If Bukowski Worked at Trader Joe’s

If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
We’d know who ate all the hash browns
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
He would never make coffee in the breakroom
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
He’d call out sick all the time
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
The CEO would commit suicide
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
Its stock would go up after he died
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
He’d crap his pants just like I did writing this
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
The Horse Racing Form would replace the Fearless Flyer
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
He’d sell booze to everyone without an ID
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
The restroom would be flooded with beer shit
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
There’d be no health insurance
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
Everyone would transfer to Safeway
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
Two-Buk-Chuck would become One-Buk-Fuck
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
He’d call HR and ask to speak to Sean Penn and Bono
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
A “Wow” customer experience would be throwing up on them
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
His name tag would be a shame tag
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
You could sample the new products off his shirt
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
There would be porn mags at the registers for an impulse buy
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
Your receipt would be typewritten and contain a poem
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
The grocery carts would have whores in them
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s
He’d only last as long as a short story
If Bukowski worked at Trader Joe’s

The sales floor would look like a cheap hotel room
with the room lights permanently off

And there would always be classical music 
and cigarettes to smoke, until…

“You’re fired!”

Professor, Please Tell Me!

My English professor is a tentacle, secretly.  Wears a plaid flannel shirt and a babyface.  His glasses — white mirrors — reflect the distracted/fragmented glow of androids.  When he speaks of poetry, he will tip-toe down the aisle like a ballerina, twirling, his hands out as if hugging an old friend; the mirrors reveal hidden gifs, faces of the bored, faces of the absorbed, the word “sestina,”  unless the poet is Sharon Olds, then he strides like a cross-bearing altar boy.  My thigh, molded in blue jeans, is etched ecchi across the lenses.  With a sour apple flash his eyes peer over the rims, asking “how do they do it, the ones who make love without love?” and he swallows hard as if digesting a fantasy made of broken glass.  I suppress a smile and bite down on my lip so hard that my nose bleeds a single drop. A small pool of green slime hugs the heel of his red converse sneaker and an emerald tendril peaks out the bottom of his black khakis, flirtatiously. I am the only who notices; I am the only one pining for an answer.

3 A.M.

Here,  
at the Devil’s hour,
in the room made void
by your indentation
(my lamentation),
Sleep tantalizes,
echoing infernal lullabies
of leaky faucets
and bathroom-mirror punchings— 
my cradlesong. 
drip…drip…drip

My love—red and hot—
sprawled on motley white walls 
and the cracked basin, 
like graffiti in disappearing ink, 
cascades to the sobering tile,
below—
like icicles during Spring thaw—
leaving specters and tragedies
stitched in hands (and time),
rank with the smell of sweat and pennies.
drip…drip…drip

Its 3:15—
knee-deep in the Devil’s hour—
only a quilt of coppery ghosts and shadow 
to keep me warm.
Where’s your affection
(my confection)
that silences the symphony of raining glass 
and pleas from my mind
(and scars),
crying for a new page? 
drip…drip…drip

***

Originally published at Fugitives & Futurists

Just to Keep Him Happy

‘He asked me to wank him
whilst I breast-fed
our baby daughter.
I found it disgusting but
he wouldn’t stop asking,
so I did it,
just to keep him happy.
It wasn’t nice for me,
but I love him and I know
that he sees other women,
he tells me, brags of it,
I know he uses me and
I can’t tell you of the pain
when he fucked my ass!
I asked him to stop,
maybe three or four times,
but he said he couldn’t stop
and carried on; I felt so dirty
and self-disgusted.
It’s been four months 
since I saw him last,
he may be dead, murdered
by a jealous husband!
I hope so,’ she said, 
lifting her little girl
to kiss and stroke her
soft and beautiful face.

passion 

a bed lay in tatters 
from a night well spent. 
two lovers coil 
together 

the room remains hot, 
a/c cannot keep up. 
rain beats relentlessly 
against motel walls 

i light a cigarette, 
take a long drag, 
blow smoke through 
a cracked window 

a gray fat horizon fills my eyes,  
storm clouds thrash in anger. 
thunder sounds, but lightning  
never comes 

progress 

i always 
answer his call 
his text 
his time 
limited 
but he wants me 
needs me 

sometimes i sneak 
in his backdoor 
creep past  
family pictures 
on a wall 

sometimes i answer 
his knock 
on a seedy motel door 
wearing a jock strap 
and a smile 

sometimes we sit 
and talk at a restaurant 
over lunch 
about the future 
about things that will never occur 

the last time 
i met him 
at our motel 
on the edge  
of the town one over 
far from our own 
he tells me 
i love you 
and i wonder 
if those three words 
are the same lie 
i’ve heard before 

send pics 

i contort my body into strange positions 
take pictures with my cellphone  
ass, cock and balls. 

i am too old for the game  
but there are those 
in the queer crowd that request 
proof before letting games begin. 

and i really don’t have anything better to do  
on a Friday afternoon. 

fucking  

there’s not a lot of planning 
forethought 
putting things together 

pants to ankles 
bent just enough 
press it in 

fucking 

his weight pressing 
onto me 
hot breathe on my neck 
nothing spoken
grunts and moans 

pace quickens 
he’s close now 
i think of winter 
holiday gift giving 
a long vacation to Jamaica 
or France 

fucking 

he tenses 
freeze 
stabs deep 
releases his poison 

he zips up 
mutters something 
i pull myself together 
he says, 
thanks 
and 
see ya later 

i sit in the corner 
watch crows peck at dead cowboys 
i lick powder from a mirror 
load one last round  
into a gun

Lady UPS Driver

She
is a blonde destroyer
of antiquated gender norms.

Resplendent 
behind the wheel
of that iconic brown truck.

And that 
iconic brown uniform
fits her perfectly –

I’m tempted
to blow the rent money
on stupid shit 
I don’t even need.

Stupid shit
I don’t even want.

Just to experience 
the utter bliss 
of having her handle
my package.

Frownland

Your semi-liquid remains trickled down from the cross 
Formed pools of black sludge in the cracked dirt

I writhed on the ground before you in pain and disgust 
Your promised return a poem gone to fuck

You spoke of the God inside the pus in your brain 
The Devil that gnawed at the valves of your heart

I sucked your flesh and drank your juice 
You tore at my eyes so I’d be blind to your rot

As they dragged you away your deified 
Face shot me a look as sure as a cock

With cruel bliss they plied me with ant covered 
Snacks and a bedspread of xanax and spikes

Then I knew they had won so with  pleasure and pain 
I spewed up our hate that you called our love 

Now I sit by a chemical lake plastic shovel in hand 
Digging your grave and licking the coal from my heart

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.