Good Man One: Gas Points

I wake hearing a big one’s rubber feets screaming smoke into the air,

Spit-coughing a warning call angry to the Greens. No better way to

crack the lids. Little eated one, director of the coffin nail lush gush

red herring shared there, gas points won proper. A tremendous union.

No thing more smart than this battle against the sorest loser: green hell.

“Green hell is all around,” our Good Man warns, “take back our air!”

And green hell is so much bigger than those sinful pukes coming out of the ground.

Big ones run their rubber feets on the blood of dead old beasts.

Everywhere everywhere always all days all nights goading great gas points

Towards the little ones’ breathers. Waiting for Scrape Day, great day.

1 million gas points on the Good Man’s Good Faith Wrist Watch™

Come Scrape Day means pay day, Travel Day, THE DREAM!

“If you dream it, you can do it!” our Good Man cheers.

Dog-Day Dream


roadside I sit, throned, defamed,

fusing with porcelain.

A botched bionic blob.

Hurting like a

motherfucker who sipped

a little too much

sour atop the hour.

Bowels all howls,

no cowl growl

when relief waves,

“Hellooo, beautiful!”


when I peel myself

from such devices

I swear (!)

I hear a tear.

Here to there;

nether to tether.


I have to wonder
were I dog,

would this feel




I am Dog.

Every   body

turning ears;

leering peers,

sneers ‘n’ jeers.

Them: “Piddle a puddle!

Shit missile!”

Aiming humans take,

Dog on the beat,

affronting those we

meet, “Pleeease


excrete, excrete!

Good Dog!”

Hurried, worried

street-side porcelain was

not the right way



but the highway