I've never read a Harlequin Romance
nor fucked the group-mind-think that
thought the Republican agenda
with Democratic pitch-the-dog-a-bone
and let-the tail-wag-but-say-nothing-drones
of-the-corporate empire that begat the
son of God. Jesus. How fucked up does it
have to get? And I'm lost in a bitter tea, swirling around
doomsday with nothing more to say except
that Bukowski should be raised from the dead
and piss away the last poem of the earth.

Naked and drunk, but sober enough (or maybe
too sober) to cut through all
the bullshit with the utility knife of his
middle finger.

Amen.