at the naked eye

they say the president liked this place 
getting airborne on his barstool 
clad in proud colors 

second shift naked workers take the stage
record spinner bumps the loud
squirming in the suited businessmen

floorboards rough with immemorial grit
bar bills soaked in effluent booze
soon befuddled legs will do the shuffle

bartender slogs through invisible water
quaaludes on his startled mind
anything goes behind his back

not far from where the quakers dangled
from their gallows tree we afternooners
swill and watch the nudes defile in order

and all is as it should be
distribution in this lumpen paradise
every day is payday at the naked eye

Nights of Madness and Fucking

nights of lunacy, when the
booze and the drugs flowed freely; when 
getting high made perfect sense.
Gina by my side, naked and exhausted, I wanted to
write but couldn’t. would just chase pulls of rotgut
with puffs of rock and the world would momentarily make perfect sense.
for a single moment, I saw it all, I was the best philosopher of all time and
if only I could keep the state of mind alive for more than a second.
she’d blow a kiss on my lips, her fingers would tug at my cock; my
gaze remained glued on the nicotine-stained wall. my mind traveling
to distant universes, conversing with geniuses and morons existing
in some dimension where the laws of nature and of man
were mere suggestions.
her mouth would go around my dick, her tongue trying to lick it into action.
it was pointless; I was drifting along interdimensional clouds, seeing
things that were, that could have been, and that might be. everything mattered except
for the ever-elusive here and now. the moment was gone, her lips abandoned my
cock but her hand would squeeze my balls until I groaned and was
momentarily brought back to the reality I refused to call home.
I’d guzzle more bourbon, have another puff, and she’d sit on
my lap, her pussy lips against my dead prick. not even with her
sturdy tits on my face could I stop chasing the answers that
were hidden behind another veil of reality.
“come on, baby, stay with me,” she’d whisper in my ear while grinding
her cunt against my limp dick. her voice could barely reach my brain,
nothing but distant music penetrating the thick walls protecting my cosmic travels.
the walls of my flat had dissipated, the whole town had evaporated, I was
somewhere in between dimensions or worlds and her
pussy was still poking at my cock, her lips nibbling on my earlobe, desperate
attempts to keep me connected with what she perceived as reality.
I didn’t care; my hand mechanically would reach for the bottle, my mouth
would thirstily accept the swallow and my mind would feel it even if it
violated the laws of physics. sometimes, she’d even succeed at
causing just enough blood to migrate southward and make me
go inside her, but the tight embrace of her pussy could never
suffice to bring me back to the reality I would never acknowledge.
at some point, she’d give up; sometimes after she made me come,
sometimes when she realized the substances in my blood made
ejaculation impossible. to me, it didn’t matter; I was elsewhere.
chasing grand dragons through worlds with purple suns and mauve seas.
as my hand mechanically, automatically, kept on reaching for the bottle,
I’d pass out. naked, sweaty, my cock soaked in juices. I’d barely
notice. it was fucking alright.
when I’d come to, several hours later, she’d ask “are you okay?”
“I’m fine, yes. why?”
“don’t you remember last night? you spaced out for a long time.”
“it was a great trip,” I’d reply, bombarded by blurry memories of
my expedition to other universes and of her trying to keep me anchored
to one reality.
nothing ever mattered. one day, she disappeared. don’t know
what happened, where she is; I’ll never know and
somehow, that feels alright even if it isn’t.

The Big Meat

I’m still not over her but I’m talking to this other chick 
She’s like an actress or cam girl or some other shit
Takes all my money, messages me every day 
“You better be there baby, do what I say or I’ll shoot you in your face”
Haha ok
And yeah I don’t have a degree in bitch psychology 
but I’m pretty sure she’s into me 
That same feeling 
Stuck in time like that dream where all your teeth fall out
your fingernails too
Someone kills your family or your mother gets run through 
and you wake up knowing shit went down
but you just can’t fucking recall it now 
Two hours and she’s back on again
Something’s gotta give
Blood loss by the litre
But that bird eater pussy 
Is the son and Saturn the Devourer 
Blackness as Goya would paint her

They Leave With Joy

To Santa Clara Street
My friend and I have gone
To offer our penises
For the girls in the brothel house
To take them and feed them.
The matchmaker Celestina
Who opened the door for us
Is called Plasencia de la Olla
Who gave a commanding voice:
-Girls, come to the living room!
They come skipping with joy
Girls who have started university
Bringing hope to our penises
Laden with anxiety.
We have chosen the two who walk best
And can tell they are hungry for men
Leaving the other three out.
Behind those two
We have reached the beds.
They have opened them
Showing us their fresh cunts
Telling us:
-These penises of yours
Are a very good thing
For they greatly adorn our lower bellies.
Now, naked, we’ve pulled down
Their panties with our penises
One pink, the other red
Both slightly stained.
They’ve taken our penises by the hand
Not knowing where they’re leading them.
They weren’t mistaken!
Because they’ve taken a quarter of our penises
Into their open vaginas.
An excellent radiance
We saw enter through the large and small lips
To the heaven of their vaginas
We enjoying eternal glory.
I don’t know about them. 
We didn’t look at them.
When we finished ejaculating
And Celestina finished cleaning us
With a dish sponge
She took us to the door saying:
-The whores need you to love.
Give them love, give them lots of love.
The whores need you to love.
In their cunts your freedom grows.

I’ve Pulled Some Hunky Guys in My Time

I spent a year
In South Texas.
I knew this guy
Who didn’t talk much,
His “y’all,” though:
Seven syllables too long.

Marine.
His gait
Should’ve been stiff,
But was music:
Red-dirt.

He wasn’t handsome.
I didn’t need handsome.
I, in fact,
Was the handsome.
His pecs were
The draw. 

He told me I was pretty.

What I wanted
Was a macho-manly adjective.
“Say that shit to your girlfriend!”
I’d snapped.

I didn’t want to know
That he had someone
At home.
But he shared it
Like she was nothing.

I thought about her,
Truly, a lot.
More than he did,
Maybe.

And I thought about her
All the time
When he gave me chlamydia.

That poor girl
I thought:
Does she know
About azithromycin,
Doxycycline,
Yoghurt with active cultures?

The tale I told myself, though,
Was that she was cheating, too.
Thus, Chlamydia trachomatis:
A teen on gap year
Bounced from genitalscape
To genitalscape,
Defiling native cultures.

It was a good story, that:
It precluded the possibility
Of him with another guy,
A younger guy,
A guy who didn’t snap
When he said “Pretty.”

“You’re gonna get dirty,”
He shrugged on the phone
“When you play in the mud.”

I’d called.
Calling, I felt,
Was intimate,
Appropriate,
Beseeming
When announcing
An STI.

“Fuck you, what mud?
I always douched!”
He chuckled:
“Takes a week to get clean.”

We did bang again,
Marine and I.
On day 8
Post-azithro.
No retest.

Listen: I was 28
In a new city (again)
Where I knew no one
(Again).

He wasn’t a talker,
But he stuck around.

Chlamydia is like that, too.

Fuck Haikus VI

Young men skateboarding
Sun is glinting in their eyes
I expose my cunt

Loaded and horny
They fuck me in the playground
Young wolves eat the deer

They rub their bulges
The hot sun blinks behind clouds
I’m begging on my knees

Cum slurping hot bitch
Crows caw in the willow trees
The boys fuck my throat

The bliss of young piss
Rain splashes the lily pond
The boys shower me

Spit roasting their bitch
Two eager crows chase a dove 
My mouth and ass burn

Two boys suck my tits
Swallows swerve in flight
A third eats my cunt

Happy with their bitch
The boys play ball in the spring
I still taste their spunk

Hole

The day I got drunk 
down in Jupiter 
with Tiger 
and Charles, we got into 
6 car crashes 
but the 3rd
didn’t count 
because it was one of those 
micro Italian cars
that look more like 
chrome footwear 
than something that can cause 
a high speed pile up.
The vikes 
are good,
the wheels and whites, 
percopop, tabs, dro, 
fluff, Apache, everything 
like a fire engine 
blaring 
through the 
cosmos 
Toot, TOOT
     TOOTSKI

The day I got drunk 
down in Jupiter 
with Tiger 
and Charles, some girl 
from the Cheetah Palm Club 
accused Tiger of rape,
said his cock looked 
like an armadillo 
or was it a hedgehog
I can’t remember… 
We threw cash 
at her 
gold 
mother of pearl
said see ya next week
the night falling 
now
like a putt 
that breaks both 
ways
South Ocean Blvd
firecracker palm trees
blowing rocks
I’m standing on the lips 
of a waterfront mansion
eating the pinkest sunset 
I’ve ever seen
white clawed
gin tight
betting on Jai alai
talking to a guy who smuggles 
alligators in golf bags
talking to a guy who loves cattle queens
dreams in rubber, 
Thai, Puerto Rican 
talking to Tarzan of the Loxahatchee
he has a competitive nut
a Tom Ford suit
a tie as slick 
as an eel

Charles is chatting up
a calendar Pin-Up,
he has a tongue like 
a flophouse
—fame rabies
more loot than Mel Fisher, 
he beat up 
twenty bluebirds
a black sparrow 
and a clerk 
at Fast Buck Freddie’s
that weekend 
in Key West,
then wrote 
a poem 
about a young 
lion 
that many say 
is his most 
vulnerable 
yet

Tiger has rehearsed 
his death
in many crashes,
slicing a limo 
packed with sugar mommas, 
hooking a Kenworth 
heavy-duty 
class 8 truck 
carrying a load 
of Coors 
across state line,
shanking a Subaru
of Hooters girls 
en route 
to the Magic City Casino
the male G-spot
revealed 
to be 
on the frenular delta
on the underside 
of the penis
where the head 
meets 
the shaft  
yeah, baby
that’s 
science
mashed potatoes 
get in the hole. 

Sir Rooster Ryder: A Modern Ballad

I rode upon my magic mount,
my trusty friend and pet—
a rooster big as any steed
or stallion ever met.

We journeyed ‘til my heavy head 
was falling on my chest,
a sign we’d need to find a bed 
to give ourselves a rest.

A stranger saw us passing by
and said he’d be our guide. 
He led us to a sign that read,
“You’re welcome here inside.”

I hitched my bird beside the bar
and sat upon a stool.
A lovely lady flashed a smile 
that makes a man a fool.

She grabbed my hand and sweetly purred,
“I know a nearby inn,”
and moments later, we were off 
to find a room for sin.

“This room we’ve got is cramped and small 
but big enough for fun,”
I’d started thinking when she turned 
and jabbed me with her gun.

I’d thought I’d pluck a supple hen,
a feather in my cap,
but made myself an easy mark
and stumbled in a trap.

She took my clothes and stole my watch
while tying up my hands. 
She tied them twice with knotted ropes 
as rough as burning sands. 

The lady left me all alone 
with bruised and broken frame 
and made a wound that’s even worse
than busted bones or shame.

The stranger and his lady friend—
those beasts with hearts of rock—
had planned the dirty grifting scheme 
to steal and ride my cock.

Now people hiss and mock my words
and say I’ve only lied
when told I had a giant cock 
to proudly stroke and ride.

Two Fingers Neat

I am about to crack open a bottle of Knob Creek
and do you know how much that put me back
even at the Duty Free Shop in Buffalo? I am
taking a page out of the Book of the Dead
and hoping nobody finds it missing. One
day A.I. will translate it for me and I will
be that guy. That guy who keeps looking
for his identity. Did you happen to see one
floating around the foyer or hanging
near the latrines? Regard him, this man
with thinned eyes, and make no sudden moves.
If all is true, then too bad for you should he 
take a fancy to your perfume or your
footwear. Even frontline German soldiers
during World War II knew the difference
between English chocolate and their own.
Or look at this bone in my wrist that I broke
many years ago, before the invention
of plaster casts and self-love hand lamps.
When I said all we needed was a lubricant,
I meant something sweeter than K-Y Jelly.
The cannons won’t boom without you
standing behind them and doing that thing
those dudes setting off those things do.
War never appealed to me, but now I 
must eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
I say eat well, my friends, eat your fill
for tomorrow may never be the tomorrow
promised to you and me, as I swim 
from the neck of Lake Erie to its jewels.

Erica

Erica is flighty, not to say flirtatious,
known to her many friends as Erotica
and by friends, I really mean boyfriends.
Her secret cleft is no longer a secret.
Whenever she sees someone she fancies,
her not-so-secret cleft begins to secrete
with desire to get to know him carnally.
Erotica is always open for business,
as she’s wont to say and who can blame her?
Life is for living and what better way
to live it than spreadeagled on a bed
waiting for the sword of Damocles,
as she nicknamed the latest in her line
of muscular Mediterranean lovers.