Marry and Reproduce

Backyard CIA stress positions have left me forgetting how to breath so would you place your hand on my chest, reach in, give it a squeeze?
Stepping on wasps
It’s like stepping on wasps
Those little sounds that they make 
Bodies pop
And from the mouth of a licensed professional it came:
“Marry and reproduce
Do it again and agin”
But It’s another lecture
Come too fucking late
‘Cause I’ve pulled out again
Bore you a thousand sons 
all left to die on your back 
all to protect the women of the world from any future attack
Staked from throat to heart, cigarette in lips, I am the conquerer worm
Burrowed deep
And they say take as needed or just take it all
Fix your imperfections
Botched resurrection 
Weak chin
Weak heart
a throwback with
blood in your cum 
shades of Caligula on your gums
Half drunk to death
6 am 
Porch lights still on
Yeah, you’ll like it right here 
It’s home, comfort
fuck it, you’ll be dead in a year

Being Born Bent

and knowing 
even then
at a micro age
something was completely off
and possibly not fixable

The fights
cops
the disappearance of my mother
the dad who was not
my biological dad
knowing every time
I went outside
everyone balked
stared
whispered
but no one ever tried
to salvage my wreckage

It’s always reassuring
when you’re on the outside
of the cage
pointing at the dilapidated
worn beast

Dark circles formed under my eyes
by age ten they were permanent
from those early years of
sleepless nights
where sounds began as whispers
grew savagely into screams

And nights when they were locked up
or drugged out
Grandma at any minute – and mostly
in the wee hours
would wail endlessly
so guttural and piercing
from the poison of thunderbird
or whatever she was able to swig down that remained……I remained
in that house
for years after
as if I could repair it
the caved in roof
the cracked windows
my irreparable parents
and full-crocked grandmother

I remained so long 
rooted
like a desperate weed
roamed the streets
begging for comfort
as if the streets
were safer
than my scarcely furnished home
as if

Love to Hate

God-awful people
are kinda cool
because they
dare to blatantly
be who they are—
annoying in the most
cloying sort of way
and everything
they say or should I say
verbally hurl
makes your toes curl
and their worst impulse
makes your blood curl
and raises your pulse
for they are the absolute worst
thing to happen to humanity
and they make you
get this close
to losing your sanity
but then out of the blue
they do something nice
like smile or act courteous
and you no longer feel
so very murderous
and realize they’re just
faulted and confused
and multifaceted
just like the rest of us
and they have their own worth
though you still secretly wish
they’d all go extinct
like the Tyrannosaurus Rex
that once roamed the earth

fent-colored clowns

when us 80s and 90s kids
were comin up
it was all dare
don’t take candy from strangers
now it’s all rainbow fentanyl 
a deliberate effort 
by drug traffickers 
to drive addiction 
in kids 
and young adults 
dear dea, didn’t catch
american gangster
it’s been a while
for me personally
but it’s made that way 
for the scene 
the brand
at least 
that was the way 
with all our mdma 
white dolphins
pink camels
purple doublestack shamrocks
not to specifically
target children
not that the sight
of such lively branded pills
doesn’t increase
their dreamy attraction
I mean 
what american child
would not be intrigued
by the fun promise
of any pill
to make one happy?
our brain candy
is our disease 
everyone else is selling it 
so why not the ‘cartels’
as if every pill maker is mexican
but there’s no clowning about 
110,000 ods on the wall 
of mt. rushmore 
one pill can kill 
three grains of sand
in a tipped hourglass
and group texts
of friends relay 
a tale of just one 
touch killing a kid
or cop 
a rumor ringling
bros barnum & bailey’s  
into urban myth
like 90s hiv on needles 
in change dispensers 
or movie seats
our panic 
the greatest show
on earth
from which we 
can never od
but it all chutes 
down to playgrounds
the thrill 
of the ladder
and that 
the saddest
souls
amongst us 
won’t be cured
not even with hugs
it’s a street circus
milton bradleying
the neighborhood
just like heroin 
in the sixities 
on black blocks
so pull
your stool
up to the new
shooting gallery
and bet on the blue
bear hanging alone
from the heavens
shiny eyes lips
stilled
in a smile
odds are
better
than ever 

Making a Career Online

Before, prostitutes roamed the streets
Looking for clients
Or they hung around industrial parks
Suspension bridges, crossroads
Or around churches or cathedrals
Where I had the experience of some
Who followed me, grabbed my jacket
And said demandingly:
-Don’t deny me, pal
I’ve got a hen for the chicken for cheap.
Today they advertise online
Or they write you emails begging for a good husband
With email addresses faker
Than counterfeit money
Or telling you they studied at Catholic schools
Or universities.
Circling the cathedral nine times
Or the church closest to my house
To some I replied:
-Stay put, whore.
Stay with God.
With Him you’ll be safe.
Some of them would reply:
-I don’t want any god
But a good man to get me pregnant
In this foreign land.
I want you to give me what’s mine
And not just any old pigeon.
This week I’ve received a ton of emails
With the sole intention of scamming me
Using the looking for a “fascinating boyfriend
Or husband” method
With deceptive reasons
Accompanied by photos of beautiful women
Top-notch, the best
Some showing their privates.
Since I still have the urge
To “let loose”
I’ve arranged to meet one of them by the statue
Of the Bear and the Strawberry Tree
In Puerta del Sol, Madrid
Which, judging by the photo, is gorgeous
Whose name is Julia, a Claudia’s friend
From a Friends of the University association.
We’ve arranged to recognize each other
By her exclaiming “Giddy-up” 
And me saying “Donkey.”
When I got to the statue
Some woman said: “Giddy-up!”
I exclaimed: “Donkey!”
Seeing a worn-out, old lady
While gesturing with her hand
And who startled me.
“What a rip-off!” I thought,
Saying to myself:
-You deserve it for believing in scams again.
When she asked me:
-Who is this handsome donkey
That I see in my stable every day?
I turned to leave
But not before saying to her:
-Grandma, I’m sorry, you whore.
I don’t see you on my peg.

Afraid to Google Myself

I haven’t done so in years

I feel as if others are doing it,
they are probably are

They see that I am a writer

Okay

You wrote that,
those are books you published?

All the stuff you wrote over the years 

Something from 2006,
something from  2012

Oh, I am not that person anymore

And there you are, the writer,
that they will figure out

Some thoughts laid out for the world,
labeled an author with a name
attached to it 

I am not that person anymore
and don’t want to be

Perhaps all you need to know is that
I am this person standing in front
of you with a heart and brain

Thoughts and blood and insecurities
and truth or whatever seems to change 
every few years 

As I read something from back then,
somehow I have forgot

I am amazed reading
my old stuff sometimes,
wondering who wrote that stuff.

Toxophilite

The bowman’s shot is true
though his intentions might be false
Robin hoodwinked me out of my trousers
painting a bullseye between my babycakes
At 180 lbf, he plucks his string assiduously
plucking my heartstrings, ass hideously
a target puckered in concentric rings
G.string twang
flying in a gentle arc
pitilessly splitting my arrow.

The bowman’s shot is deft
like Eros, unerring
he aims with the fidelity of a surgeon
Open-heart incision
slaughter of the senses
bypassing dinner, the drinks
the dancing and the heavy petting
Folds of denim pooling at my feet
kicking knickers straight to the heart
Cupid claiming my soul.

The bowman’s shot is swift
swift as an arrow
swift as a fox
swift like the fox named Swift in David the Gnome
Swift as the wind
blowing on my ear
The thrust of the fletcher
hard against the bowyer’s back
notched and tightly strung
recurved and resplendent.

The bowman’s shot is fatal
and it’s just my fate
a fatal attraction
Love is a fate worse than death
love is eternal, they say
they say to him “You wrecked him”
Wait, did you say rectum?
Brown eye bullseye
sliding into French third base
The bowman’s made his mark.

Sherri 

Of the many opening lines 
desperate lovers long to hear 
a clinking of glass to glass
is offered up like the eucharist 
while a dead song plays 
barely audible 
over the din of laughter and
lack there of

You see that bright light 
to the left of the bartender – it says
last exit 
as in get out now 
it’s not a neon sign for shits and giggs
it’s a warning sign
your signals crossed 
you thought someone sent a code with 
the Chin don of yours and his 
Seven and Seven’s
you don’t hear the angels screaming
your name?

Some juggler of hearts 
hovers above the long mahogany 
of anyone’s bar 
peers into your crazy eyes that could and will
lie 

You’re quiet now
judge all men’s ties for a price-tag that affords you 
with all your baggage piled around the bar stool you stopped sitting on
decided to stand 
accent your height
draw attention to legs
that no one pays attention to

The eyes
the dead song 
you’re a sitting duck
offering slick lips to mother Hope
a day late and so many dollars short 
from a wild ride 
you stepped off of 
to cozy down 
into fuzzy nights filled with
no vacancy

Another Nail in the Coffin

What am I going to do about the girl 
from the wrong side of the tracks
What am I going to do about her night moves
She wants to open a little nail salon 
She wants to start a podcast
pull up to the bumper 
double nickels on the dime
She wants a wedding at a chapel on The Strip 
What am I going to do about the girl
whose father fixes matches 
down at Gloves & Glory
who has a collection 
of Nazi memorabilia
and a wife who slips the tongue 
when we say goodbye 
after Sunday dinner
What am I going to do 
when the walls close in
and Hell’s conductor comes calling
I’m going to marry that girl 
and buy a plot of land 
and give her some money 
for that little nail salon. 

A Respectable Widow

Tired of going to have sex
Behind the Church of San Francisco el Grande
In Madrid, the capital
Or in the El Batán area, in the Casa de Campo park
My friend brought me a clipped ad
From a Madrid newspaper, Dating Section
It reads:
“Respectable widow with three flamenco dancers
In need of a dancer to teach them.
Call this number during office hours.”
Since it caught our attention
We called from a public phone booth.
We arranged to meet at 5:30 this afternoon, Thursday
Which is the day that soldiers serving their country
Go out to dance or have fun at dances
Or in parks like El Retiro, mainly.
We went to a building in the Diego de León area
Ranged the doorbell on the first floor.
The respectable widow answered
All dressed in gray.
She led us into a living-dining room.
She made us sit on a two-seater sofa
Near a small table
On which rested one of my books—what a surprise!
Title: “The Posh Girl and the Posh Guy”
Which, she told us
She bought last Sunday at the flea market
(El Rastro).
I didn’t say anything.
With her, seated in a beautiful mahogany chair
We agreed on the price:
€30 for a quarter of an hour
€50 for half an hour.
I gave her the thirty, my friend the fifty.
She clapped her hands three times loudly
And at once appeared
Three very slender flamenco birds
Who were her daughters
Masked from the waist up.
From the waist down, they wore thongs
Yellow, red, and purple.
The three of them 
When they removed their masks
Were very beautiful and pretty
With prominent breasts
That had undergone cosmetic surgery.
The first one is named Filomena
The second, Timotea
And the third, Segismunda.
They all asked us at once
How we had our little dancer or soldier.
They said they were having sex with flamenco masks
We were choosing
At our whim, the hole where to put it.
We answered that we had a dancer
Healthier and more dance-like than Antonio “the Dancer”
Flamenco dancer, choreographer, and artistic director.
We already flipped a coin
For Segismunda and Timotea
Because Filomena had her period.
I got Timotea
My friend got Segismunda.
The honorable widow took us
To two different bedrooms
We already had our dicks out, erect
Freshly washed by the widow.
When it came to sex, it was amazing.
Damn, a flamenco dancer!
Since we were both hard from the enema
I came on her vaginal lips
Begging her to let me in her arsehole
Feeling a new erection.
-Don’t deny me, Timotea
Or I’ll fuck your mother.
-If you want to fuck me in the arsehole
You have to leave another fifty euros on the nightstand
Because you’ve already come
And time has passed.
I went to my wallet, took out fifty euros
Leaving them on the nightstand.
I fucked her so hard and panting from behind
That I snapped the flamenco dancer’s neck
Her mother had to come
When she heard her screams of pain
Because, at the moment of ejaculation,
I was trying to bite off
Her ears.
I should mention that the honorable widow arrived
Wearing a gray flamenco mask
And black panties.