His Ghost has a Fine Ass but I Still Won’t Let it Move Through Me…

Yeah, I may still feel a spark of a spark
of a spark on Valentine’s 
And I may let two fingers put on spiked heels
and go walkin’ downtown, 
to remind me the pain of Cupid’s arrow 
And just how long it takes to crawl back up
from the depths of Hell
Oh yeah, I may still see the shape 
of him dancin’ around me once a year
But that doesn’t mean

his fine ghost ass has permission 
to treat this construction site like his graveyard
The zone fee is a heavy one, better know, 
I’ll write that ticket

I’m a work is progress; my boo-ridden heart
stitched up nicely by the stars,
and he’s a lost soul who lives for the haunting
aspect of Life. We are too different

Of course, I know he’d have me back 
on the aloof loop of wandering aimlessly;
to be a side boo,
a peek-a-boo,
his sweet, sweet boo-berry icing 
on the cake he always has and eats too
But I already buried that cake

Only underworldly things still try to tell 
half-truths on a full moon,
so I had to put him in his place
And now,
I have day visions of colorful worms
that I sometimes mistake for his face

Fuck Haikus II

My hunger is rare
Pearl divers plunge in the sea
Thick cum on my tongue

How big is too big?
The waves rush into a cave
Your cock pushes deep

Kneeling is pure joy
Hot wind bends the tallest reeds
My mouth is open. 

The bull mounts the cow
Dragon flies over the pond
Your cock makes me moo.

I finger my cunt
My dog’s vulva has swollen
Two bitches in heat.

Your palm filled with cum
Dew is heavy on the grass
I lick it all up

Cum blesses my face
Showers drip down the windows 
Your cock is my God.

like she had done this before

had me one of those nights out 
drinking gin and i ran into a stripper 
with a cast on her right hand

i told her i’m sure the other bitch 
looks worse

she laughed, we went into a bar 
and had a few drinks

since i was drinking gin, the dirty 
part of my imagination was running 
the show

i asked her if she was a squirter?
she smiled and said yeah

i said i’ll give you $100 if you let me 
watch you get your clit excited and squirt
all over my face, $50 extra if you get it 
in my mouth

like a clown? she asked

yes, like a clown

we went to the bathroom and she hovered 
over the toilet like she had done this before

she got it going rather quickly and told me
to squat like a catcher

ooh, she knows sports, i might have to marry 
her

she exploded, first getting it on my eyebrows
before getting a really good stream into my mouth

i handed her $150 as she gave me some toilet 
paper to wipe my face with

i refused it

i have this long goatee for a reason

we’ve been together for a few months now

Love Gang 

All the Teddy Boys say Florence is the squeeze 
     and I see Ronnie reading a book of poems
at the hot dog stand on Rockaway Beach.
The men, gunning fast trucks
and all the sad captains pulled thro’ the pier.
Let’s sing switchblade operas and keep outrageous diaries.
Let’s walk mean streets with weighted leather belts 
drink rum and Cola in a Dixie Cup
suffer on and on and on 
     like a whip of red cake faltering in the sun.  

O, Ronnie —did you book a rocket to Russia
     pill heaven with the angels in chains? 
Our love was fast and simple. 
Now my drainpipe trousers pool 
with blood and you’re still on the move. 
I wanna smash cheap crockery. 
I wanna drink at the Bird and Brat, cry oof 
like a gun dropped, watch suicides from the Tappan Zee.
What happens next 
     is everything and mist.  

when you wake up

nocturnal goings on
like thunder dreams of
a dark, dank hunger,
like when the sperm
hits the back of your 
throat, you blink &
swallow, like bitter
tendrils of ghostly hands
forcing you apart, like
the boogeyman hiding
in the eternal closet,
waiting & wanting  
you & me too,
   us,
         i,
   me,
knowing he’ll wait
& strike, tearing
& gnashing in a
horrorland violence
of murderscene, 
& flimsy, going
too hard & fast
nomore
life
like a giant
jagged hole
art dreams
in the head,
       your head,
until it hurts
    & you wake
        you wake
        you wake
to sweatsoaked
vision of cum
dried gash, having
black bush in the
hand worth two
birds at least,
panting & heaving
               &
vowing and knowing

***

Originally published in Driver’s Side Airbag

Everything’s happening just as it should 

Everything’s happening just as it should 
with hateful lucidity
& cringing coherence
& perpetual moments
of vile clarity

everything that falls apart
must face its own collapse 
every being that brings destruction 
must witness what it’s wrought 
the sublime arousal
the culmination 
of every booming vision 

the gripping hand
the stacked odds
the dubious dyslexia 
& maddening myopia
that needfully bends 
to conservative pegs

We slough ourselves down
& slime ourselves open
knowing no better
’cause better is beyond
the frittered 
& fruitless ken 
of our decimated soil 

All we are 
is all we can possibly do
& doing is deaf & dumb 
a dead-end death drive
up an endless slope
but still we flail
fellating the cock of fate 
licking Sisyphus’ calloused sole
maybe a mosquito on Achilles’ balls
in final measure 
a laughing stock 
in our masters’ cannibal soup

Pussy Flambé

Stand back, for real,
she warns
You might get your 
eyebrows singed.
I’d heard the rumor.
Some miracles need to be
witnessed firsthand
A woman scorned sure but 
a pussy that could scorch?
Granted, I’d been burned 
in past relationships but this…
this transcended love, transcended sex
this was magic. 
Primitive, tribal, no fucking CGI.
As the music played, we held our drinks high in tribute.
Let there be Light, motherfucker.
And there was – an orgasm of flame.
I felt changed, improved, better
still I pitied and applauded
her lovers, easy to spot
by their 3rd degree burns.

The Only Path

Don’t beat yourself up
too much about it, kid.

Sure, you’re not everything 
you thought you’d be 

but that’s how it is 
for most of us.

All those people 
you’ve  disappointed 

they probably had it coming.    

Give yourself some days of silence,
forget to hustle for a while.

Understand the universe 
will forget you and everything 
you have and haven’t done.

Find some peace in this
and sleep, guiltlessly,

and then get up 
whenever it is 

you feel like 
getting up

and do something beautiful
and useless

because that’s the only 
path to grace.

the knuckle-headed son conundrum

the latest goat path my son has investigated
on his never-ending quest for gainful employment
has led him to the Waffle House, an isolated
oasis of shitty food on the south end of town.
out here on the perimeter of desperate sustenance,
meager resumes mean nothing to management.
they hired him to their wait staff following a five
minute interview comprised of nothing more than
shrugs, meaningful grunts, and zero eye contact.

I’m skeptical of the boy’s ability to last the
length of a shift slinging hash and cheese steak.
the knuckle-headed son conundrum defines
every interaction we share. I can’t accept the
social limitations he has placed upon himself.
I want him to find his happiness. I just don’t want
that happiness to be lying on his bed, playing
military strategy games on his laptop, subsisting
on a diet of chicken nuggets and scrambled eggs.

upon receiving the news of his latest occupational
adventure, I challenge him to show me how he
would go about taking a patron’s breakfast order.
“you like to roleplay with your dungeon and dragons
buddies, roleplay with your father, except instead
of pretending you’re a dwarven barbarian with a lisp,
you’re a Waffle House waiter and I’m a jangling
meth addict with a hankering for omelets and
eight dollars in assorted change in my pockets.

my son wavers, self-confidence has never been his
forte, despite having a farther of Herculean proportions.
finally, he squeaks out an ineffectual “hello,
welcome to Waffle House, can I take your order?”
and I scream GIVE ME THE BREAKFAST PLATTER
RIGHT NOW, MOTHERFUCKER! RIGHT NOW!
WHERE’S MY COFFEE? YOU GOT THREE SECONDS
TO GET ONE COFFEE, TWO CREAMS AND SIX
SUGARS BEFORE I TORCH THIS MOTHERFUCKER.

the boy seems shook by this exchange, and I can
only shake my head, sadly, and point out he doesn’t
even know how to fight which is a Waffle House
prerequisite since every other exchange will be
similar to the one we just played out in the kitchen.
anyway, lots of luck, I offer him, he’ll do just fine, though
every time I send him to the grocery store for three items,
he’s lucky to return with two, one of them invariably wrong.

Black Motorbikes

Was it too much too soon 
all the racing against impermanence 
on the back of black motorbikes…  
You had the feeling 
it was going to be an odd year
and it’s true 
all the girls at the Peppermint Lounge
have matching beehives.
Who wants a fresh take on modern love 
when you can draw Rimbaud’s face on a windowpane. 
There was fun to be had 
and I stabbed myself in the heart,
built a shrine over the hole 
whilst yet to prove  
I can lick the heat off your body. 
We differed with the classics 
and Jessica says karate is as bitchin’ as ever in the Valley. 
We’d go west but you’d burn down the scenery.
Let’s breathe close to the knives, you say 
Let’s smoke a cigar 
with what’s left of living.