Jibber Jabber from a Jim Jam Jabberwocky

Non-sequential nonsense from a man with nothing left to lose, except his job.

The Sun Is In Denial

the sun is in denial.
as most of us usually are
not wanting to believe the worst
telling ourselves it will get better.

there is doctor to look to for help.
thick hacking from behind
heavy grey skies.

we think it is just thunder.
we think a lot of misinformed ideas.

If the religious segment knew
they would pray for the sun,
but prayers are not medicine.

children wait patiently
looking out windows
the yards dreary
wet with rain.

the sun is in denial
but still weeps
from that knowledge
that hides in the back of the mind.

the sun can not see,
nor sweat nor speak
but is forced to keep shinning
no matter the intensity of pain
that riddles the lungs.

how long the sun asks
to whom
not even the sun knows.

a hundred years to the sun
is just a day to us, but
an illness kills all the same.

An artist with cold feet treads nowhere.

—J. Edward Gibbs

Ten Band Names

  1. Diabetes Sex Cult
  2. Patti Hearse and The Vulva Command Unit
  3. The Java Dumps
  4. Day-Glo Drone Kids
  5. Limp Imps
  6. Princess Revolver
  7. The Hearty Dick Pics
  8. White House Yard Sale
  9. Clever Voyeurism
  10. Vibrating Sheeple  

There Are Worse Ways To Live

desperate red lipstick
looking for a cause
looking for a reason
to envelope the streets
of mean drunks
and empty promises
the streets where hope
can be found
in disillusioned destruction
and love is an abstraction
traveling in back of yellow taxis
heading towards the horizon
a slurred pointless joke
to be laughed at in plumes
of cigarette smoke
carelessly
invitingly
as well known as a war
when mistakes take on wisdom
and wisdom is broken gutter glass
shattering moments of
lonely hesitation
desperate red lipstick
whose mouth
will you belong?

a hallway of zeros/ for no one.

Sunday School Pornoshop

I don’t want you to be my lover
I want you to be my god.

Fuck the time clock
Heaven is between two bed sheets.

I’m ejaculating angels
against your crown of thorns.

bend the throne over
there is a crucifixion
in how the light hits the stains.

Your holy trumpets
rises up my six headed beast.

We’re biblical in the night
hellish in the day
drinking our fish like righteousness
in blood wine trinity.

cumming with four horsemen apocalypse
deep in an Easter cave.

I am pretty sure Ralph Wiggum wrote Fifty Shades of Grey. It is One Hundred
degrees today. I don’t want to get on my bike. I miss the ability to read
on the bus. I would read the book mentioned above if that sentence were
true. I could go for a good book. But I won’t. The bus takes too long. I am
exhausted. My mind is not running at full capacity. Maybe I shouldn’t post
this. There is no reason. But hey, this is the age of social media. And it
seems anyone can get published.

losing followers and I didn’t even have to selfie my penis. in other news, poetry.

Pure love is like pure alcohol, blinding and possibly fatal.