FIRST POEM ON THE NEW BAD BOY

I’m writing this on a 24″ screen computer
that just made me US$1100+ poorer,
and such amount may not seem like much
to a European or North American reader,
but for a low-income neighborhood
third-world 25-year old poet
this is close to (if not) a financial suicide.

And to think I started writing on tiny pieces of paper.
Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.

I’m also sitting next to 70oz of beer,
and I’m going to type the most expensive poems on earth
with the help of this bad boy.

Now, on to the next poem!
The beer is finite,
but the will
isn’t.

dear warm little hole

the instinct to procreate
hardwired into all domesticated primates
has led me to send you this
valentine card in a
facile,
shallow
attempt
to convince you that my biological imperative
actually represents something
ephemeral and profound like
“love,”
rather than being yet another
example in a long line of ritualistic
gestures intended to daze
and confuse you just long enough
for me to climb on top of you in yet another
fruitless attempt
to plant my
sperm 
inside
your 
cervix.
sincerely,
your honey bun

Neo(n) Highlighter

After I sat for years and years
in my own brain stew,
I could so easily absorb your energy-
forget myself, and hate you

I only care to thank you.

Your tongue-be-damned-smirks
Sinister hush-hush
Your psycho-circus alluring-quirks
Drama pit rush-rush

Carried on and on, truth be told;
You never made a lick of sense
A lost soul who doesn’t dare decide,
fucking ‘em all on the fence

You branded me DEAD and
vultures sure circled in my sky
But the sun burst me into flames
as my nightmare was clarified…

Just another plastic heart, sent
and fresh off the assembly line
Karma may be a bitch, but she cheers
for me as we drink elderberry wine

Bored with the shade of boy toys
I now want the tree with deep roots
After you highlighted my wings,
I could take off my heavy boots

I only want to thank you. Cheers.

(Blows kiss)

So, I accept your ‘Darkness’,
darling, and never my defeat
How could I ever hate The One
who lifted me up off my feet?

From the forthcoming indie chapbook, NOT YOUR KIND: The Gaslit Files

In the Torture Chamber

The first thing you see
is a masked man
wielding a long spear.

The next thing you see
is that weapon
pointed in your direction.

The next thing you see
is the sharp tip of that spear
penetrating your right eye.

The next thing you see
is the sharp tip of that spear
penetrating your left eye.

The next thing you see
is overwhelming darkness.
But is that really seeing?
Not the way I look at it.

Do you like the music of Pete Cigar?

She was young and drunk and trying to appear cultured
when she said it.

Do you like the music of Pete Cigar?
she asked.
A tiny burp exiting her mouth 
stage right.

Most embarrassing when you are trying
to steer a fifty-foot yacht up your own 
puckered ass. 

I told her I did.
That his music had a heavy Cuban influence.

Oh, I love Cuba!
she threw her tiny confetti hands
in the air.

So did Castro,
I say.

I think we need more wine!
she smiled.
Garcon, Garcon!
she waved her glass 
in the air.

I poured us both some wine.
Killed an ant on the way back
from the bathroom.

The only thing left to do now 
was to discuss the many musical merits 
of Wooden Guthrie.

Amateur 

I lost my drinking hand.  
This kind of thing happens all the time.
People lose stuff.
Keys. Wallets. Virginity. Marriages. 
Houses. Doesn’t matter.

I thought I’d left it at the titty bar on the boardwalk
but when I called and asked about my drinking hand
Chris, the bartender, said he hadn’t seen it
but that he’d ask around. 
Bartenders are used to people losing stuff. 

It’s possible I left it at the liquor store. 
Jim, the owner, is a good guy, a bootstraps kind of guy. 
He’d put my drinking hand in the Lost & Found 
if I left it on the counter or dropped it by the cooler. 
If Liquors & Lottery had a Lost & Found. 

The name Liquors & Lottery suggests 
Jim hasn’t lost his sense of humor. 
But its blunt description does suggest he’s lost his creativity touch. 
Once that’s lost not even Chris, the bartender, can find it
no matter how much he asks around. 

Losing my drinking hand in such an unexpected way
reminds me of that story by Gogol in which a guy loses his nose. 
He spends the entire story looking for his nose 
and it eventually turns up in a cathedral and refuses to return to his face. 
Gogol never lost his creativity.  

I doubt my drinking hand is in a cathedral. 
It’s gonna’ turn up at that little titty bar on the boardwalk. 
It’s Amateur Night. My drinking hand is probably 
working its way up some pretty girl’s skirt right now.
I’m calling Chris back before I’m banned for life. 

Medicine

You
are my medicine
when things are 
fever-pitched
fucked-up
shit
dismantled
glitched.
When calm
disperses
like cigarette smoke 
in fan blades, 
overhead—
tarring popcorn ceilings 
and textured walls
with burns and
invisible drops
of carcinogenic rain.
What better salve
for the poundings 
in my chest—
palpitations
consternations
vascularizations
reformations
indemnifications
of a life, juxtaposed,
away from those eyes
that mouth
that touch of skin, yours,
the sedation 
of cool breath 
on hot forehead
and the combing
of fingertips 
through currents
of sweat-matted hair—
this world I know. 
You 
are
my
medicine.

***

Originally published at Fire Dumpster Press

Perseverance 

I sit in diners 
and write 
poetry, baby – 
it ain’t much. 
And my bank account 
is losing 
which means 
I’m losing 
in this game 
of life 
where everything 
is measured 
by money. 
But there is 
something to be said 
about Perseverance 
when you’re on 
the losing side. 
I won an award 
for Perseverance 
in 8^th grade 
and it must’ve 
been telling 
because it is 
the one thing 
that’s stuck 
with me 
no matter what 
my situation 
has been. 
It sits 
on my shoulder 
like a little angel 
whispering 
keep going, 
you can do this. 
So I listen 
to it, 
trust it 
and write 
this poem.  

to boldly go

Captain Kirk always made me hot
and i desperately wanted him
to fuck me, just as i imagined 
him fucking Mr Spock.

i wanted to be bent over
his Captain’s chair,
on the bridge, Warp speed!
Mr Scott, warp speed!

he would whisper in my ear
as he took me, thrusting hard
and furious, whispering about
the Gorn and Tribbles, and
how i felt better than
Yeoman Rand and Nurse Chapel,
or the green girl from Orion.

we would transport down
to the surface of a strange new world,
make love in a jail cell
after they captured us.
Mr Spock would beam in to save us,
but he caught us joined together, 
his eyebrow would raise,
fascinating.

and i would die in his arms, as red
shirts always die, and no one gets
between Captain Kirk and Mr Spock.

Traumatized By Fairytales 

You have no memories of innocence 
just curated evidence of puerile thoughts 
in childish script whispered by the dark prince 
of punishment who visits you when you ought 
to dream of unicorns, chocolate egg creams,
prim fairies like a good girl should — not 
orgiastic in a flaming wood.  Deemed 
by good and evil both a sacrifice.  Taught
to open shamelessly all but the eyes 
and crawl towards the cruelest hands. Accept
their seed and reprimands.  Live traumatized 
by fairytales meant for those they defend
who have not lived the truth of how they end.