We wake up
one day
not who
we want to be
or where
we thought
we would be
because,
while we planned
and dreamed
we didn’t act.
Or maybe
we did all 3
but luck
missed us
by a hair.
Something else
got in
the way
and we
let it.
Whatever
the reason,
that’s life’s
plot twist.
You had to
expect
that while
you were sitting
on a straight flush,
Life had
a royal flush
tucked up
its sleeve.
The truth is composed
Of ninety percent lies.
Check the facts often
Because they frequently change.
Don’t trust in books,
Or looks, or films
Or speeches.
Classroom lectures
Are mostly theater.
You need to do
The hard work
Of doubting,
Double checking
And triple checking,
Asking again.
Don’t take it on faith
Even if faith
Is all you have.
Believe in your unbelief.
Trust in your misgivings.
Construct a new city
Made from all you “know”,
A place worthy of Potemkin,
Shown on all the maps,
But nowhere
to be found.
Let’s not be melodramatic
let’s not wear turtlenecks in the sun
let’s not stand up there and apologize for nonexistent
stage fright
let’s not applaud wildly like soccer moms
at kindergarten graduation
let’s not be sad because it’s cool
or delicate because it’s expected
or vegetarians
let’s not pretend we’re Indians
or gangsters
or are channeling some Egyptian princess
let’s not quote Becket
or carry bibles everywhere we go
or romanticize bus stops
or heroin needles
let’s stop saying blood and guts and
let’s stop saying genius and must-read.
Let’s start being honest
about all this
it’s not much
we’re not much
goobers in the sand pile
downers in skinny jeans
latte-slurpers and sushi-chewers
screws loose and heads fat as Thanksgiving turkeys
just look at the way we walk and talk and
make videos
it’s sickening
even our laughter is false and condescending
our little hard-ons
our little death plays
12 poems about starvation before dinner
9 poems about heart-ache after dinner.
Rebels, please, even our preachers have earrings
and tattoos
everybody’s trying to sell their penny-sick souls
everybody’s trying to sell their dimestore doohickies
shit, just look at the cherub faces
of the poor prepubescent world-changers
chapbook makers
pony-tailed haiku poopers
shopping mall roosters with perfect noses
crowing about the hard life
academics writing papers about reviving the male spirit
slapping their own asses
loafers and tenure and diarrhea down their legs
which nobody will mention.
Where will it end
where can it end
our doggy-whimpers
practicing inflections to the mirror
writing “you are beautiful” in lipstick
believing everything that falls off
the ends of our dull little pencils.
Won’t work if she smells
like buttered popcorn,
looks like a hot air balloon,
thighs thicker than a snicker
splitting those denim blue jeans,
Ass like a stuffed trash bag,
backing it up like a tractor
ready for harvest.
Won’t work if she a tall
glass of bourbon whiskey
enough to bust a
few nuts and
thirst a few hearts
smothering meat
with crusted, rosy buttcheeks
and begging on knees
like church Sunday
praying to Jesus for alimony.
Won’t work if she performs weekends
cash money splurged on
purses, booze, heels, jewels, cigarettes
all for spoiled, snotty, shitty
hooligans cruising around town
like taxicab drivers in search of
some ripe, fleshy, putrid, lesbian pussy.
Won’t work if we bitch, moan, whine
and split the spotlight to fly coach
sharing a Queen-sized bed
in a cheap hotel where hookers cost pennies,
thinking what’s in that bald watermelon
head of hers, pouncing on that prey
to make a move by
slithering under the sheets,
Kiss.
Lick.
Sneeze.
Won’t work if she looks like ash,
reeks of spoiled, rancid ass
and treats you
like trash–
Do you remember when we were dogs?
Fighting for every scrap of flesh and bone
While the protesters screamed for a freedom
they’d never known and would never have
The powers that be just didn’t have the machinery,
or the will to build it.
We were happy in the dirt.
Breaking the necks of vultures
Who were they to starve us?
Who were they to take our bones?
Times were simple.
Until your rising
When my wounds were still open
You left the dirt to transform the world.
All you got was a chainsaw
and a rusty pail full of empty promises.
It wasn’t just bones buried in the dirt.
You didn’t understand that we were surfacing history.
The only truth is that it’s real.
So, tell me; tell me from your podium,
flags blowing behind you, and the starving at your feet.
Do you remember when we were dogs?
It ended up being one of those shitfuck days that everybody in the office dreads. The head honcho was in town for his bimonthly assessment, and heads had already started rolling.
Bogok was slinking towards the water cooler, hoping the office manager, Girach, wouldn’t see him. She could be a real fuck when she wanted to be.
“Hey guys, did you hear the news?” hissed Bogok as his eyes darted from side to side. “The big man is here, and he’s not happy!”
“What the fuck, Bogok?” Do you seriously think we don’t know? ” Valvollan responded, not even attempting to hide his disdain for Bogok.
“Not today, Bogok, not today,” Ogmon interjected. He was always trying to smooth things over. He was a real company man at heart. OK, a real company demon without a beating heart.
“Shut the fuck up, you ass-kissing sycophant.” snapped Valvollan. “You two are the bean counters down here! I’m the one who has to go out into the field and get shit done.”
“Easy, big guy, do you want mommy to come over there and kiss it better for you?” Tralvuraun had just walked over in her sexy office pantsuit, which made all the men’s heads turn except Arnaruch. He was the most open and, hands down, the gayest demon in the office.
“Piss off Tralvuraun.” “I’m not in the mood for your dirty, sexy mouth right now,” snapped Valvollan.
“HA! That’ll be the day,” laughed Tralvuraun. “I’m only one away from meeting my monthly quota. Where are you at Valvo-Vag?”
You could hear Arnaruch laughing in the distance. “Ha, she called him Vag.”
“You fuckers can all go to heaven for all I care.” Valvollan found it hard to hold back the tears at this point.
Without even so much as trying to hide his disdain for hetero-demons, Arnaruch, almost laughing out loud, singled Val out: “Sweet zombie Jesus Christ, Valvollan, are you about to cry?” Arnaruch was now blatantly pointing across the office at him as he continued, “Demon the fuck up already; the big man is only 11 minutes away!”
Valvollan’s anxiety levels skyrocketed. The pissy odour emanating from his ghastly pores told every demon in the office that he was panicking. Valvollan had wasted most of the month topside, getting it on with loose women while doing a shit ton of blow. He wasn’t a blow addict. He was a topside addict. There was discussion that the company would put him in rehab for a few millennia.
Ogmon piped in, “You know any soul will do right. I hear they are even letting you guys collect demon souls now. Why not just take Bogok’s and tell them that more is on its way, but this one is fresh. Well, fresh-ish,” he said, pointing his thumb at Bogok.
Bogok reacted shyly, “Hey?” as he tried to hide the tear that had just fallen from his eye from his coworkers at the water cooler. “You guys can be real angel fuckers; you know that!”
When Bogok started crying, Tralvuraun gave him a napkin. She winked and continued, “Don’t you worry about those two, Bogok! I’ve got your back.” As he reached out to take it, Tralvuraun continued, “That’s weird. Hey Bogok, does that napkin smell like chloroform? “
As the world around him started to blur and darken, Bogok could hear the hysterical laughter of his once-former coworkers. “Fuug yuuulll!” was the last thing he said as his putrid, pear-shaped demon body slumped to the ground.
“It’s a shame that we never really perish but are merely reborn at the bottom of the corporate food chain. Ha!” Ogmon had never understood comedy.
Tralvuraun strode over to her heavenly fallen coworker’s body without skipping a beat. “Boys, sit up straight; the boss is here!” She cocked her head to the side, scanning him up and down. “You look nasty, but in a bad way.” She growled as she passed him a rag. “Clean up before he sees you!”
Tralvuraun only winked as Valvollan realized it was too late; his eyes crossed and became heavy. “Bidzzt!” was all he could say.
He tried to grab the chair for support, but Ogmon kicked it to the side, laughing as he spoke. “Bean, count this, you dirty human lover.”
Valvollan couldn’t see it, but Ogmon was flipping him two birds. All Val could think of as his face slammed into the fast-approaching floor was getting topside one last time. When his teeth cracked and bone fragments entered his evil brain, it abruptly deprived him of the opportunity to finish his evil musing.
“Damn!” Tralvuraun said, “I am sooo good at being bad!” She kicked the body of Valvollan as she moved past it to get a better view of her employer, but all she got was a face full of Girach. “Holy shit, woman!” said Tral, astonished. “Take 10 steps back!”
Girach addressed the room, completely disregarding Tralvuraun. “What do we have here?” she asked, raising an arm over the tangled pile of victims on the floor. “This wouldn’t be a little amusement on the company’s dime, would it?”
“No, ma’am, it’s only ah… hm.” Ogmon chose to stop speaking.
Tralvuraun, however, had not. “Are you high?” she inquired. “I’m working over here, and exceeding my monthly quota by three.”
Girach made it no secret that she loathed Tralvuraun from the outset. It’s not like demons ever become buddies, but Girach had it in for her. Girach’s physical nose may have been out of joint, as was speculated in some water cooler conversations, but her dead, dark, and shrivelled heart felt the absence of attention. There was widespread consensus that she was no longer anyone’s favourite workplace demon. After all, a beautiful monster can only look so natural with so much pus on its face.
Tralvuraun cursed under her breath. “Fuck, I’m out of chloroform!”
“What’s that, dear?” asked Girach.
“Sorry about that. I told Ogmon that I needed another order form.” Tralvuraun, like all demons, was an expert at lying on the fly. Ogmon only chuckled; he was growing fond of Tral.
At that moment, a nosey Arnaruch found any excuse to walk by and get whatever gossip his dirty, pointed ears could pick up. “Anything I can help you with, sweetheart?”
“You and your little pencil dick can go to heaven and mind your own Beelzebub damned business, Arnaruch.” To them, this was idle conversation. They would go out all night after work, getting drunk on the blood of virgins.
“You’re such a bitch. It’s wonderful. Kisses.” Arnaruch was off to tell his wicked, lovely lies to everyone who would listen.
Tralvuraun turned to face Girach and yelled loud enough for all the hideous hell creatures in Office 613 to hear. “OK, screw it. I’m tired of this bullshit. Could I borrow you for a moment?” Her grin was more phony than usual.
“Yes, my sweetheart, but just for a split second. We don’t want to keep the big man waiting, do we?” Girach wasn’t actually requesting anything; she just enjoyed the role of condescending demon manager. It may have been in her contract, which she signed in blood a millennium ago.
Whispering, Ogmon asked, “What are you doing? She’s your boss!”
“Was my boss, Ogmon! Was!”
Out of chloroform, out of patience, and running out of time before Satan himself was about to conduct her performance review, Tralvuraun did what all demons do in crunch time. Random acts of gore-filled brutality, insane enough to make the hounds of hell blush.
“Eat this, Girach!” Tralvuraun grabbed the empty bottle of chloroform and jammed it into Pusface’s open-mouth hole. Tral’s arm went upward in a punching motion as Girach’s eyes crossed in a downward motion, both fist and face colliding for one wonderful glass-crunching moment of mayhem and devastation. Girach slumped to the ground, gazing up at a smiling Tralvuraun, her hands raised in a blood, glass, and tooth protest. She opened her mouth to say something, but the reactive heel of Tralvuraun’s newly acquired promotion boots cut off her train of thought. Come, heaven, or low, calm waters; today was Tral’s day.
“Hey Tral.”
“Yes, Ogmon.”
“I don’t want to rain on your parade or anything, but,” Ogmon paused.
“Rain away, little demon, rain away.”
“Um, well, let me explain,” Ogmon fumbled.
“Go on.”
“Well, I think your numbers are off a bit.”
Tralvuraun smiled. “Oh, Ogmon, always the demonic little bean counter.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad; you’re only off by one number. Out of four hundred and thirty-six thousand, seven hundred and twenty-six, that’s not so bad.” When Ogmon set someone straight on their math, he experienced that wonderful, sinful pride.
“Just one, you say?”
“That’s right, Tral, just one.” Ogmon was beaming by this point.
“Ogmon?”
“Yes, Tral?”
“How’s your coffee?”
“Ah Fuuug yuulll bidzzt.”
“I wish I could teleport,” I say. “This hill is far too-”
“Did you say ‘fart?” Oliver asked.
He whips his head to widen his eyes in accusation at me.
“No, you did!” He said. “You said ‘fart!”
I press my lips together and hold the scream of frustration in my mouth. I don’t even bother to blame myself for saying the words “far” and “too” in succession of one another. It’s been years of blaming myself for the sake of fairness; I am done.
It’s the sort of summer day that people refer to as “beautiful”, but my heart yearns for the cooler temperatures of autumn. Black clouds of gnats populate the area at random. The neighborhood smells like tires. A sun sneeze loiters behind my nose and eyes. The blue raspberry syrup sky seems too low, like the ceiling of a boiler room.
None of this I say out loud. It would be further evidence of my bad attitude. After all, he is the fun loving one.
“Complaining is your lifeblood,” he likes to say.
I do not want to confirm this. I do not want to be negative. I swear. That said, the heat death of the universe would be a welcome change of pace.
“What’s that?” Oliver asks.
I didn’t bother to look, assuming it was another trick of his. Knowing Oliver, I would turn my head directly into a mud ball in the face or at least be treated to the sight of two homeless people fucking in public.
“I don’t know, Oliver,” I say. “What is it?”
“I-I really don’t know,” Oliver says.
His voice is like a rubber band stretched too tight. Following his gaze, a lone figure stands. Skulking in a small park across the street, it is hard to see clearly as the shade of a towering conifer veils it in darkness. Too immense to be a person, it is like an immense pile of black fabric, but the way it moves and flows is as if the wind is blowing only in the spot where it stands. Everywhere else, the air is stagnant.
“Let’s go over there,” Oliver says.
I continue to walk up the hill.
“This is why you’re depressed,” says Oliver. “You never want to push yourself outside of your comfort zone.”
“I’m not depressed,” I say.
I stride toward the ominous figure, partially to prove it, partially to get away from Oliver. As I cross the street, the acrid flavor that fills my mouth gets strong with each step until my eyes begin to water.
Oliver follows, chattering something I cannot hear. The air pressure drops as we approach. My ears pop.
In the folds of the wraithlike blackness, something resembling a face emerges. It is white and eyeless, like a theater mask. This should not happen, not during the day. Something about the world arounds me tells me that it is not actually the day, just a simulacrum of it. It isn’t night either; I have fallen into an absence of time.
What am I doing?
I turn. The look on Oliver’s face tells me not to turn back again. He’s been exsanguinated of all mirth. His eyes go waxy. He is dead before he even begins to fall to the ground.
“Oh my god…” I whisper. “This is far too-”
An ungodly croak emanates from behind me, taciturn and mephitic, as only the pure embodiment of evil can be. The sound warps and ungulates until it becomes words I can understand.
“Did you say ‘fart?” It says.
Some poets are like porn stars
And that starts with the ease in earning the title.
Just fucking on film makes an actor a star;
Just breaking up lines makes a writer a poet –
At least to the disinterested general public.
Anyway,
They come out of nowhere to appear in every pop-up journal around
For a year or three or four.
They hustle here and there along internet streets
But without a suitcase pimp to push them along.
They go it alone.
They collect credits like checks from storefront modeling agencies,
Holding on as long as they can
Until the bloom is completely off the rose
And one acceptance gets lost in another
In a great swirl of blurring days
And just as quickly they are gone because the payoffs became too small –
Their poems now hidden away at the back of the internet
Like stag film reels in a hatbox in Uncle Phil’s closet.
Forgotten.
Then there are the few who remain for decades –
The Nina Hartleys, if you will;
Knocking on door after door with endless single pages pumping out.
Never getting to the big show, the legitimate acting jobs
But undaunted by that.
The need, just need to appear somewhere.
Anywhere. Everywhere.
The true exhibitionists.
The rest just stop writing
Or go back to writing behind closed doors,
Showing it to one person or two
Or maybe even no one –
Like masturbating with the lights on
But remembering those salad days
When they thought not only should people see all their naked parts
And how they work,
Those people should even have to pay for the privilege.
Restful days
of uneventful
contentment
meddle into one
like obscure parts
of a life lived
through the peripherals
of one’s eyes
hard to believe it
but you can become
numb to boredom
only reason
of knowing the date
you’re living in
is the obligation of a job.
Ian, the forklift driver goes:
“work hard
and have fun, kid.
Took forever to get to 18.
All of a sudden I’m 49.”
it hits in full
time goes by fast,
too fast,
sometimes I’m afraid
to sleep
to blink
how does
the galloping time
equip you
against the incoming loss
of your parents?
“loss is the standard trajectory
of all things”
how to endure it
how to cope with it
A natural fear
coats your thoughts
but you have to follow
the fear
otherwise it starts following you
there is so much waste
in most people’s lives
as they age
as they so irreversibly age
that it pains to look at
and yet
your waste is just as big
some times I don’t feel like
a 31 year old adult
but more like
a boy who grew older.
sometimes it rains
for weeks
sometimes
I’m starving for a meaningful
conversation
some times
I’m so lonely
I make small talk
with my barber
and when he cuts my hair
I look at my puffy face
in that mirror
staring into my own
eyes for twenty minutes
with the knowledge that
I have to lie a lot
about who I really am
just to get some pussy.
sunlight detonates off
a thousand splintered
shards of glass like
god’s stripper glitter
strewn across the alley.
stiletto heels of honed fire
pierces my eyeballs
threatening to create
a second migranial sun
lap-dancing my brain.
two sun-bleached Strohs cans
peek out like a couple winos
hiding in the tall weeds.
I grab those babies up,
shake out the piss trickle
from their skunky innards
and push the empties
into my jacket pocket.
I catch a whiff of rot,
a bloated garbage bag
split asunder with its
entrails undulating
and I think for a moment
I must be hallucinating
until it occurs to me
I’m staring at a buffet
of maggots and I wonder
what they must taste like,
these squirming protein pills.
a scream turns my guts to water,
a woman’s keening wail
so much like my late wife’s
post collision dying octaves.
I’m running toward its origin
before I can even realize
I should be running away.
I recognize the brick bunker
section eight apartment complex,
the laundry room vents
beneath which I sometimes sleep.
I recognize the brunette
flailing on the ground
pleading for her babies
to run and get help.
her two howling children
watches a strange man
squirt lighter fluid on the
crotch of her blue jeans.
the man speaks to her with
a voice like colliding metal
with words I no longer possess
the ability to understand.
he withdraws a Zippo from
his pocket, the silver catches
the sunlight sending kaleidoscopes
through my pin-wheeling brain.
I think I should stop this
before it gets out of hand but
I haven’t taken my protein pills
and I don’t know what words to use.
these thoughts for and dissipate
like exhaust from a laundry vent.
the man flicks the Zippo afire
and tosses it on her lap.
flames erupt from her crotch.
her screams siren supernova
promising my cranial implosion.
backing away, my eyes catch hold
of the children, eyes rolling in horror.
I’m bearing witness to the creation
of me, two more hollow bodies
with minds like sieves set to
wander the alleys of the world.
and this knowledge, this destruction
at a soul one molecular level
spurs me forward charging into
the man with all the force of
the locomotive that ended my wife.
the stranger collapses beneath me
as I drive my knee into his groin.
when he attempts to shatter me
with his screams, I gouge my
thumbs into his eye sockets,
evicting the jelly orbs on
bungee cords of bloody licorice.
I roll onto my back, crying,
the entire world spinning
with the stench of burning denim
and charring skin and agony
and ruination, all of it
twirling around the nexus of me.
Horror Sleaze Trash 