Not So Strange a Sight, If You Think About It

The man with the stuffed unicorn 
is no longer married. 

He is mostly bald and a little fat. 
The man, I mean. 

The unicorn is pink and plush 
with a single, white snowflake 
in each of his coal black eyes, 
and hooves that put you in mind 
of mother of pearl. 

He doesn’t look like 
you would expect, really. 

The unicorn, I mean. 

He looks more like a hippopotamus 
with a festive horn 
than he does a magical stallion. 

The man looks exactly 
as you would expect: 
Lost and weary. 

The man with the stuffed unicorn 
no longer has a child. 

He was a late addition, 
but that meant he was treasured 
all the more. 

The unicorn, I mean. 
But you could say the same for the child, 
if that’s what you want to talk about. 

No one wants to talk about that, though. 

His name was Samuel, 
but no one ever wants 
to talk about him at all. 

His mother was Ruth.
The man with the unicorn’s mother, I mean.
Samuel’s mother was Lydia. 

No one wants to talk about her, either. 

The man with the stuffed unicorn
keeps walking. He keeps walking 
until he is just gone.

No one notices. 

The unicorn remains plush and beautiful, 
and the man will not let him go,
but he will never have a home. 

Bumming Smokes

He waited 
until she was in the bathroom
to rifle through her purse.

Emptying her pack of smokes
out on the floor
in a line 
before pulling down his shorts
resting his body weight on his hands
and running his bum cheeks 
back and forth over her cigarettes.

Then he quickly gathered them up,
put the smokes in their original pack
and placed it back in her purse.

When she returned from the bathroom,
there was grease on her face 
like a dirty fryer.

She spoke about a Rorschach test
the whitecoats wanted her to take.

But this was his moment,
the Time of a great man!

Any man could bum a single smoke,
he thought.
But an entire pack at one time,
I think not.

Jesus and How He Must Have Felt

Staggering out Wee-Willy’s
dumpy dive bar, droopy eyes,
my feelings desensitizing,
confusing my avocado fart,
at 3:20 a.m., with last night
splash on Brut aftershave.
Whispering to my outcast
self-sounding more like pending death.
My body detaching from myself,
numbed by winter’s fingers.
I creak up these outside stairs
to my apartment after an all-night drunk,
cheap Tesco’s Windsor Castle
London Dry Gin—on the rocks.
I thought of Jesus
how He must have felt
during His resurrection
dragging His holy body
up that endless stairwell
spiraling toward heaven.

For the Love of Fuck Poetry & Orgasmic Prose

I want to ride it
slip those wet panties off my hips,
grip that elongated pistol whipped
then glide
my pussy all over its tip
leave a trail of slut cum hot
tell me not
what this body can do for my cuntry 
but what you can do for this cunt
this isn’t
a demo-cock-cracy or 
a mc-cunt-thyism hump
this is me
on your saturday night
a red, white and patriot blue bitch
your bitch,
who truly wants to subdue you
with her suck n’ blow itch
in her one nation
under your god-like bod, please, baby…
for the love of fuck poetry & orgasmic prose
kiss me with your best verse

happy-ass husk

that brunette delivered a blow job for the ages 
she sucked all the frustration out of my life
no more weigh stations  
no more speed traps
and no more unpaid miles of dead heading

she sucked all the bullshit out of my universe
all the logbook violations
all the detours 
all the water in the diesel
and all the pond scum in the truck stop coffee

holy crap!
I thought I’d been drained before
but when she spit my dick out of her mouth
and crawled back into the passenger seat of the Peterbilt
I felt like it was the day of the rapture
and I was a happy-ass husk of a corpse left behind
while all the Kojacks with their Kodaks

took a long shitty detour through paradise

How We Did Things Back in the Day

You send out the thing that wants to be a book. You wait.
You wait a long time. You wait a very long time. 
The thing comes back: “No thanks.” 
Might as well say, “You suck.” 
Rinse. Repeat. 
And again and again and again. 
Years pass in endless repetition. 
“Does not fit our current needs.” 
“Not our aesthetic.” 
“We don’t publish crap like this.” 
“We know where you live and are coming to kill you.”
“We have ceased publication because of this awful shit.”
“Go straight to hell, motherfucker.” 
You send out the thing that wants to be a book. 
You wait. 
The thing that wants to be a book 
begins to rot. 
It festers. 
It wants you dead. 
It knows your weak spots, 
your pressure points, 
your night terrors and flop sweats. 
The thing that wants to be a book 
will see you suffer, by God, by Hell, by damn. 
It is your mistress and your fate. 
If you had the balls you would burn it, 
but you won’t. 
Coward. 
You will send it again. 
Just once more, and once more and once more. 
And you will never forget, ever, 
to include sufficient return postage 
with your SASE.

Don’t Call Me Daddy 

One little word he doesn’t want you to say —  
spread wide inside a tulle canopy bed in 
the dark.
Easily you obey, every other way,
but bite through a lip to avoid the remark. 
Braids in his hands pulled as he goes deep 
to fill you with cum and perpetual doubt 
that he’ll reappear if you’re indiscreet  
with those two syllables he must fuck without.
Checks his reflection in your heart-shaped shades. 
Buys you a rainbow of cable knit kneesocks.
Takes you to ice cream and skee ball arcades.
Requests a shaved pussy.  Proffers lollipops.
Reads your daddy issues published in books
but they are not his — no matter now this looks. 

Like a Feather

After making friends with Maya on Facebook I figured she would not mind a visit. I found out where she lived and jumped on a southbound Greyhound. The worst part was avoiding peeing on myself in the skinny bathroom while hitting potholes. When the dog arrived, I stopped at Popeye’s and got us a bucket of crispy chicken and the fixings. I rang her doorbell and a man that resembled a black Adolf Hitler answered, he would not let me enter until I gave him a thigh and neck bone from the fowl. When I saw the queen of poetry I smiled and gave her some fried okra with a packet of hot sauce. She looked me over from head to toe, her eyes seemed magnetic. Finally, she spoke. “I’ll bet you’re pure hell on the ladies.” I said, “I do alright.” She removed her drawers and said, “Let’s see what you can do you silver-tongued devil.” I plunged in all the way to my ears; she started moaning and groaning and carrying on. I got a bit frightened; I thought I was going to fucking kill her. She started whistling and pulling my hair out by the roots. I figured she had enough. “Goddamn. You sure got a lot of pluck for a naked neck rooster scalawag.” I put my crotch in her face and asked, “Do you fetch bone?” “I’m too old to be your bitch, now give me the rest of that chicken and get the hell out of here.” I hit the bricks back to the bus station. There was a beautiful blonde that looked like Grace Kelly in the back row, and we played doctor under a blanket all the way to Chicago.

Diction

Dick! 
Dick! 
Dick! 
How’s that 
for diction? 
Dick, fuck, 
cunt, shit, 
balls! 
Some words 
have no 
substitutes, 
like teachers, 
but we use them 
anyway. 
Students cringe 
at the word 
poetry – 
they hate 
the sound. 
Maybe if we 
spice it up 
with baby 
at the end. 
Poetry, baby! 
Because it is 
a party – 
good poetry 
anyway. 
It deserves 
to be 
celebrated. 
There’s something 
magical 
about words 
that hit right.
Not all words 
do. 
Poetry should 
rage, 
like a hard dick. 
Diction, baby!
Use it! 

and the older you get

all these remedies, potions 
and pills trying to let you 
escape the pain

all the while, i’m more 
interested in embracing 
it

i had a doctor tell me 
once pain is how you 
know you’re alive

so is love

and the older you get

the more you realize 
just how much both 
go hand in hand

the lucky ones will 
have some flowery 
retort to this

the rest of us have 
no choice but to 
live in reality