THIS IS A POEM ABOUT HUGH HEFNER AND THE FOSSILS OF CANNIBALISTIC DINOSAURS 9.28.17

9.28.17

When you are near
the damage takes place.
catastrophe brought on by presence,
bought off by liquor of any kind.
After the first drop finds my tongue
I am no longer selective.
Bring me anything, the sweat
of working men or saliva of the
pinnacle class, pipe puffing
and infirm, they smell of fresh cash
and lounge all day in various silks
with various women draped upon
their arms like dinner jackets,
rest in peace Mr. Hefner, though why
do I care if he’s dead, what of his life
did he deserve anyway? He lives better
than I ever will, even as his organs
fall to dust inside his skin, but this is
a matter beyond Mr. Hefner. This is a
matter of the heart pertaining to you,
yes you, you, I’ll keep saying it, you
know exactly who you are and what you’ve
done to a man who was so enthusiastic
about life that at one point
in his youth he purchased roses from a
homeless man, just to look at,
not the roses
the homeless man’s face
at the sight of a ten dollar bill,
which brought him to tears.
There is beauty in this world
waiting to be exhumed,
ossified in the bedrock of our collective
human memory, waiting to explode forth
one day like the spectacular end to the universe,
or a mandable, perhaps, belonging to a savage
lizard that cannablized its young
fifty million years ago.


Written at 9:30 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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