Boredom is a Pathetic Way to Die

You wanted to play Chess 
but nah bitch,
we gonna play Twister.
That’s what I do—
I’m a game changer.
Since you had me all twisted up
in your twisted mind ~ 
You tried to bore me to death.
I had to switch up the board.
I had to bring the color
and bend over for something 
that could keep me awake for once.
You can’t be lazy if you wanna play
with me.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, checkmate,
blah, blah, blah…
Boredom is a pathetic way to die!!!
So, I can’t hang around you, honey.
Well, spin the dial, it’s your turn.
Wait, wait, wait…
Can you play Twister without a backbone???
Nope.
You gotta go back to your board—
back to your black and white world.

***

with the blood of a virgin or two

another day with 
only four hours 
of sleep
 
i’m sure the wax 
from that candle 
will burn me one 
of these days
 
but until then
enjoy the pain
 
trace your scars 
with the blood 
of a virgin or 
two
 
laugh in the face
of danger 
 
and remember 
there is no better 
taste than a well 
earned death

Updated Ruin

The poet wrote a poem
About a black-eyed dog
A pink moon on its way
A fruit tree flourishing on the ground
And a road that’ll see him through. 

Not many understood.

He sung songs about
The things behind the sun
Local clowns, tramps
Oceans finding their shores
And a troubled cure for a troubled soul.

Not many understood.

Now we all do.

The Performance Poet

He was a drama major
took voice lessons
studied the art of gesticulation
and facial movement
(he can say volumes
with just an eyebrow.)
He combs his hair
dresses tastefully
doesn’t want anything to distract the audience
from his art
wants to connect with the largest number of people
like a real estate agent
or a car salesman.
He’s got a nice smile
a complexion a 24-year-old girl
would kill for, damn
does he sleep in a vat
of Vaseline?
And he stands erect and confident, the microphone
is his best friend.
He doesn’t read his stuff, this mo-fo
has memorized it!
He’s practiced
he’s trained
he’s not messing around.
He PROJECTS 
and scans the audience
back and forth
to and fro
totally natural 
no one feels left out.
What a performer!
He gets them hootin’ and hollerin’!
The applause, oh lordy
deafening
2, 3 minutes long, people
are on their feet, 
creaming themselves,
their heads are spinning, 
they’re speaking in tongues,
they’re crawling around 
on all fours, 
jumping up, saluting, drooling,
reaching out, arms waving, 
smacking themselves in the face, crossing
their chests,
shitting their drawers.
Sing it brother!
Preach it man!
He supports arts and teachers, he’s very
supportive, he’s passionate.
In fact he IS a teacher.
He loves his job.
He’s like a supercool teacher
on a PBS special
who treats all the students fairly
even the poor and the ugly
and the stupid ones.
He is severe when needed
and compassionate when needed.
He’s a good guy, he’ll loan you 
a dollar
or a pen.
He corrects his friends’ grammar
at barbecues
he knows how irritating that is
but he still does it.
It’s cute, he can
laugh at himself, he’s a regular
fella.
People adore him, he is simply 
adored.
I watch his Youtube videos
and am in awe.
My mouth drops open
and I laugh 
and nod my head at the perfection
of the openings
and closings. 
The middles are good too, it’s all
soundly cadenced 
and crafted, like a symphony.
The occasional cuss word, you know, 
for effect.
Polished, sober, sane, what the hell
planet is this guy from?
How to Win Friends and Influence People
is sticking out of his back pocket.
Firm ass.
He’s a kick at cocktail parties.
His wife is pretty
but not too pretty
and his kids are cute
but not too cute.
The man is talented, no getting 
around it.
Probably jogs.
Perfect teeth, I’ll bet
he flosses.
Does he have a shed
out behind his suburban house 
lined with newspapers
where he cuts up stray dogs
wearing nothing but a 
pair of flip-flops?
The sonorous, handsome 
bastard, 
we’ll see how big he is
when I post my one-star review. 

UNDER THE RAVENS’ WATCH

The streets are vacant; only the dead walk this eternal night. Packs of hounds are hunting and educating themselves from horribly written books and scattered coupons that blow through the alleyways.

Corpses are piling up in community parks and the rats have come together, massing and breeding at unbelievable rates, forming unions and delegating sections of the city. The black rain never seems to run dry.

Why has the daylight left us? Is this some sort of divine insurrection?

Long ago, traveling in Mexico after the tourist season, the ocean started to throw up all of its natural and man-made garbage onto the beach, the quantity of shit covered everything like a blanket, and the stench was fucking unbearable. I asked a friend “what in all fuck was happening?” He simply replied, “the ocean is cleaning itself.” Apparently it happened every year around the same time.

I wonder, in these troubled times, if the earth isn’t cleaning itself of us. We’ve had a good run at it, but we upset the balance, and for all intents and purposes we’ve ripped the living shit out of it.

We seem to forget that we’re only guests, and under the ravens’ watch. 

Either Way

We’re here awhile and then 
we’re somewhere else

we’re confused and sad
we fuck around

we’re often ugly

occasionally (arguably) 
beautiful 

mostly something between

the most important thing
is that there’s not much 
time left

so best not to get too 
worked up about it 

the sun and the moon 
will do their thing

the poems will come
or they won’t

it doesn’t matter much
either way

lean back, open a 
bottle of something

listen to the music
of the rain

breathe it in 
and out

remember and forget

remember 
and forget

Going the Distance 

When I was sixteen,
I stopped by my girl’s house
one Saturday afternoon
and her entire extended family 
was in the backyard 
grilling, throwing horseshoes 
and just hanging out. 

Everyone seemed to be 
having a good time,
so after saying hi
and visiting for a bit
we slipped away 
to her bedroom to fuck.

Back then, anytime I came 
over we were in her room 
and we were fucking. 

We tore off our clothes
and went after it.

After a while
she got on top 
and started riding me
moaning,
with her family 
and loved ones
right outside 
her bedroom window 
on the back porch.

I guess it must’ve been 
a combination of 
fear and excitement 
because when it was my turn 
to go, she jumped off 
and I shot my load 
all the way up the wall
nearly to the ceiling.

We just lay there stunned
laughing hysterically, 
me still twitching from one 
of the best orgasms
of my life.

methods

anguish and disorder
keep the fingers typing,
and a little wine
is always
good for the neck pain
that comes with it
when the muse
keeps you
strapped to your chair
feeding you cigarettes
until either 
she goes away
or you drop unconscious.

personally,
I’m a few loose vertebrae away
from my first collection
although I am yet to write
a poem 
about my scoliosis—
but there’s plenty of wine
for that and my flat feet.

Stale

It feels stale—
wanting some dramatic destiny
to be drugged into my dreams
but being only
perverted
into a poet
and wanting and feeling nothing more,
and so that poetry is spat prepubescently
into a dented trumpet I play,
sheepishly swaying an imitation of a dance
on marbled romances, absurdities;
On a quest to deify myself, honestly,
and finally be shown to the world
as a donkey.

This line of work will make your mother faint.
This will make dad drink again,
advise knocking it off while he nods off.
This is a sick fetish for the

self-proclaimed mystics,
a poor excuse for laziness, really,
a lie for some disgruntled manager.

I’d’ve gotten my head straight, I swear,
but I knew I’d use too much force
and twist it ‘till it breaks in its place,
would’ve popped my head out of

those rippling pages,
but I knew it was too late,

Too late to stay safely crouched into
computer friendships and households,
or soaked in a sexy self pity,
too late to be lazy without the constant
drag of a dream, too late to stay

behind, rolling my eyes
at the dreamy poet who dies with

each word I sacrifice.

So goes the work and it’s slot eats your coins,
and so goes another hungover morning
as I slowly bend and deeply,
in my own dreamt destiny decline,
to write out some beauty which I know
will rot in the hideous sundown
of a horrible caffeine comedown.

But, by god, in the face of all that,
I will be the most insane mistake to ever
sneeze upon a sunny face;

the worst retired beauty,
fat and sick like hospital flesh smells;
a terrible screech cracking golden bells;
a hellish, disruptive, degenerate smear-

Yeah, that’s it alright,
drink up over there, friend,
sure, I like your lips stained red, humor me now,
and pass that red kiss onto a furrowed head—
another bum poet is burning his words,
letting each dog-ear come to life with flame,
hoping to bake loaves of bread to break,
and feed to crows for misery’s sake.