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.

Fuck Haikus

Sun rises early.
HIs hard cock enters my cunt
my smile greets the light.

Hard deep and fine
I am glad his cock is mine
Puss purrs on the bed.

Cloud covers the sun
A farmer is ploughing field 
Hard cock breaks my will.

My ancient house creaks
His cock pushes me to scream
Puss perks up her ears.

Cunt or Ass or throat
The choice of venue is mine
The moon hides her face.

Bitch is lovely to be
My leash is silver and light
A dog is waiting.

California Boyfriend

She said she was from London
slept and woke in the West End
I said if it pleases her pretty scarlet heart
I’ll be your California boyfriend
my heart burns like the Laurel Canyon hills
turns cold as the Santa Barbara waves
she said tell it to me softly
like the Hollywood Forever graves

I said this one died from heroin
this one died from cocaine
and this girl inhaled monoxide from her runnling car
so she didn’t feel any pain

California boyfriend
it’s all make believe
it’s not intentional
you’re not being deceived
we’re just not three dimensional

She said she came from the Deep South
the swamps sang lullabies to her in bed
I said if it pleases your pretty crimson heart
I’ll be your California boyfriend
I’m like the rolling hills of San Francisco Bay
and planetary mystery like Joshua Tree
she said tell it to me softly
why California’s the national capital of mystery

I said we kill all our history
we can be anybody you want to us to be
I’ll always be your California boyfriend
and nothing’s ever real, nothing’s ever real

California boyfriend
it’s all make believe
it’s not intentional
you’re not being deceived
we’re just not three dimensional

Sex Doll Bakery

Word travels fast as bullet trains 
and hungry appetites flock to the Sex Doll Bakery,
aptly named for the 55 ft. blow up doll
mounted to the roof, so that when the customers
enter they look up at the giant gash,
feel truly inside with all those ovens going 
before the sun: cookies and croissants, date squares, Danishes
with fruit holes in the center, assorted donunts,
designer sheet cakes made to order…
a powdered sugar lust over everything,
icing fingers licked to twitching horndog oblivion,
toes curled in the shoes like unseen cream pies,
no wonder the long lines, that disposable income
throwing itself at everything; even the boys in blue 
are regulars, no crime in that!  Deep inside those 
pink throbbing walls that seem to know when
you are coming.

Chlorine

My sister’s vagina
Comes alive
Underwater,
In the shallow end
Of our swimming pool.
The water’s not cloudy.
I can see everything
Push out between the ‘v’
Of Dad’s fingers:
The snub
Beak of clitoris
Unhooded
At the apex of yawning pink
Set in rubbery outer lips.
Dad’s on the second step, my sister on his lap.
I’m wearing my new swim-mask.
His other hand is spread out like a starfish on my head.
My sister’s legs
Outside my father’s legs,
The strip of turquoise and white swimsuit
Bunched and pulled aside
Grooves her skin where hip meets thigh.
I’ve got a snorkel
That came with the mask,
But I forget to breathe.
I kick and try to swim away,
But Dad clamps down on the back of my neck.
I’m counting hairs on his middle finger
When a speck of air
Clinging to one crinkly inner lip detaches
And zigzags to the surface.
His fingernails
Are squarish, long, and thick.
I’m wondering why he doesn’t cut them,
And why
His fingers don’t appear orange,
Like he’s been eating cheese puffs from a can,
When he begins to stroke.
I’m worried his fingernail will tear
My sister’s delicate-looking skin.
The tip of his finger inside,
My sister’s feet
Arch on the bottom step
As she rotates her hips.
I can’t tell if his finger making circles
Makes her hips
Move in circles, or vice versa.
His finger slips
Almost out, back in.
I’m breathing
Hard and biting down
Hard on the molded rubber projections
Of the snorkel’s mouthpiece.
I taste blood where the flange scrapes my gums.

TOP TEN REASONS FOR PICKING UP CHICKS AT AA MEETINGS

TEN

Most of them are single. Or divorced.
For the usual variety of predictable reasons.

NINE

You share previous interests in common.

EIGHT

Chances are they’ve never practiced
Safe sex.

SEVEN

Free coffee.

SIX

Smoker tolerant.

FIVE

Don’t need to be taught
Rules of co-dependency.

FOUR

Mutual 2AM sugar cravings
Only to be satisfied by a pint each
Of Cherry Garcia.

THREE

No family baggage,
Because neither set of relatives
Have spoken to us for years.

TWO

Won’t be so lonely during relapses.

And our top reason for picking up chicks at AA meetings–

ONE

At this point,
They really don’t expect
To do better than you.

Oracle of the Lollipop

Dodona’s vagina spoke like an oracle
Because it said very true and exact things
When Delfos sucked her Lollipop
That came out from between her thighs
Not admitting discussion about its acidic taste.
Me, Apollo, like our friends
Zeus, Jupiter, Libyan and Alexander the Great
Who knew the oral forms of Love
We considered the Vagina divine
That is why, in angelic salutation
We addressed her, Dodona
Before making the lace
Which forms the thread of sperm by itself
At the time of fucking now in one way
Now in another
In these terms:
-One ass, Oracle, we address the divinity
Of your Mount of Venus and its Lollipop
To search among its hairs
An answer to our elevated excitement
And if it is worth making Love
In such a crude world
Where the people who exercise power
Are rich people and evil serial killers
Who give to women
As they themselves say: Stick and Stay Stiff.
And if it is better to throw on them
(Your Mount of Venus and Lollipop)
Our spermatic snows
Our hailstones and winds from the ass
Sitting on Vagina
Making your whole body a lordship
For, later, county
And finally carnal principality.
With style and oratorical language
Dodona spoke to us:
-The answer is in the Lollipop.
Suck it with eloquence
Until its acidity surrounds your neck
Like a scarf or compress
Of the ceremonies of the ass.
You are praying for the celestial 
Or terrestrial Lollipop
And your hanging penis
Like a fish from the tropical seas
Is worthy of the crystalline sphere
Of each one of the female vaginas
As it is said in an orbicular way
Round or circular
In ancient and modern pornography
That animates our walks
For life.

Orgasm Gap

Newspaper headlines make me horny.
I haven’t even finished my coffee when I learn
that “The ‘Orgasm Gap’ Isn’t Going Away for Straight Women”

and at first, I heave a sigh of relief (heaving sighs just one of my best
erotic techniques), but after further manual stimulation,
I realize that however true – statistically,  that is – a headline

like that begs a stout and throbbing response, me talking here
not about what you might think, but in reference to a public
and civic-spirited perambulation with a sign

offering “free orgasms.” A gap is invitation to provide. 
All that emptiness inflames the spirit 
of civic generosity that spills from my tongue,

or wants to, giving guy that I am,
milkman for orgasm drought relief at any passing
or urgent, insistent, five-alarm, doorbell-ringing

opportunity. Johnny Applesauce, at your cervix.
Let me suggest a “Howl-0-Ween” for she and he, 
me going door-to-door with my overflowing

bag of headboard-banging treats. Headlines such as that 
always insinuate imbalance, but water always levels
itself, given time and proper topography, so refrain,

por favor, from castigating my virtue as craven self-interest, 
lest you offer first a little evidence that male partners of orgasm-gappers 
haven’t tried our best, perhaps even for hours, and finally 

given up in the interest of a good night’s sleep, a pleasure
enjoyed more frequently by women, at least heterosexual
partners of men who lie awake at 3 a.m. wondering

how someone of her gender can sleep at all with only two or three
orgasms while he, given physiology and such, declines 
in aging torpor to savor his lone climax, limited by age 

and diminished recuperative powers, modern chemistry 
notwithstanding, one of two orgasms to which he is entitled monthly
by the ravages of time and pneumatic malfeasance,

lying in the dark and wondering why his tongue 
has yet to detumesce, and what he has to do
to earn an analog for her blessed snoring sleep.

Relief

Friday reaches for Saturday
like a hand around a throat
while we drink together
inside one darkness or another
lying on bed, bottle between us
like a buoy in the gloom,
boredom gradually taking over
the left side of my brain,
bad memories start to swell up
like a tumor
when she gets up suddenly
switches the light on
and tap dances like a lovable moron,
her breasts going up and down,
such a sight to see, I tell you–
Imagine me in a red dress, she says
red lipstick and expensive earrings
and a diamond necklace that’s killed
more people than Christianity–
wouldn’t that be grand?

I remember how she cried
one night I blew through
both her windows with my fists,
how she chased me down the road
asking for forgiveness,
her bare feet on the asphalt
when I leaned against a car,
my hands dripping blood all over
my pants and shoes
and looked at her saddened face, all teary and panicked
and I realised there’s something wrong with me
always deciding against joy
always hurting souls that deserve better

That night I poured Jim Beam
on my wounds under her kind and caring eyes,
her trembling hand gripping the side of my shirt
and when I picked up the shards of glass from the floor
wearing nothing but shoes and a pierced underwear
she started laughing suddenly
and pointed at my crotch
and I looked down to see my balls
spilling through the hole.

So when she lies on the bed again,
after switching the light off
I tell her that expensive things
on such an authentic soul
can only darken the glow
in this terrible life where we have to do
indecent things to live decently
and in this darkness, in this black room
something in me stirs, something good
that laughs and cares
as her cold feet rub against mine
underneath the covers
I am almost completely certain
I’m happy.

I can feel you smiling in the dark, she says–
I can feel you staring.

***

Previously published on Your One Phone Call