valentine's is for lovers

Even though you’re just sitting there handsome, silent and motionless,

I’ve created sitcoms for you in my mind –

You – the John Holmes lover in my big, cheesy porn debut,

holding your monster-truck up to my dirty, open mouth

eyes coked up in slits, nude and oily wet.

- A rock-star with your hair slinging

while striking your flying V guitar with the seduction and angst

of a teenage speed-freak rebel. Yea, you contributed to rock history,

so all those small town punk-rock smelly tattooed boys can piss off,

you got a page in Rolling Stone, with your shades on.

You were the schizophrenic staring at walls, talking to paper towel rolls

and Styrofoam cups down and out – need a mother lover recovering alcoholic needle-pusher,

detoxing on 30 year old couches with beer-gutted men and skanks like me.

You were in an Alice Cooper cover band,

harbored in the desert, chasing scorpions growing your beard out,

eating organic, passing around pictures of you and Alice

to other 40something washed-up musicians in hotels,

selling insurance, working at auto-shops.

You sat at the bus-stop in a greasy mechanics shirt, head in your hands,

no ring on your finger and losing your hair.

Then you were that young, skinny and compulsively lying Canadian

cowboy with snap-up shirt and jeans dancing beneath the fog and lights

at the ancient discotheque, with young scenesters hoping to be famous

in an oil town of industry.

Later, you bought Italian shoes, put in hair extensions, wearing polyester

I did not dry-hump your leg; you were everyone’s dance-slut.

You were the peeping tom at the gas-station next door

watching me pump my gas – 1, 2, shove the nozzle in deep

wait, pull it out and drive away.

You take notes near the window, in a yellow steno-pad.

You were the rock-n-roll hot-rod cruising bachelor

in 70’s Starsky and Hutch sunshades. Yea, dynamite –

I play hooker, you give me a free ride.

The beatnik son of god, doing yoga, strumming out a tune on your steering wheel

parting the waters of my thighs with your free hand,

you burn a bush better than Moses.

The wind whips through my hair; sink down,

90 miles an hour on hot pavement.

There’s a big-bang in my gut – I birth 3 uninhabitable stars that become planets.

The aliens create monkey farms, come down to mate with them,

attempt human match-ups and tattoo hieroglyphic messages down my spine.

You are beyond mankind – within the orb of my chakra of … (f*&#)

and it’s been so long for me that your little tiny weenie

is like -- Godzilla -- fighting off gill headed fish creatures,

breathing hot flames and trampling ALL of Tokyo.

Yeah, you’re probably just some stupid idiot,

but I’ve turned you into many things in my mind.

       

(p.s. thanks for the 2006 show in houston B-Head, it really changed my life.

p.s.s. these are ALL yours... get a lawyer.)