Fifteen Minutes

A porn star I’ve never heard of
made the news on one of those niche internet sites
I’d likewise never heard of,
though it probably has legions of subscribers.
Her wife of less than a year divorced her
over Instagram because the porn star
had gone on a drinking binge.

“I told her I had pictures of her,
that I knew she was drinking.
I didn’t really, but she believed me.
She admitted it but had no remorse.
‘I’m not sorry,’ she told me.
Can you believe that?”

The ex sniffed back tears.
“I filed for an annulment.
It shouldn’t take long to finalize.”

The two had splashed their romance over Instagram
a year before, a twenty-first century social media love affair,
and now the public break-up. 

In fact, the ex broke the news to the porn star
in the same Instagram post to her followers:

“I’m sure you’ll see this, Baby,”
she wrote. “I love you with all my heart,
and I really, really hope
that the best works out for you.”

I wiped away a tear from my cheek.
Or had I spilled my coffee?

Dildo-Infested Waters

The beach has been closed again.
Dildo-infested waters according to the sign.
An uncanny likeness bobbing just above the waterline.
Boaters warned to kill their engines before the thrusting wake.
Giant seafaring phalluses that could split you right in two.
A panicked message from the tourism board:
Don’t go in the water!  No lifeguard on duty!
No one has creamed themselves yet,
but it is only a matter a time.

Vampire Hours

I was sitting in Lulu’s bedroom, drinking a hot cup of coffee.
My hands were shaking, and she was nowhere to be found.
Lulu told me that she was going out to buy food for her pet cat.
But it had been an hour since I last heard from her or saw her.
I slowly walked into the closet.
It was a huge closet filled with colorful clothes.
She had all these black vampire dresses.
And she kept cups of red blood next to her shoes.
She drank blood to help her go to sleep.
Her brother, Augustus, told me she bought blood off the internet
from a woman living in a chicken coop.

The bathroom door of Lulu’s house was locked.
Her dad was in the shower humming a tune.
His voice sounded like a bird flying through an alleyway.
I knocked on the door and he sang even louder.
I had to take a shit, my stomach growled and growled.

Lulu’s white cat crawled through the bathroom door.
I placed my cup of hot coffee on the ground and scratched my legs.
“Come here.” I said to the white cat.
“Fuck you.” The cat said to me.
The teeth of this cat were black and dirty.
Smelling like an old mans ears.
I pushed my red lips out and the cat aggressively scratched my cheek.
There was thick blood dripping down my face.
And Lulu was still nowhere to be found.
I sat in front of the bathroom door with a bloody face.
And watched the cat twirl around

The Orgy

Struthonian, from the Latin
struthio (ostrich), to bury one’s head in the ground 
or in our case that Valencian girl’s pussy; 
Jim the Painter was there, and the girls we called the Old Roses 
The Poet, The Banker, the girl from Liège 
obsessed with the architecture in Rohmer films,
Sebastian and Violet, that girl who looked 
like Eva Green, the Lorca scholar whose father 
owned a vineyard in Portugal, that guy who looked like Eva Green,
the guy we nicknamed Gregor —after Samsa 
social climbing like a surrealist, leg over leg over limb 
over labia, Paul with the continental philosophy degree 
parading unabated and half-shirted 
reading Tennessee Williams’ “Sweet Bird of Youth,”
The German, The Confectioner, Gretchen
who peeled off her bikini on playa de Las Arenas 
and said, “How do you know when cantaloupes are ripe?”
Lupé and the hash dealer, the Wild One who made tiger nut
drinks at the cafe in Alboraya —Elaina, Jen, Erin, Joel, Lisa
Kristin opening like an 18th century floral journal,
the red-haired girl we called the fainting countess, 
that guy with the cock as big as the Ritz, peacocks, doves
swans, skylarks, all of us burying in the fullness of delight—
youth, now, a simple foreignness
like a pay phone or cigarette machine 
selling oranges.

Adoring Decay

She would like to believe in alchemy
In progress from putrefaction

The city is a composite of wounds, she thinks
Scar-tissue the chrysalis of rebirth
Accounting for the misery she sees 
Extracting hope from hopelessness

She sees a man praying in McDonald’s
Lips forming silent incantations
For a meal of ersatz offerings

In the queue
Faces like stagnant clay
Pinned beneath the strip lighting

From this Non-place of super-modernity
The obscure mysteries of shadow, dispelled utter
In their place, a moribund permanence
The anomie of abandon 

She flees
Tries to leave behind the sublunary
In search of the promise of decay
Beautiful, natural decay
The withering adoration of time

Instead

She finds only the detritus of the never-ending now
Out beyond the centre and the suburbs
Derelict buildings, faded, retaining
An anonymous integrity
Underpasses, office blocks, factories and bridges
Met with rust-dementia
Dissembling the disassembling 

Yet 

People still live here
Those we’d prefer to believe
Dissembled themselves
Masking their failures as sickness

In their dementia-rusted faces
Living beyond purpose 
She sees only truth
The dead-end destiny of us all

In extracting the hope from hopelessness
There remains only the dissembled lessness
of a disassembled world

DUI

tomorrow the newspaper
will report
what the rest of tonight will entail 
for the guy on the barstool
beside me. 

after plowing through some
mangroves on A1A,
he will blow into the sears
parking lot
with a flat tire.
another driver will then
yank him out of his car
and pin him down on the pavement 
till the police arrive. 

when they ask for his license, 
he will struggle to stand
and offer his credit card instead.
he will then fail all 
roadside sobriety tests
and refuse the breathalyzer.

and when they ask if he understands
his miranda rights
he will tell the officers
his only health problem is bunions
on his feet.

but for now, he is gulping 
carbombs
at the tiki bar and playing the role
of the key west folk hero,
his fat fist wagging, 
his sunburnt face a roasted ham hock 
in the sun.

he turns to me. ‘last time 
I was at this bar I got a blowjob
in the lady’s crapper. I’m tellin
you, I didn’t even know 
the girl. she just pulled me right in.
but it was good.
real
good.”

Light Saber Tooth Tiger

Around and around we go
and where the sex sinks 
stinking nobody
knows

Light strikes the eyes and the body dies
condemned by the unmerciful 

the lies and liars

hard pimps with desolate hands
horrorcore fiends wither the 
flowers of (dark) romance 

twisted, vicious, proud of their
brutality

They make a mockery of their
crude pretensions, grasping infamy

like a snake of rotting garbage.

Who watches the watchmen
asked Juvenal

Who cares to observe
the sizzling nerves of the

System of shocks and terror
(the banality of evil) 
by which a small and errant community merits

Awards

Stoking their fires with the poker of disdain
caught in thorned brambles like Dracula 

Who persecute their brothers and
sisters in arms, casting blame in the name of

Clout 

Who rout the disabled, unable to refrain
from the bloody harmonic sustain of 

hypocritical attacks 
deranged and psychotic 

without knowledge of truth 
conspiring behind the backs of 
the 

innocent
to ruin them

In a parallel dimension the
saber toothed tiger, also known as Smilodon,

Still rules as apex predator
with its undead yawn 

On another timeline the unread signs of decay 
adjust in split second increments 

expanding viral filaments at the scale of deep time
A sublime irony spreads in the chill mind like a widening blood stain

Like a Cheshire cat smile
flash frozen on the vile 

chipped away faces of the traitors 

In Dante they are encased in the 
Ninth circle jerk of Hell

With Lucifer who 
gnaws with the delicacy of a 
gore-mand upon their

Skulls 

Oh dear they can’t get up
whatever’s to be done 
for the deleted
for the culled 

But so much for preamble…punk rock, let’s go, ramble onwards down the path of the main theme, the dark meat of our 

Conversation 

the
fate of that prehistoric elite, a tiger

Not Blake’s
(spelled differently)

That squats in the tar
like a spider

This one, its jaws distended like 
the puffed body of a 

Corpse which
lies 

in a body farm for forensic scholars to
discover

Is a lot like yours, or any other

Mortal 

The saber tooth
tiger 

Was 
remained 
was 
blamed for
many a cruel 

death by 
subordinate

animals whose final 

Breath it caught

Their struggle was for nought 
as they disappeared beneath the 

Surface of the hot and fart bubbling
knot of 

The eaters of the eaten
arrested at the savage state of

Kittenhood 

Observers of La Brea, tourists from all over 
come to watch the

Stilling of the clock hands 
the shroud of time falling on the

Remains of the 
mighty foe of 

all on whom the 
sun shines:

Death the all-destroyer 

With its jaws still firmly ensconced
in a final risible frenzy 

in the flesh of their victims, now scraped free of 
their preserved skeletons
by history 

The Smilodon 
sank just as far is

Just as far gone 
as 

They. 

Can moral lessons be
extracted from this

Bone rich matrix?

Have we learned a 
God damn 

Thing from the Salem 
witch trials?

Apparently not
we continue to have shot
our final wad

Imperious perpetration of foul
deeds in the name of 
a loving 

God 

Meanwhile, Blake’s tyger runs like a bloodstream through
our dark dreams 

And forever screams of the 
decadent and depraved

will fold like drapery
piled before the throne

Of Judgement Day.

The Thirty-Eighth Parallel

She told me about her friend
who lied about his age (thirty-eight).
But the age misgiving wasn’t her hangup,
it was the fact that he couldn’t kiss.
She tried three times wondering,
“What was he doing all his life?”

She told me this over a cup of coffee
And I listened intently. 
I asked if he’s just shy, she shot that down:
“I stated earlier, he showed me everything,”
as she gave two thumbs up and a wink.

I replied, “But was his conversation any good?”
She shot that down as well: “I didn’t 
keep him around for the conversation.”

I mentioned my friend from Missouri,
who also told me she was thirty-eight.
Plus, she didn’t tell me about the kids
and husband till many months later.

I laughed about it even mentioning how
I think she is my long-lost twin sister.
We even bought the same t-shirts.
Also, she’s tall and crazy.

We spent several more minutes 
chatting about our travels, family, and
 spouses as she announces: 
“I’ve been faithful.” 

She goes on to state how men 
can’t be faithful. I countered.
But she smirked and looked away. 

We sat for a few minutes silent while
she waited for me to flinch, keeping her
eyes above the brim fixated on my thoughts.
Our coffees ran low matching the exchange. 
It was time to meander back. 

I went inside to drop off the dishes. 
She stepped across the street to take pics.
I watched the wind gliding over her entirety, 
as her hair tussled behind and danced with
the looseness of her coat.

The light shaded, highlighted, traced the folds 
of her clothes and intent expression. 
Her skin was quiet, but glowing gamma rays. 

I wanted to tell her that the pics she sent me
didn’t remotely do her justice, and I wanted to see
How I rated compared to her three times
‘You’re Out’ dumped (not thirty-eight) boyfriend.

Maybe I’ll walk over and place a hand 
on her waist, or is it both hands – or should I 
place one hand on her shoulder? Or better yet,
I’ll just ask if it’s ok. I heard that works.
She noticed me watching, and signals me 
to cross. 

It’s go-time.

I stepped over the separating double yellow bands 
onto the sidewalk where she held ground.

She asked what’s the name of this street. 
I replied, “It might be the 38^th parallel.”

I looked at her and smiled. Before I could
Ask, launch forth, or lean in she reminded me:
“Hey don’t forget to take some pictures.
That was what you told her you were doing today.
Here’s one.” 

She pointed to the sign.
Under, Stop, someone wrote:
Collaborate and Listen.

a tuesday night in the sticks

a glitter bomb 
to lighten the 
mood

a tub filled with 
blood, alcohol 
and stained 
panties

must be a tuesday 
night in the sticks

all the poets 
drinking the cheap 
grocery store booze 
and one sophisticated 
motherfucker in the 
corner with a bottle 
of scotch

they like to place 
bets on horse races 
and japanese baseball 
games

someone lets a fart go
and clears the room

whispers abound on 
how he will need to 
change quickly

in more ways than one

time is a flat, drum circle

I’ve reached an age
where I can look back on my life
and remember a time
when the Oliver Stone directed
Jim Morrison biopic
The Doors was not considered a comedy.

I saw it opening night
in a theater in Lansing, Illinois.
I took a girl from the high school
sociology class we shared.
she enjoyed the movie well enough
and she liked me,
but I was too dumb to realize.

I walked out of that theater
fundamentally changed.
I knew I needed to procure
a pair of black leather pants
and a conch belt.
I needed to study Nietzsche
and learn to write poetry.
I wanted to be a shaman
and a lizard king
and lead a pack of dopers
in a frenzied drum circle.
except I had no rhythm.
I was born into tone deafness.
leather britches were prohibitively expensive,
and I never met anyone
of First Nation heritage
kind enough to loan me their soul.

doing drugs was relatively easy,
as simple as getting on people’s nerves
by continually spouting goofy non sequiturs.
as a result, women maintained
a respectful distance.
I bought an anole lizard in a little cage,
but it soon escaped.

my hair fell out
before it could really grow out.
Nietzsche didn’t do it for me.
my attempts to start a religion failed.
I could write poetry,
more narrative than lyrical.
when the words flowed
I felt a spirit move within me,
more Polish than Cherokee
harboring an aversion to rhyme
and hippie drum circles.