(for the peyote buttons that kept me company last evening) The crocodile pimp sleeps beneath my bed, his heavy meated tail the weapon of choice for correcting ho’s who don’t bring him his damn      money. Some nights, if my swollen prostate wakes me, I can hear the sounds of moaning johns, and the cackle of the crocodile pimp, living large beneath my      bed. **** Note: I’m off to court.  So

Watching Natasha Henstridge in Species reminds me:  we’re out of milk.

Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses and shake yo’ bitch ass!

I once saw a hobo get hit by a Jeep and bleed out in front of a downtown Carl’s Jr.  The air, I remember, smelled of urine and Seagram’s and keg beer and frat boy panic — —While for my part, I smelled of large fries and Diet Coke and jalapeno burger. Not that you asked. 

This poem has training wheels, because—having read it over twice now—I’m convinced it simply          cannot                   stand                             alone.

Where have you gone, Shari Lewis & Lambchop?  For together, you turned the ancient art of sewing button-eyes and red thread mouths onto absorbant & protective footwear a very      noble           calling.

for Glenn Greenwald**** “One time, drunk on Scotch and heavy with crab bisque, I found myself wondering, Why do the terrorists hate      us so? “But then I sat up straight, shook it off, and had my butler fetch me a ripe homo, Whom I promptly condemned      to hell.”                —written on a yacht piloted by laughably underpaid Haitians, July 11, 4:22 PM