Man in the Woods

a re-posting...just because...

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the man in the woods

he cries and i don't know why

i'm running through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils flaring with my geezer wind desperate breathing desperation bleating in out in out the days yes oh yes the days remember the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it meant something else it meant the same thing else it didn't

breathe just breathe

remember when a fuck was but a fuck

the man in the woods he cries and i don't know why is he jesus does he cry for me do his tears wash over me do his tears wash away my sins does he whisper as i run by does he beseech number one number two does he sit behind door number three me i'm running by like an escaped convict running by like gayle sayers running by like a cat with a firecracker tied to his tail does he whisper do i hear sifting through his gritted teeth above the pain beneath our salvation does he tremble as he utters

father forgive him he knows not the misery he passes he knows not the misery he's left behind

like the snail trails traipsing down last night's trousers stained from the love that could have been lo a gentle weeping j'accuse no finger extended no pointing of the pelvis perhaps a nudge of the chin in my direction

i am so guilty

of not giving a shit i know i know all i want to do is run all i want to do is prance through the woods all i want to do is slip slide on out the door sprinkle me some pixie dust paint me a path run me down the rosy road to ruin turn this way turn that way spin about do the hokey pokey play ex box with my cock a doodle do dah do dah camptown racetrack five miles long long way to tipperary tippecanoe tyler too run jesse run zippity do dah zippy the pinhead twenty three skiddoo hey hey george double-you throw down a bucket of sand do the old soft shoe and

here's gee eye johnny

we don't have dick nixon to push around any more

clowns to the left of me jokers to my right here i am stuck in the middle of the redwoods with my conscience pissing against the tree his limp worm of a cock all shriveled up him shaking it viciously cursing moaning lamenting that his tears flow more easily than his stream

and the general he salutes his friends on the street with his ritual morning greeting he says with a tip o' the brim he asks

and how is the vigor of your stream today my friend

and the general he toasts his friends at dinner with the autumnal blessing he says with a tip of the flute he declares

and may the vigor of your stream be strong and powerful til your dying days

a sigh a smile a wistful look back

at love oh

what of love

i run from love while my brothers my cousins my sisters my friends who aren't my brothers who aren't my cousins who aren't my sisters who aren't my friends they crawl through the desert such sand roaches with infrared binoculars and sticks that go bang and stones that go bang bang bang really fast really loud farting a staccato hiss of bullets and bad thoughts each one with an engraved invitation to meet in hell sip a beer talk about old times hey remember

the time when i saw you sitting in your window stirring your strong coffee with that little spoon your baby on your lap

hey remember when i shot you didn't see it coming did you did you

remember when you and your screaming banshee of a tribe came running from the fiery womb you too forgot you too were running from your misery we're all running from our misery running like a nose running like your mommas hose running like whaddya gonna go see running ring around the rosy pocket full of posies goddamn we're all running i'm just putting you yeah me and these little bullets whizzing through the air

we're just

putting you out of your misery

hey remember when i shot you and you and you and you and your momma and your daddy

yes darlin' i am your daddy i eat your lunch

i run away while my brother rumbles across the desert in his mobile metal monster mashing mortals beneath betwixt breathing fire ferreting out evil whacking the mole of terrorism waiting for it to spring up elsewhere in the desert that's all right that's ok hell yeah i'll be there when you pop up bitch i can stay at code level orange forever i'll whack you back into the stone age spewing leaflets of love and democracy

vote or die cocksucker

you don't vote you got no excuse fuck your excuses i'm tired of your excuses you're only a camel fucking faggot raghead the only good raghead is a dead raghead the only good faggot is a dead faggot the only good camel is the one i stole from you slit its throat and used its blood to defile your wife

i am hellfire and yours is the burning flesh

we will leave a trail of familial deadends your father and your father's father and your father's father's father will go only backwards they will see no light there is no future for you and your kind the buck stops here ends right here end of the line buddy last stop in brooklyn dead end the bridge to nowhere has crumbled into the abyss below

i piss on your corpse because i can it don't bother me one bit i get up the next morning i go to work i am television i express my views both fair and balanced all the views fit to print spread my views like the dew does on dixie i dunk my donut i sip my tea all warm in its quilted cozy i go home to my loved ones my wife hands me my pipe my martini two olives very dry takes my coat i roll up my sleeves loosen my tie put up my feet read my paper

june come cuddle my cock what have wally and the beave done now

i will never go to eye rack i will never send my sons i will never step foot in that rotten land i don't have to go we have those that will get on that jet plane not care when they come home again and i will never i will not think of them again

never no not ever

fuck 'em

and why should i when i can run through the redwoods spread before me in their glorious splendor when i can slide down snowy slopes on broadband boards with finely honed edges arms hands extended from leopard skin goretex jumpsuits into fashionably feathery wings george clinton that old nigger got nothing on me hey look ma i'm flying and i paid two hundred dollars for the privilege and i'll do it again and again and again

wake up and piss the world is set afire give me my fiddle there is no hope



one two three



ah but there is hope there will be change

he who comes in on the one twenty from chicago a black man wearing a white hat he carries the gospel of gumbo in a slop bucket we sip of his blood he tosses the biscuits of the lowly bastard we eat of his flesh

i believe oh i do believe

in the father the son the holy ghost i stand tall give him the big hurrah the big hurrah the big hurrah three cheers i know he will absorb the twenty one gun salute bring peace to the valley he will go tell it on the mountain he will let freedom ring sweet land of liberty

can i get an amen

he has the spatula to spread democracy like sweet butter on hot from the oven bread poppin' fresh freddie's dead that's what i said

simmering simians in uniform load 'em up move 'em out keep those dogies moving roll 'em roll 'em roll 'em

rawhide

yeehah

in twenty fourteen
i took a little trip
went with colonel 'bama
along a mighty missile tip

we took a little bacon
we took a few beans
we fought the bloody banshees
in the shadow of the baghdad queen

we fired our guns
and they kept a'comin'
not quite as many as there was a while ago

we fired once more
and they began a'runnin'
down the euphrates to the persian gulf and all the way back to the stone age to bedrock hanging with fred and wilma barney and betty way over down around the mountain when she comes swing low sweet chariot coming forth to carry me home down by the river through the woods across the rubble in afghanistan and and and we chase 'em yeah we chase 'em leave the fires raging behind us ain't got time for no sunni shiite kurdish bullshit gonna leave this war behind us exit stage right heavens to murgatroy this is a bad war this is a no no war this is a fucked up war we got voted out of this war we gots no time for this war we got no time to go home ain't got no time to drop by give june a smooch a solid pokin' get me a little strokin' we gots to find us a better war we got to find other peoples to kill and smoke and whack and slice and dice and strap down to a board

ah the cool cool water

and lot's wife she turned toward sodom she saw the wickedness crumble behind her lo tho lot beseeched her to close her eyes to swing her head she bore witness to god's evil and god made her into a pillar of salt

goddamn god his guns his gutless wonder

oh there's hope there will be change

my brother who is not my brother crawling through the poppies poppin' caps in pakistani puds pulling black sacks over the heads of bad guys as they disappear

from even themselves

oh i believe i do believe i believe that he that comes before us waving his hands pointing at those behind him with dismay and disappointment

he who is so well spoken

black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you are different tell me that you will make a difference i just won't believe you until the wars have stopped they've never worked there's never been a good war there's never been a just war black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you will make a difference show me you make a difference because until you do until you put some wind behind that flag you wave

i giess i will simply saunter on by keep running on past my

man in the woods

as he cries and i still won't know why

i still won't give a shit it just hurts too much

i'll run through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils desperate for fresh air cigarettes more soothing than more of the same bleating in out in out remembering the days to come the days that could have been yes the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it had meant something else had meant the same thing else it didn't i will need to remember to

breathe just breathe

remember when a fuck was but a fuck and all that

Sunday Morning

sunday morning the heavy male voice on the radio the guy that reads the five minutes of news that comes at the top of the hour that little note of somber reality quickly read to us that quick shot of bitter espresso that little jolt to wake us up before the she brings us the flute of too sweet champagne and orange juice before the full brunch of crepes filled with sweet berries and whipped cream before the lively lady regales us with homey montages of the latest norah epheron julia child movie the obama beer sipping controversy the best beach books of the summer moving on to giggling bantering around the sunday puzzle some upbeat middle aged man his faithful wife and beautiful dog sitting at his feet both laughing along with him with the radio lady and her little self-depracating jokes about her own intelligence her lack thereof her own inability to come up with the five letter words that begin with an eff end with an ish or an esh and might fit into a shakespearean sonnet should he mister shakespeare himself arise from the dead shake off the dust the dirt the loam of neglect of several centuries begin anew scribbling limericks about nantucket on discarded wienerschnitzel napkins found on the streets of indianapolis of saint louis of des moines of toledo our puzzle solving hero signing off victoriously hands clasped overhead rocky atop the steps of the philadelphia museum dancing away with the goods a morning edition coffee mug and a tee shirt to wear around the starbucks just outside his suburban gated enclave

this morning sunday morning the heavy male voice he says in a rather matter of fact sort of way he says with his scintillating journalistic excellence his keen eye to neutered objectivity he says

four american soldiers died today when a roadside bomb exploded near their vehicle and

without skipping a beat

he goes on to talk of prolonged aid for unemployment running out the throngs of people mourning the loss of miz aquino in manila and a renewed effort to buy clunkers from fools who bought ess you vees people of means yes but by no means kings of the road or so you would think or so you would hope

goddamn

ah sunday mornings

sometimes they just be reg'lar sometimes they just like any other day sun comes up over the water just like yesterday just like it might tomorrow comes up over the water washes us cleanses us whispers into narrates our vivid just before waking dreams tells us jesus loves us yes he does because the bible tells us so because the residuals of the last joey of the evening toked on the couch while watching the two ay em western black and white with audy murphy that joey still flies around your head in an old old red tri-plane a dog on doghouse chasing it the dog shaking its paw the scent of the joey printed on the banner sailing behind flapping in the breezes flowing between hammer anvil and stirrup and their respective unobstructed stoner holes

jesus loves you on one side jesus is the reason for the season on the other

but sometimes a sunday morning comes around and changes a man's life sometimes on a sunday morning mister preacherman he might stand up in front of the congregation he might talk about jesus christ he might talk about jesus at just the right moment in a man's life he might invoke the holy spirit at that moment when a man is down crippled with the aftereffects of a saturday night a man who awoke in the front seat of his car slumped over the steering wheel the white dry saliva crusted not only on his lips but on his thick useless tongue as well an ashtray full of butts an empty pint of bourbon peeking out of a paper bag in his lap an empty bottle of aftershave on the seat next to him sometimes a preacherman might find that man might reach that man

might change his life

all it takes is a moment all it takes is a snap crackle pop of time

sitting down sunday morning just hanging down at java beach digging the sun the air the leftover saturday buzz the glow of the lingering fuck the fog of the night before sin no less than boomhauer himself yes with crisp white tee shirt you ess flag drawn on its sleeve you ess em sea on his baseball cap coffee spills the table mumbles his discontent

give me a gun i'll kill 'em all

out the window down the street gulls flying round like drunken skeet

big you ess flag flapping in the wind over the church
how many friends do we leave in the lurch
you ess flag flapping in the breeze
a few more bullets get 'em on their knees

flap jack lip smack kiss their ass good bye
flip flop tick tock more people die

way way on down way down in afgahni-town

and hippies on the beach doing the yoga thing in the pacific sun all decked out in their hippie yogi tights wic-a-way shirts complete with politically appropriate and witty slogan printed across some artistic interpretation of an obama yes we can bumper sticker phattie smiles circle their addled peace-loving brains dirty fucking faggots i bet they were quakers or hare krishnas in a previous life i bet they've never even shot a gun i bet they've never twisted the neck off a chicken in order to make the sunday dinner i bet they don't know how many mexicans got to die to bring their organic tomato salsa corn chips to the farmer's market

don't you know if i had a four foot long hippie dick don't you know the miracles that would spring forth

hell if my dick were four feet long i'd wear tight yogi pants too if my dick were four feet long i wouldn't have to wear kevlar cammo and a helmet wouldn't have to run around them mountains shooting at goats and bearded fucks with rags wrapped round their heads if my dick were four feet long i wouldn't have to prove to the world how fucking studly i am

i wouldn't have to sublimate with a grenade launcher

like obama do

obama who don't even know why we're in afghani-town says he needs time to figure it out got to determine the proper metrics it ain't just about how many we kill there are other things to consider we got to come up with a standardized normalized methodology for capturing statistics boiling them down stirring them up sliding them into an effective power point presentation with graphs and animations and slogans talk about how many wells we've drilled how many schools we've built how many people vote in the next election we'll create nine solid metrics that we'll track that we'll report to the media that we'll beam out to the heavens bounce them back down to show the world prove to everyone that

we're doing the right thing

that we're winning

and winning is all that fucking counts hell if my dick were four feet long i'd just hang round the house get lucky and slide

like obama do

obama who don't even know why we're in afghani-town says he needs time to figure it out jesus mary and joseph fucking hell it's just like watching hoops on tv the drones sink another basket nutha mulla down we all just wanna know where to place our bets we all just want to know who is setting odds

meanwhile we just send more troops we kill more we send more troops we die more

hell yeah

gonna get me a drone
gonna make me a surgical strike
gonna find his momma's home
gonna fuck up his lovely wife

sometimes a sunday morning comes around and changes a man's life all it takes is a moment all it takes is a snap crackle pop of time

sunday morning four american soldiers died today and all that