Handjob Tyrants Of Hollywood

She will not be perfect.
Her skin will fall and flop.
She talks and talks
and I of course make the mistake
of judging her value by
the changing of her physicality
while granting myself privileges
of mind, lintellect, and earnings.
My breath stales to phlegm
and stinks its sad mature mucosal
isolation of men.
I become known as

the handjob tyrant

and look towards other women,
but as I grow old and my hardons
no longer work
do I have the courage to love her
as she turns into something
beyond time,
eternal, beyond stupid words?
Something my mother told me
as a toddler,

listen to that feeling inside your head

and maybe I’ll still be afraid of.
This poem was not written for the
fashionable young people or the
vainfully rich and egotists
rushing in and out of the stores and
clinics of the City.
This poem was written for the leaves,
grass, and particles
still vassals to the wind,
not the human negrotude
put in place by the ancient Court
of Ine, ingrained in your movies and
television.

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Pete’s Pizza Economies Falling

centuries of people
have eaten that bad pizza
more long lasting
is the mystery of
these economies that plague us

come for the people
at this street corner
going in to get their pizza

going into the brick and
mortar
neighborhood building
to be back home with family
eating the cheese and sauce
and meat
with all those electric screens
aglow

they look into each others
eyes
with something ancient
asking

there’s more to this
in our DNA and the dust of
stars
above and so far across
existence
than what I chew and swallow
over and over