He goes to the movies
almost every day
and since getting sober
so do I
“A drink now
would be like putting out
a house fire
with gasoline,” he says
There is loneliness in my life
but not enough to ever ask
if Bicycle Dan wants
to meet me at the theater
nor is his loneliness so great
that he would ask me
We are not the stars
of this particular movie
only extras.
writing
should not be
w/ out bursts.
typing
is dragging
a wheelbarrow
upside down
on cement.
writers
are not
scrapers.
writing
is fueled
by want,
not wear.
if you sit down
w/ out a fire lit
under your ass,
stand up.
and go
deliver mail
or something.
A boy walks a dog to the post office. The boy must mail a letter. The boy must be mindful not to slip on a banana peel. The dog is missing a paw. The banana peel becomes the whole street, and the boy slips and slips.
The boy laughs. The dog barks its paw back into existence. The boy’s father appears before him as a cat burglar. The boy must rake the leaves. The boy must finish his homework. The boy must steal brass balls. The boy’s penis turns into a Buddha and discharges many Oms. The boy smiles and completes a symphony in Sanskrit. The crowds in Tibet go crazy. They’re committed. They’re on meds. They tear each other’s hearts out for breakfast.
It’s daddy day. The boy’s letter to daddy is lost in the mails, evades destination in favor of Noble Truth number godfuckingdamnit.
The dog loses its paw again, and shits bananas for breakfast. The entire post office slips on shit. The boy’s Buddha disappears like a thief in the night.
His homework is done. The leaves are toast.
I never understood
why that stripper
kissed me on the forehead
till now
she gave me a lap dance
that made my soul sweat
then performed the act of
blessing my bleeding brain
it was my bachelor party
that was it for my life with other women
and what she was doing
was kissing me
goodbye
The hotel room is always in darkness
The better to reflect
This one-night-stand world
Stuck without a bouncer
Or angelic chaperone
Participants and room alike
Aware of the tens of thousands
Who’ve done every trick before
An hours love purchased
Ends always the same
With twinned looks of longing
Through the blank-mirror windows
Night’s density held at bay
By the passionless myopia of the city glow
Tears last only a short while
Indifference is unfailing
after twenty-two years dodging
employment, shirking responsibilities,
draining my expendable finances,
my son informs me he’s hired on at
Banker’s Life as an insurance agent.
the last thing I want to be
is the sort of father who pisses
down his child’s dreams, but I
have to ask how the hell he hired
on anywhere with his employment record.
my son shrugs and admits
the manager asked after his
scant job history and my son
graciously allowed that while
he recognized the importance
of menial labor for a
properly functioning society,
that shit just wasn’t for him.
and he bought that line of shit?
of course he did, I answer myself.
they’re from the same generation.
these kids grew up never having
to drop ten dollars on a crack
whore blowjob. they never witnessed
a jackass pay twenty dollars to
breathe blueberry scented air through
a straw at the mall’s oxygen bar.
what the hell do you know about
selling insurance? I ask,
still struggling to remain supportive.
I don’t have to know anything.
they train me. I’m taking
online classes, and I’ll take the
license test in another two weeks.
this is where I should hug him,
tell him how incredibly proud
I am… rather… okay, I say
roleplay this out for me.
dad, I’m really not in the mood.
you’re the helpful insurance agent,
I’m the jittery meth head
with two caps of dope and
thirty-six cents to his name
suddenly suffering an epiphany
I’m gonna die sooner than later
and I should probably have a policy
to ensure I leave something behind.
he believes its not likely to happen.
I ask him to humor me.
hello, welcome to Banker’s Life,
how can I help you today?
GIVE ME THE FIVE HUNDRED
THOUSAND DOLLAR LIFE
INSURANCE POLICY RIGHT
NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!
I AIN’T PLAYING WITH YOUR
BUTTONED-UP, COLLARED
SHIRT WEARING ASS.
INSURANCE NOW, GODDAMMIT.
my son sighs and hands me
a legal pad and tells me
to write down my name and
all the pertinent information,
or just write a poem chronicling
how cleaver I am, whatever gets
me to leave him alone the quickest.
Nobody writes letters anymore.
Once before
I tried to write you a letter
but only got as far
as the waiting room in hell.
This morning, however
I watched a film by Luis Buñuel
and for no particular reason
it reminded me of you.
Maybe because of the foot washing,
maybe because of the paranoia;
either way I made eggs
and wrote a poem
that tried to capture something
slightly bemused.
Why do I bother
chopping composition into
line lengths. I loved you
and you were as bad as they come.
Did you know
that Caroline Herschel
coined the word photography
in 1839.
Nobody uses cameras anymore.
And isn’t it better not to look too closely.
I’m sorry, I know how much you love
those paintings by Marsden Hartley.
O Gloucester is bitter and monstrous in March.
Where is the kingfisher and his energies of intuition?
Do you remember
the guy from Big Sur,
the one who bought the Dogtown Bookstore
with his waspish wife
who was a four in bed, at best —and her mood swings
egad! I heard he burned down Benny’s Boatyard.
Ok, ok, she was a five
or six, at
least
but didn’t launch a thousand ships, agreed?
Tiki lights color
the darkish room,
meant for drinking,
not dining.
She saunters in,
glitter on her face,
heels on her shoes,
nothing else
but a lewd smile.
Jazz music amplifies,
background and
foreground.
Curves ample and
glorious intoxicate me.
She selects a
martini glass
from the vintage bar.
She bends down to
the hardwood floor,
positioning
the crystal chalice
in its customary place.
She squats over it,
neon toenails visible
through platforms that
support voluptuousness
divine.
Shimmering eyes
leer at me,
my vermouth and
olive at the ready.
Her fingers
massage her clitoris,
our eyes locked,
our mouths speechless.
Until her hips writhe.
Until her lips open.
Whimpers wax
moans wax
screams.
Torrents wave.
The gash gushes.
Sated, she stands
unsteadily, handing me
the brimming glass,
ready to be cocktailed.
Happiest of hours.
Effluence imbibed.
I thirst no more.
In the AM
her message
is, ‘You
fucker
never call
my house
again.’ By
quitting time
words slurred
her newborns
were screaming
in the background
and she was
leaving voice
messages pleading
for him to call
home it’s a real
fucking emergency
Come,
hear us now
sing you songs
of truth (and woe)
‘cross the seventh divide,
the salves and stirrers
of blood
and breasts
that ride the flaming cold
of void
and harpies’ breath,
wrapping icy tongues
‘round gnarl and knot
of stiff, blackened fingertips.
Take hold of hands
(and ponderances upon lips)
thorny in their grip
and snap the bones
(How the warmth of flesh
brings longing
for days of Summer—
a sweet ache)
and listen
to the symphony bleed.
Seize these rings
(of mettle and fire) and
attend
to the rattle and hum
of imprisoned shells (and shadows),
separate
but a part,
with dirges and prophecies—
hot and fecund—
that disturb the white silence
of Oblivion’s hellish sleep.
How sweet—
ephemeral—
the melody (the melancholy)
until the breaks—and
words—run
dry.
***
Originally published in The Opiate
Horror Sleaze Trash 