Never Shit Your Own Pants 

Heidi came running down the hall  
and said that Frank had done it again. 

Amy was charge nurse, 
responsible for the entire building 

And all the residents at the Guildwick 
Home for the Elderly. 

Sam was sent with Heidi to deal with Frank. 
He did the same thing at least three times a week. 

Went into others residents’ rooms
and stole their pants before shitting in them 
and walking around the ward. 

The smell was horrible. 
Even for seasoned nurses and staff. 

Ok Frank, pants off!, 
said Sam. 

Heidi stood back to avoid the splatter. 

Don returned from lunch break and laughed. 
Ah Franky, I see there was an accident!

Frank said nothing. 
An acquired brain injury had left him  
largely mute. 

Sam double gloved and ran off to dispose 
of the pants. 

Leaving Heidi and Don to clean Frank off 
and get him ready for bed. 

Whose pants do you think they were this time? 
asked Heidi. 

Who knows, 
laughed Don. 

Frank kept cupping water in his hands 
and splashing it against the wall. 

His wife had died six years ago. 
Frank had no one now. 
Just a power of attorney who lived 
in a different city and couldn’t care in the least. 

It’s pretty smart if you think about it, 
Don said. 

What is? 
asked Heidi. 

Never shit your own pants, 
Don said. 
Look in Don’s closet. 
He has at least twenty pairs of pants, 
but never shits in any of those. 

Heidi looked over to the large brown wardrobe 
across the room and laughed. 

So you think Frank is some kinda genius of something? 
Heidi laughed. 

Crazy, not stupid!, 
Don said. 

I think you’re going to steal other people’s pants 
when your time comes, 
Heidi nudged Don jokingly. 

I’ll have my own gig, 
announced Don. 
Shit really isn’t my thing. 

Are pants? 
joked Heidi. 

Just then, 
Sam returned to check and see 
how things were going with Frank 
who kept grabbing at the towel 
as Don dried him off. 

I need you to go check on Natalie, 
Sam told Heidi. 
She’s up and screaming bloody murder again. 

Heidi ran off to check on Natalie. 
Amy was at the nurse’s station. 
Having already begun the paperwork  
on Frank’s latest incident.

Heaven Wasn’t Made For Elves

Heaven wasn’t made for elves.
Santa’s boys just get recycled to the Christmas shop.
Some of them don’t like it, always toilin’ for Big Red
While he gets to fly around every Christmas Eve
Like it’s a party.  Ho, ho, ho!  What ya know, Joe!
That big lump of lard hits most the houses,
Hits the women that are willing and waiting, too.
One night outta the year, he works the heck outta his chubby.
Mrs. Claus knows it, has for years.  So, she does the elves
While he’s out.  Christmas morning, they’re all beat.
So beat, they skip church.  That works out fairly well.
If they hit the confessional, they’d have it tied up till next year.
All the elves that met with accidents on Nick’s rounds:
Falling from the sleigh, trampled in a reindeer stampede,
Shot scaring the Hell outta people by coming out the fireplaces
That have chimneys too tight for Santa’s fat ass.  All those elves
Magically end up back at the shop.  It’s that reincarnation thing.
Ain’t one of them wouldn’t love to come back as one of
Satan’s helpers, his imps that rejoice in causing pain and misery.
Hurts the face smilin’ all the time being slaves to happiness.
Maybe they could mix it up.  Yeah, some good/some bad.
If they could, the rum tab might go down at the workshop.

the intimacy of shame 

by hotel bathroom candlelight, she helps 
you into a slip of white purchased for 
a different kind of sacrifice.  no belts 
tonight or lewd advice, pubic hair or 
pigtailed disguise to make this easier 
at all.  they do not even allow you 
any alcohol while at the dinner 
where they contemplate you over steak. new 
girls feel best when they shake a little,
nervous skin she will open up for him.
while you whimper from the gentle 
touch. never knew you’d feel this small again,
a college girl grown comfortable with pain
they teach the intimacy of shame. 

Sepscendence

Fire 
in my lungs
and poisoned veins, 
fading
in (to white)
out (to black),
I see the eye of God—
unflinching
cold
against the welcoming void 
of closed lids…
…that dream?
Is He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?

Always attending 
never 
ending,
His watch, nary a waver,
there
between the veil
‘til shadows 
of angels, wingless
white
against the blaze of
artificial suns, rouse me 
back 
to this world of light 
and illusion—the Hell 
of my own making,
Was He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?

I suppose I’ll never know

***

Originally published in Alebrijes Review

Self-Pity in the Day to Day

I hadn’t vomited
in a while
so I guess
I was in good graces
somewhere

But
I still had
no pussy
to relieve
the stress
of the job

No-one
to occupy
the vacant spaces
of my mind

So
I just drank
and drank
(but did not vomit)
and smoked
a bowl or two
before bed

Some people
would prefer to die
in similar situations
and many of them
do

The thought
goes through
my mind often

But
I’m still here
and tomorrow
will probably be
the same

Death in the Modern Era

When you learn
a friend died
on Facebook
you stop to wonder
if he was alone
at the end

Were we all
too busy typing
to hold his hand

And you imagine
the last moment
when the very last
breath shook out
of his lungs

You feel a boot kick
right in the center
of your chest

Then you click
the sad face
emoji and
sigh

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year for Narcotics

and bad decisions, a Christmas snow storm 
a slap of talcum powder in the face of Missouri
we’re exiles, we’re bruised soul bohemians, we’re
far from home and our actions bare no consequence
in God’s country, our daily bread is amphetamines
our sacrament is the blood we spill, the teeth we lose
the poetry we sing drunk on the back porch 

It’s the most wonderful time of the year for

a taste of the sun, the drugs have run out 
now we lay stupid, now we’re sick 
but God takes and God gives 
we’re in the art gallery and the only art alive 
now is Milo cooking DMT in someone’s silver spoon 

It’s the most wonderful time of the year for 

a dance in the snow, spinning on Alvorado avenue
like the samaras falling from heaven, would they still  
spin so free if they knew the concrete beneath them?
If they knew the street is where they go to rot? 
From the couch, the Christmas light projector
paints us portraits of our past decisions 
it casts the mountains we’ve built to hide behind
You say, “it’s so romantic getting caught up in it all, isn’t it?”

It’s the most wonderful time of the year
to piss it all away.

Playing the Actor

Playing the actor,
I once tried Shakespeare.
That amounted to
Throwing myself to the
Elizabethan wolves.
Monty Python, it was not.
I guess they understood
That crap way back when
They chugged ale and wine
And pissed in the Thames.
Oh, right, they still do that.
For myself, I’m more of an
“Intercourse the parrot”
Kind of guy.  Clearly a
Product of our times.
Italian opera could have
Been my forte.  But, I
Don’t sing all that well and
My Italian is doubly severely
Limited to random syllables.
Which invariably causes the
Rest of the cast to turn and
Stare daggers at me when
I open my mouth…but,
Happily, most of the audience
Doesn’t speak Italian either
And just assumes I’m the
Bad guy everyone hates.
Somehow, I managed two
Performances before being
Cast out with very colorful,
Seemingly angry words,
Which, of course, I didn’t
Understand.  It was the
Accompanying gestures that  
Made my expulsion acutely clear.
That much Italian, io capisco.

Street Flowers

Night blooms push 
through the cooling bustle 
of footsteps 
and concrete street corners,
unfolding, blue, 
from sidewalk cracks 
under streetlamp moons and
the twinkle of city lights.
Savage beauties 
with perfumed petals 
and shapely stems 
pale against the night sky 
and their nectared dapples of scarlet.
So delicate. 
So sweet.
So thorned to the touch.
Look, 
how they flutter in winds of
passing taxi cabs and
heavy-soled feet,
candying the air with 
kisses and promises, ephemeral,
in lure of lotus-eaters
and forgetful exchanges 
in dark alleyways.
The night 
(and dance) are long
within the wall-less confines of
their cement gardens,
‘til the break of day and
heavy rumbles of delivery trucks
send them scattering—tattered and torn—
into the shadows
of their morning slumbers.

***

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

fruit flies and eternal love

sunny day outside
streets full
of people seeking water
and cold beers

overcast day inside
the cold, irregular walls
of the basement 
in the abandoned building
The clouds are alive
and very annoying

She slaps his forehead
with a sloppy hand 
soaked in vomit

“Ouch!” he screams

And she says, “I can’t stand
these fucking 
fruit flies. Why must 
they follow everywhere we go?”

He turns around 
on the wool blanket and 
shoves away a few empty bottles
of cheap wine
and 
drops his head onto
her naked lap. “Because, baby, we’re
putrid. You and I, we’re both
dead on the inside
and out. And the fruit flies
love the smell
and taste of our bodies. Especially
when they come 
together and sweat a lot.”

His hand grabs at
her upper thigh
and the fingers 
tap playfully along the 
piano-key-like cut marks
that adorn it
from crotch to knee

She tries to squash another
fruit fly
on his back

fails 

gives up

drifts into sobs
and cries

“Noo, don’t cry,” he whispers

“Darling,” she says through
sour tears that 
get immediately assaulted by
the fruit flies, “are we
really dead?” 

“Yeah,” he says after 
two full minutes
of struggling to open his eyes. 
“Dead to them all 
who walk outside in the warm
sun and go to jobs
to feed families, and dead
to our own families. And 
to God. We’re dead, alright.”

She wails and 
moves her vomit-soaked
hand before her face
to chase away 
the fruit flies

achieves the opposite
effect

wails some more

looks around for
her favorite razor blade

doesn’t find it

wails some more

grabs a bottle and swings
it against the wall
behind her back
but not strong enough
to break
just drops it

And she wails some more
until 
he grabs her hand and 
holds it against his
face and 
starts sucking on her fingers

It tastes not very
different from 
the wine they drank
so he keeps sucking
and tells her, “Don’t worry.”

“What?” she asks

“Don’t worry, I said. Even if
we’re dead, at least 
we’re dead together. And it’s 
a thousand billion times
better than
being alive and apart. We’re still
better off than those
walking outside in the warm sun.
Those fools stay together
till death does ‘em apart. Pathetic. 
We’re staying together in
death itself, dear. Our love
is eternal!
We got each other
and our cool grave
and our thousands of flying children
here roaming about
and the sweet nectar of each
other’s bodies. What else
could one ask for in life
or in death?” 

“Aw, you sweet talking
failure of a poet,
come and kiss me!” 

He did 

and not even the 
vomit or the 
coughing of blood could
break their lips apart

and the 
fruit flies
joined in

and outside people still
walked in
the warm sun 
oblivious of what true love
looked like