time leaves its sordid tales behind

i'm planning on writing some stories for this blog, but i just haven't gotten around to it yet. i've got some pretty good ones though. Like the time i tore down an ex-roommate's front door because i was drunk on vodka and couldn't find my checkbook anywhere, or doing thirty hours worth of sheriff's work days on two hours of sleep and listening to the cop talk pyramids so i didn't have to go back out on the highway and spear trash anymore. I could also mention (or at least allude to) the time i tackled the old lady in the patio furniture store, or the month i spent riding the rails, sitting higgledy-piggledy with three barrel stiffs plus one coach jawrower and a gravedigger named slick fulwood, the five of us in glad rags listening to a hallelujah peddler before hopping off in winnemucca to score a spot in a globe-trotting samba troop, and then the car-salesman who sidelined as a stage prop (in another life) telling me, "you have to be qualified to drive a ferrari."
"qualified? i'm paying cash! what do you want a bag of money?"
"Step into my office."

i will get around to writing some stories, but for now, here's another poem:

Ship It

~ see: Oak Bend Review April '09

life is good, but contempt is better

(~) here's the scrubbed and disinfected version of the poem down below. i think this one is much better. i thought the other one was really good too when i first posted it, but then i came back to it a day after i wrote the thing and realized where i went wrong, which was pretty much everywhere... what a turkey (vulture). i don't know what i was thinking.

"i was probably drunk" ~ don imus
--

pre-socratic

how you tame a lion is with a chair
and whip, but with a man it's best to grab
a bible and beat him over the head
with it singing god and country
and man oh my... praise be to america's wet-nurses
vibratingbedsalesmen mudbug-
harvesters undertakers failed honkytonk
coverbands anyone who's anyone
whose half-a-mind believes
in the voice of a mob
and the pursuit of life liberty and
that which is wholly
purchasable with a preferred line of credit
at jose's flower boutique & whackshack
back behind that truckstop
off yeehaw junction where the nuns all disguise
themselves as french-
tickler dispensers
and the feeling one gets
having been raised irish-catholic
when your final thought
always involves a line of priests
jockeying for hand-me-downs
outside the xxx goat-foot-emporium and how
did you say
philosophy was
born?