Philip II’s Chair

Now I find myself alone with my erect penis.
I don’t know what to do
Whether to jump out the window of the inn where I’m staying
Show it to the women passing by on the street
In front of my window
Or stick it in my own arsehole
As Ovid taught us his Donkey did
With the dancing cock.
The art of shaking our clappers
It’s something we learn very well and without teachers.
But I don’t want to cum
Before showing it to the girls
And seeing them laugh like donkey
Making me cum inside
Closing the window, closing the blinds.
In this erect trance, I remembered
The charitable good advice
My spiritual father gave me at the Monastery of El Escorial
Where I went to confession one day 
During spiritual exercises:
-You idiot, I know a lot about masturbation.
If your penis is seriously erect
And can’t grasp the girls’ cunts
Go, grab a hammer and smash it.
He gave me a fake Bible
With a hammer inside.
I went to the Herrería forest
Placing my very erect and affectionate penis
On an enormous granite rock
That they say is the Philip II’s Chair
At the foot of Mount Abantos
And the impressive Machotas.
Unexpectedly with the light of this day
The hammer fell from the fake Bible
Grabbing it and hammering my erect penis
With a shower of blows to the glans.
I screamed so horribly
That stormy clouds suddenly
Began to throw down lightning and thunder
Seeming happy and, at the same time, tearful.
The fresh rain of the moment ended the erection.
Seeing my penis defeated and fallen
With its great beauty and significance still there
I dreamed that one day it would be declared
UNESCO’s World Heritage 
Like Philip II’s Chair.

He’ll Do It for Me

Im looking for a bridge to you, Daddy
With each man I live and die for
I get one step closer to understanding you
And why you left
And why you avoided
And why you cheated 
And why you drank 
And why you hurt
And why you thank
And why you loved me
So completely 
So obsessively 
But could not gift me your presence 
And why you thought the gift was your absence 
And why you needed so much time alone 
And why you could never stay too long
And why you and I are kin
And why I must find you through men
Im looking for a bridge to you, Daddy 
I think I finally found the one
The one who will rise to meet me
Despite every way he is just like you
He’ll do it, for me, Daddy?

Trophy Widow, 1963

Perfectly preserved in the dark,
still, she wears his favorite dress,
his favorite heels, the spikes 
that catch on the shag
nearly rolls an ankle
mixes him a highball,
drinks it herself 
has another and waits
it is like it was
has another and waits
the longer she waits
the more she will need
has another and waits 
for the archeologists
to find her there in his vault
with the rest of his possessions

This One Time We Held Hands and Watched the Dawn Rise Over a Strip Club

A dancer leaned from a window and let her hair fall. 
Southern Ontario never felt more like a fairytale. 

Years later you sent me a text out of the blue.
“If you fuck someone tonight 
try to love them less than me.” 

I didn’t respond but maybe I should have.

If you’re reading this, I still hope 
for the future we talked about

having sex while Bernie Sanders is giving 
a victory speech, to really roll around naked 
in grassroots where the beautiful voices are

where none of them feel trapped. 

Submarine

I trace the influence
of the Renaissance 
in your face
which is not 
so much a style 
as a way of living. 
The dawn of perspective 
in doom town. How sad, how 
lovely, like death 
laying an egg 
in a trashy movie.  
I’m deep red. 
You’re sprawled on the couch 
with your clit out.  
I mistake it for a bird 
at first, and then a pink sweater 
and then a monastery 
on a hill overlooking the sea 
where a submarine blips 
like a latticed halo. 

the harrows of toil

now that the gnashings
of locomotion 
come to the terminus
of the continent—
now that the pacific’s
cold waves douse the
fires of the republic—
now that destiny is fully manifest,
and all the ruckus of
infinite growth comes
thrashing against a finite world,
there we find a fella
with his palm out,
asking for a dime. he,
like everyone else, is
selling something to 
survive. he’s selling
alleviation of guilt,
as the holy man does. 
a holy man
is a beggar with a 
compelling story:
promising eternal reward
for 10% of your earnings—
promising that you 
are a good person despite
what you do—
a holy guarantee that you 
are justified. 
a beggar has his bag of 
tricks too:
he has stories he can tell
and myths he can propagate
about the great western man
and his lurch into the american
century. he can say that there’s
a woman back in his hometown
that’s waiting on him to make good
on the promise of the century,
even though he knows that she’s
probably long ago moved onto
greener wallets. a girl’s gotta eat.
and yes the world wants him gone
but have you considered that he’s
bigger in heart than all the goons
on wall street combined and simply wasn’t
built for this economy? an economy
that requires lumpen destitution to function.
if it wasn’t him, it would be somebody
else, here with hand outstretched,
waiting for a dime.

Double Shift 

In those days Peter was always trying 
to get me to play Keno 
but I was too busy doing shots 
of Fireball with Farrah to give a shit 
about games. Caroline and Lucas 
had just bought the Dogtown Bookstore.
Lauren was banned from The Pub for life.  
After Arty cut her off one night
she got pissed and called the cops
and told them Arty was serving minors. 
He never forgave her for that. 
Caitlin had just moved to town, 
Jill was dating the Viking, and my neighbor, Matt, 
tossed all of his wife’s clothes 
into the apartment dumpster every Friday night. 
She was young and had a nice body 
and wore sunglasses at six in the morning 
so everyone knew Matt liked to beat 
on that nice young body 
after he’d had a few down at Stone’s. 
In those days Toby was already dead 
and Holly was dying;   
Logan had lost his job at the Post Office 
after he crashed his mail truck 
on Blackburn Circle — a BAC of .23%, 
the lawyer saying not even Houdini 
could get him out of that one. 
In those days, you worked long hours 
at the hospital 
trying to put people back together 
after their hearts gave out. 
On Saturday mornings 
I’d help Matt’s wife 
get her clothes out of the dumpster 
and she’d give me a hand with love. 
Times were tough 
and double shifts the only way 
to make ends meet. 

Bloated Pig Sentient

intellectual aspirations
my guts hate me
I hate my guts

poisoning myself
again and again
things in me
that need to die

heaven and home
hard to reach

battles won
battles lost

skin an open book

tried and true
raised by fire
under the son

forget
remember
live

An Ode to Detachment 

I am not sure if I could rid you
from my life / from my brain 
unless I have a section removed
cauterized and electrodes attached 

so if / when someone says / uses your name
or if / when I’m reminded of you in some way
a pulse of electricity can numb and soothe
creating a scene of sunsets / oceans / clouds 
so that my mind can be clouded
shading the intense panorama that you invoke 
of carnal dopamine nukes with spikes
of endorphin / adrenaline / serotonin agonists
mixed with supra-abnormal oxytocin blasts
all culminating in a galactic whirlwind
which absorbs all light and brain matter

but I am not sure if science can resolve this
spicy carotid jugular coupled information stream  
as it transfers corrupted corrosive thoughts 
of holding your hand while I drown in quicksand 
or in a swamp filled with algae / alligators / amoebas

but then you can still hold my hand 
since the rest of me will be gone
and maybe take it with you 
in case you need a hand 
to place on your shelf with a tag 
It was fun while he lasted

Pedophile Priest Against His Will

Early one morning
Danielito was lifted from bed
Because his parents were going to take him
To the Seminary of Segovia.
He went against his will.
But, when he boarded the Galo Alvarez’ bus
Whose boss was a friend of his father
And saw his three favorite friends
From Fuentepelayo
His town on the way
He was happier than a fiddle
Thinking that it would be very good for him
Because it would be one less expense
For his parents.
From Plaza del Azoguejo along Calle Real
To the Seminary
Hundreds of new seminarians were coming
From the villages of Segovia
Dressed like crows all in black
Dragging a mattress and a trunk
That they had to carry.
To the entrance door of the Seminary
His parents left him
And a priest with a devilish face
Took him by the hand
Pulling him inside.
Once he left the trunk and mattress
In the space he’d been assigned
In a hallway lined with beds.
They went down to the courtyard
To take the typical, obligatory photo
With all the seminarians who had arrived
And to receive the greeting and blessing
From the Father Superior.
He spent his entire stay
Studying and praying with sacrifice
So that he could become
A good pedophile priest
And be able to take, one day
His mother with him
To the towns where he was destined.
His prayer and sacrifice
Were a struggle against Lust
And the jerking off they did.
When I asked him one day:
-What have you felt most
After so many years in the Seminary?
He answered me clearly:
-What I felt most was my erect penis
Which I proudly ground day after day 
Against the confessional door
Which I had offered
Since entering the seminary
to the Virgin of the Organs
Which is why my classmates called me:
“Ecstasy of Saint Teresa!”
or “Almond Blossom.”