Fever

Wake up

black coffee man

head like a used cotton swab

numb

under a thousand years

of bathroom dust

cockroaches

and toenail clippings.

Peeled out of

sweet sleep

like a week-old Band-Aid

which has grown

into the skin.

From the heroic life

of saving bewildered prostitutes

crashing cars

killing vampires

and making hella love

I am thrown into

this Walter Mitty

anti-dream.

Fuel!

Call it coffee

Fuel!

Call it ephedrine

Fuel!

Call it bourbon.

But whatever it is

it gets me through

the horror of

this waking dream

with a hint of a gleam

in my bloodshot eyes.

If I am the dreadlocked Medusa

of shadow and substance

a physical

entity

in this eerily realistic

dreamland

of 9 to 5 computers

and careless motorists

that drive like

irate 5 year-olds

then I should be

able to do the

voodoo back flip brain freeze

on these wretched concrete seconds

and wake myself to

the real world

of shotgun popcorn

car crash barn dance

electrocutive ejaculations

and

Sunny Tookus King-Sized Magillachudy Wipes.

But

something is sticking

like an impacted tooth

in this present tense

dollar eleven a gallon

rugby shirt preferred

mightily multiplied masturbation marathon...

3 lesbians

for every single male.

Bring a young lovely home

and wake up naked

in the middle of

an empty apartment

because as you slept

shed shed her porcelain chrysalis

to weave the web

of a fully developed

junky.

And all the good church-going spirit

you picked up as a child

is either beaten down

like a rented mule

or forged like titanium

by the periphery

of long-haired atheists who are incorrect

because they want to play God

but

are afflicted by warts

nose hair

and drive Hondas.

It must be a dream

because the blue sky

seems as dull

as number 2 graphite

on a brown paper bag.

The sitcoms

have an underlying needle

of ass-kicking seriousness as the malignant husks

of youthful Babylonians

attempt to

reinforce false truths

by repeating them.

The amber waives

of pain

the purple mountains

are Crayola doodled

cardboard cutouts

pasted to that

number 2 graphite

paper bag sky

with a brand x paste

that tastes

to your kindergarten memory

like

nothing.

Diving behind the steering wheel

eyes locked forward

in a daze

a hypnotic

Fonzarelli spelli

the fear of eyes

the life

of blinders

screeching tires

broken tail-lights

daydreaming

to escape the poltergeist

of Coca-Cola billboards

pawn shop neon

and chrome wheels

on an 88 Hyundai.

To escape

the paradox of

those whose rejection

of normality

has become normality.

Oh the whirled

is a place of 10 pm jiggling asses

firm thighs that

snap out of

slightly breathable

blue jean cutoffs

like

jackhammer straight-razor heat-lightning.

Hear your breathing

in your ears

teeth clamped alligator tight

neck tendons

like violin strings.

Shes got your blood pumping

93 octane

mainline hydrochloric acid bath

enough to make you cry

or cry out

like a lost wolf.

This is the life of

Riley K. Hard-dick

sweating at

the movements

of her lips

as she tells you

shes a Martian

or a poet

or hates your type.

Doesnt matter.

So with this ( x 1000)

under your belt

and

a diamond cutting hard-on

you go home alone.

Lump in throat

bloodshot eyes

sweat-soaked clothes

and brow furrowed

like an Egyptian death mask.

Sigh the breath of relief

that comes with

flipping back the sheets

throwing the a/c into full gear

and lighting that last cigarette

waiting

for the

sunglass balderdash

atomic carpet marmalade

transistorized coffin hymens

fuel-injected popsicle incinerator

surrealus sardonicum

the coming of

the real world.