Like I’d Miss the Sun

No one wants to read this sad sack poem
pouring out of me after two glasses
of white wine,
so I imagine myself a melancholy
charmingly self-effacing 
country singer
with an old song about how
I wish I hadn’t done you wrong,
and how I miss you
like I’d miss the sun
even though I’ll never tell you so,
and how in another world
I’m a stronger and better man.
I would sing it at some little bar
in the Midwest on a Tuesday night.
I’d drink from my whiskey 
and strum the first few notes
and the people  
would whoop and yell because
it was their favorite song,
the one they listened to
after coming home from the bar
while pouring themselves 
one more drink.
Some of them drove 40 miles 
from their shitty little town just 
to hear this one song.
I’d pause, tune my guitar,
and then really dive into it,
singing with a cracked little warble 
in my voice like I always did.
The people would close their eyes
and sway and sing along.
Some of them would cry 
as they drank their drinks
and when I was done 
there would be a moment of reverent silence
and then enthusiastic applause.
I’d humbly nod,
pick up what was left of my whiskey
from the stained wooden floor,  
shuffle offstage 
and find somewhere quiet  
to drink and cry.

Soft Launch

Before my first inhale of 8-bit Heaven, 
I’ve only known ketamine to be 
what Publix butchers palm-pass 
in fun-size bags, some spikey 
space dust bought off single 
mothers as kids squish soggy 
fries into their backseat carpet.

I only know it has something
to do with nailing roommates
to lumpy couches. Wall-eyed
meditation among sunrise weeds.
What blacks out embarrassment 
after Kraken oil Rum rummaging
past midnight that leads to thrown
phones and punched houseplants.

But in your bedroom, in the tufted 
quail-blue office chair, K sounds
safer, kinder, described as LSD lite,
sedating like BNW Soma, short-lived,
not life-consuming or -threatening.
It looks like cocaine, an icier snowfall.
We cut pale worms on a paper plate.

In the minute before ignition, I paint
smiling snails and obese bumblebees,
put on a gravelly podcast that makes 
the apocalypse sound like a nuclear field day. 

Nights in a Booth

her chiseled body swirled down the pole,
her high heels kicking in the air as she landed on
the platform. she was breathing in the gasps of
the crowd, drawing life from the lustful gazes glued on her.
the spotlights made the sweat on her silky skin to glisten,
and her long, auburn hair flowed down her shoulders.
with a smile that could hypnotize anyone she unbuckled her
top, revealing her monstrous tits to the astonished crowd.
I was in my booth, swigging Four Roses out of the bottle and
holding a pencil between my fingers, ready to violate another
cocktail napkin. she crawled around the
platform, almost had sex with the steel pole standing there
like a massive phallus; most of the men in the room
ordered drinks and the song came to an end.
she picked up her top and strutted away. they wanted
an encore; someone else climbed on
the platform and a rock song (guess which) blared from the speakers.
“liked the show?” she asked as she crawled into my booth
and stole a sip out of my bottle.
“you’re a true artist,” I said. “the Rembrandt of stripping.”
“you know you’ll get laid even without the cheesy compliments, right?”
“I’m aware,” I chuckled and had a long pull out of the bottle.
she wrung the bottle out of my grip, had a good sip, then blew a kiss
on my lips. it was time to do her rounds, give lapdances to desperate
fuckers eager to feel a woman’s touch no matter the cost.
I remained on the booth, drinking and scribbling cheap poems on
napkins. none of the other working girls approached; they were
all afraid of my Gina. the night was
over, I had more than a fifth of Four Roses in my bloodstream,
and we took the bus to my apartment. the ride sobered me up
just enough to get an erection; we fucked, and at eight in the
morning I cracked a fresh bottle of bourbon, toasting the saps
coming to work at the office building across the street.
Gina was fast asleep on my bed and my fingers were on
fire, typing out meaningless poems faster than my
hazy brain could process them. two hours later,
I passed out and her kisses riled me out of
my beautiful slumber, forcing me to make coffee
and share a kiss with her before she had to
shower and get ready for another long night.

Fame & Fancy Literature

I am sitting in Harry’s Corner Bar
listening to the din
of people talking loudly
in the summertime heat
of New Orleans.
I am on a two-day bender
out celebrating something
I really don’t know
and cannot name.
I am pushing myself too hard
trying for something,
for anything to spark.
A middle-aged woman
with silver streaked hair
puts a five into the old jukebox
and plays,
Luckenbach, Texas by Waylon Jennings.
She doesn’t know that I wrote a poem
about that very song.
In fact, the poem is called,
Luckenbach, Texas!
It is in my book, Disposable Darlings
whose cover was photographed
right here in this same bar,
blowup dolls and all.

If I had the book with me
or the poem memorized
I’d recite it for her
under the purple neon Abita beer sign
but she has since moved on
to Garth Brooks
and that is just not conducive
to respectable literature.

I Arrive In My Voice

Hello, my dear.
You look like cut glass tonight.
You smell like gasoline.
I love it when you smell like gasoline.

Hello, baby.
Are we still married 
to our own self-destructive
self-regard?

Hello, child,
can we still talk on occasion
without starting a five
alarm fire?

Hello, precious.
Tell me you’re tired
of being admired
for being a liar.

Hello, my dear,
I find you simply
irresistible when you’re
combustible as this.

Hello, future blaze.
You remind me of Corvettes
and Tab and glossy magazines
Love it when you smell like gasoline.

Unsolicited Advice

Do what you can
with what you have
take a stab at stuff
throw everything
against the wall
see what sticks
bounce your
ideas around
watch what lands
have a devil-
may-care approach
don’t let depression
encroach or impede
your needs
look at the flowers
not the weeds
feed your body
and your spirit
don’t even listen
when you don’t want
to hear it
do whatever the hell
you like
what does it matter
anyway
all you’ve got
is today
for tomorrow will
come and wash
the past away…
I hope this helps you
and you don’t take it
personal
for I have given you
every self-help cliche
in my arsenal

emotional intimacy

the pic I clicked on
showed her
amazing ass
so I clicked on
her profile
where the first sentence
stated
how much she valued
emotional intimacy—
I thought
or hoped
she was seeking
emotional intimacy w/her ass
which I was more than willing to give
but immediately after
she informed me
which strip club in Portland
she danced exotically at—
she also gave the url
of her onlyfans page
where
for money
one could watch videos
of her
performing sex acts
alone
or possibly
with someone
with which
she shared 
emotional
intimacy

Dead Boyz Took Me to Church

The stale-scene shadowplay
is just too much to take
on a fucking Tuesday

Laughter from far away…
So careful not to break
from whispers on Wednesday

The beast I always slay;
The devil inside- shake
my hips on a Friday

Things you wouldn’t dare say
Bore me to death and fake
yours again on Sunday

Don’t believe anymore…
Monday and Thursday’s whore
burning right out the door

Florida man says

I never knew a snake
that had a clitoris
and I been handling
them all my life
mostly on Sunday
in my church
but you tell them
so-called biologists
they put that shit
they’re playing 
over at that college
in a book
forget about that
coming out 
in a school 
or library
in my town
we’re God
fearing
Panhandle
people
sanctified

Lifetime Achievement

First you take sixty odd years
of muddling through the foliage
like someone half your age
with twice the gusto
and three times
the misplaced ambition
and add the elements
like hot, cold and sub-zero luck
and the unlikelihood
that lightning might strike
twice in your lifetime
as it did when you were
all wet under the nose and ears
during those sordid solid gold years
when everything fell into place
right in front of your face
with its expression
of bewilderment at best
and you pounded your chest
like a Tarzan in your “can do” days
it was all work and all play
under the hot rays of
fun-for-fun’s-sake sun
give or take
some unbearable sorrows
and fears that one day you’d
have to live in the down-and-out
up-and-coming tomorrows
which have now
finally come to pass
so congratulations on making
it this far into your personal story
where you played the hero
and the antagonist to the hilt
no need to feel
imposter syndrome guilt
for you are one hundred percent
the genuine real thing—
a frenetic, pathetic
and yet somehow
still a terrific
human being