Happy Hour at Flem's
Perforated facial
waxed onto
a buttressed son.
//
The ways of a man
cannot be explained
simply in thread counts.
//
Quarterly publications
filled with cigarette ads
and hip hop album covers.
//
Diplo is not a role model,
and modeling paste
can be a slippery slope.
//
Empty Yuengling bottles
strewn across empty yards,
where feelings are just feelings.
//
When color is not an issue,
black is the necessary default,
and "la vida loca" is the mantra.
//
Acronyms are antonyms
for personal relevance,
and I want my HBO.
//
Pepe Sánchez was a dream,
Elián González was a boat,
John Roebas is a fantasy.
//
"At least I don't have a job,"
said the young painter
with no student loans.
//
Blemished limousine,
drunk on 5-hour Energy—
shit, freeways aren't free.
//
Troll every digital scroll available,
do shots of wheatgrass at Club Ozz,
shred documents only when necessary.
//
Deutsche Bank is German
the way Bank of America
is socialist, you know?
//
Straight drifters cast outside
via hazy labyrinthine plots;
get lost in the cornrow maze.
//
Parliamentary butts get ashy
in Tahitian themed dreams;
don't forget your card at the bar.
//
I am a Trans Am,
I am a Mustang,
I am a lesbian.
//
Doing Dr. Pepper Jager Bombs
at 5 am on the thirteenth floor
of the Chinatown Comfort Inn.
//
Nihilism is diesel bullshit,
but don't preach anything
when you're unleaded.
//
Politician casually breaks silence
on the ethical nuances of Irish exits
while Rachel Maddow smokes cigar.
//
Do you ever wonder when artists
will begin to play golf on Sundays
with their long distant investors?
//
I had a dream that Zac Efron played
Heath Ledger as a dead playwright
and Seth Rogen stopped writing.
//
"Louie Louie" plays in the black cab,
our driver looks like Henry Rollins,
and this girl looks fed up with me.
//
Hibiscus, hydrangea,
meniscus, Mylanta,
my right arm is dying.
//
Depression is fish and chips
and one-way conversations
about the pitches of Muzak.
//
A house is a hobo
looking for a plot;
I am a drifter, period.
//
The word 'zeitgeist'
is like a silent fart
that found its voice.
//
Major league business,
minor league cocaine,
and sushi on the rocks.
//
Poet attempts stand-up comedy,
face plants onto canvas drop cloth,
suddenly transforms into painter.
//
The economy of self
is alchemical of sorts;
words sort out images.
//
A fear of exposed garage doors
keeps my teeth grinding good;
I work better the less I sleep.