The Old Lady says

I have anger issues

And I agree

That I let shit piss me off

Why? I don’t know

And I don’t care to analyze it

Because I’m absolutely certain

I’m justified in raging

When something outrageous occurs

Like when some asshole doesn’t use his blinker

Or has the unquestioned last word

About everything and informs me

That everyone over 40 votes Republican

That’s the kind of shit that drives me crazy

Like the fat-fucks that listen to Rush

Limbaugh and the other talk-radio nuts

Those good-ol’ ‘Murakins who buy

Up the multinational corporate dream

That somehow allows them to rant

About sacrificing for God and Wal-Mart

And borders that don’t exist

As if our soldiers die for something

Besides the almighty dollars

Collected and spent by the drones of the world

Maybe that’s a little harsh

A wee bit over the top

Or maybe not

Usually these moods tailgate

Events like the oil geyser greasing the Gulf

Of Mexico or the death of another friend

Which happens too often after fifty-plus years

And is easily amped-up

By four or five beers

Because then I’ll tell you what I really think

I become the cynical prick of wisdom

After a few drinks loaded

With pot-shots and a witty chip on my Dick

Hugo sized shoulders

A wanna-be Jimbo Dickey

Drunk as Dylan Thomas lying

On the stage streamlined as my old friend

From the east end Dickie D

Powder monkey of the edgy grin and gritted teeth

Mocking the sins of the working class

Clowns who know they’re fucked

Yet living like Zoo-Looney kings

We’re such silly-assed trash-spoiled

Gotta spend it sons-of-bitches

And I think that’s mainly why most often

I probably get mad

Crazy-mad as my dad on a Lenny Bruce

Roll like a Twainy Wilde-man

Who doesn’t want to play along

But is not sure of anything anymore

Are you? Maybe the monsters were wrong

Their songs too full of violence and sex

Delta blues and barbecued pork

Loins screaming at me to eat

Art the satiating lie that whispers

Truth and makes me think

I’m not the only sad sack

Of declining testosterone

Perched on the branches of despair

Orgasm and lunacy breaking down

Believe me I’d rather not be Wright

And I’d rather not get angry

But count blossoms and blessings

My preference for breaking

Has always been into tears


          for James Wright and Quinton Duval

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