Holy Cavern

My dad once told me that love is a perfect golf swing
that his Callaway driver, Big Bertha
can really wallop your balls
He kept Playboys in a sock drawer
gold among the GOLDTOE
A pulpit, not a puppet
sermons as smooth as a shaved you-know-what.

There were nine planets when I was a kid
but the solar system isn’t what she used to be
I was in my own little world
Car beams at night
striated through Venetian blinds
Pizza delivery and Newport smoke
ice cream and kisses in the canyon of Peach Mountain.

We rode along the highway in the parting of her hair
her hands on the wheel
guiding me as I drove for the first time
going fifty in a thirty
I was fifteen, she was thirty
pearls on her wrist
each one like the moon
starlight mined from her pores.

I recall a holy cavern
a cathedral at a crossroads of thighs
a birdbath navel
a pretty pink nave
a portal into heaven
The cloisters! Have you ever seen such cloisters?

She was cold on the shore at Blue Pine Lodge
and when I kissed her
I thought of Laura Palmer
And though she died many years before I was born
I dream of Laura Ingalls Wilder
whose portrait plays the piano in my heart
invoking melodic ghosts
life on the plains
a simple existence
a little house
in switchgrass tides
and bluestem seas.

happy ending

my next-door neighbor 
lena wears winter clothes in summer 
and does tai chi in the Spielplatz 
and burns cinnamon incense 
and plays the handpan. 

I don’t think she has a job 
but she does drumming 
lessons sometimes and sometimes
she gives full body massages in her flat. 

her massage business is not advertised, 
but shows up with a little arrow on Google maps 
and sometimes I see her clients in the hall.

they are usually men, 
workingclass men, old, tired; 
they hobble 
into her apartment, 
I hear a little noise, some moans, 
the handpan. 

the noise is clearest 
from my writing desk
and it’s strange to think about 
as I’m sitting there 
lost in some poem: on the other side 
of the wall, not more than ten feet away, 
lena’s got some potbellied old german 
pipefitter sprawled out nude on a table
as she drains 
the paste out of him.

After the first cut

I looked
at myself 
in the mirror.

I looked
pretty much 
the same—

minus 
a bit of lip
and some nose. 

I’d been 
so scared

but now 

something had changed. 

I saw myself 
for what I truly was:

ugly,
imperfect flesh,

stretched 
over bone—

hiding 
behind the illusion

of a soul.

Boogers At Sea

That ship has sailed,
now it’s boogers
at sea.

Breaching
with the whales
that slam down onto
crimson dreams.

The diving squid
like tentacles in a hurry.

When the dig dig captain 
goes looking for treasure,
it’s mutiny snots down
through the ranks.

Gonna harpoon me
one of those real
big suckers.

Pose for pictures
back on dock
like some master
of the universe.

Get barnacle sticky
real fast.

So the booger schools
will take me in
as one of their own.

(Worship the Devil) She Only Listens to Tasmanian Death Metal

Why is she always face down when we fuck
and when I turn her over she’s cold as ice? 
Goth bitch act nice 
Worship the devil
She only listens to Tasmanian death metal
Says “I don’t sleep 
Just binge meth and shoot the homegrown stuff”
Acts like God’s not watching 
Dances in the cruel colours of memory 
Words whispered 
If you really love me, you’ll do this for me
When you don’t do what I say, 
it makes me sad
And I know you don’t want me sad 
Kill the mood and I’ll kill you
She says “I’ll get away with it too”
It’s not a want
It’s a need 
Something weak to bleed 
beat and fuck (give it a disease)
Gives me a look and gets down
on her hands and knees 

Winter Warning

If you think
you have all
the tools necessary
to never succumb
to the elements
or the offhand comments
or the slap in the face
random acts
of poetic justice
that come at you
like forced kindness
in lieu of true loveliness
then allow me
to clap back
and pull the rug
out of your smug
conceit where
you feel that confidence
alone is enough
to weather
gathering storms…
all I’m saying
in everything
I just wrote
is that hey, it’s cold
out there
at least
please put on
your emotional
winter coat

Minimal Dark

Street lights aren’t orange any more
So we’ve lost that dreamy haze
That pumpkin-coloured glow
Which made every night feel
Like a nostalgic flashback in a movie
Impermanent and eternal
In equal measure

Beneath that light
Every spilled liquid
Beer
Blood
The urine-soaked in-between
Took on the fathomless depths of the night sky
Blackly boundless like a patch of dream
The sleeping mind had yet to fill in

Now the street lights are perfectly white
Shining pristinely
Like the sterile oppression of a dental surgery
A bleak illumination of every part of
The diorama of the city night
No longer a dream
But a painful waking to the reality
That this is all there really is

I made a romance of my night walks once
Now there’s only the minimalism
Of one foot following another
Going nowhere in particular.

user

on my little & big screens I watch her
naked body
clapping with mine

at good angles I hit pause, and admire
her beautiful parts
and when her mouth opens wide and 
eyebrows arch, I try to wrap my arms 
around this memory on the screen as I say
I love you so much

I will continue to make one-sided love to
her in the screen
for many years to come yet, I expect 
because 

she trusted me

Together With You as Evening Fell

-Cleopatra, announcing my erection
You remember the coming of your love.
You didn’t demand anything from me to marry
Neither gold nor silver
Only my glorious penis
Hanging like a pole
Over your bleeding cunt.
Like a good Samaritan
You took me into your life
You saved me from putting my head
On the train tracks
At Atocha Station
That goes from Madrid to Paris
Because I was desperate
From not finding a job
And even less able to buy a house
Where to build our love nest.
Also, because of your unsettling question:
-Antonio, where is your manhood?
Like a ragged beggar
Who wore secondhand clothes
Bought at the flea market
You redeemed me forever
Because I sang to your pussy
I adored it and composed verses for it
In the Saint John of the Cross’ style.
Thanks to your money
We were able to rent an attic apartment
On Prado Street
Across from the Ateneo de Madrid
From where we could see its roof
Through a small window.
To the small attic
We had to enter on our knees
You first
Me saying to your ass:
-I adore you, I bless you.
Once inside
We could stand up
Going straight to the bedroom
Passing through the kitchen
With a bathroom included
Leaving our clothes there.
Our two sexes united
We sang glories and praises
To the cock.
-My love for you has no end, I would tell you
Trying to touch with my penis
The uvula of your throat.
-Give me seven orgasms
So I can father a child, you would tell me.
When we finished, we would do 69
And with our tongues we would clean
You my penis, me your cunt
Always together with you
As evening fell.

Waiting

My father died of Cancer.
His mother, my grandmother,
died of Cancer.

I will die of Cancer.

They suffered horrible deaths.
I will suffer a horrible death.
I’ve come to terms with this. 

I’ve contemplated suicide—
as I’m sure they must’ve as well. 

Both had nothing to live for 
except alcohol, cigarettes, family, friends—
life itself. 

I live for these things too—
but also for my philosophy,
the written word—
the chance to exist unhindered—
an unborn audience—

to live dead forever
with Nietzsche, Plato,
Alexander the fucking great. 

But that’s stupid.
Pointless.

The human animal
isn’t worth saving. 

Yet,
still I go on.