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

Happened 

the sex with her 
was the best I ever had
man,
it was so good
Her furious face
when she grabbed
and squeezed
my squirting cock
into 
her wide open
mouth
sent me
under the caress
of the moth-white spider-thought
curtains
out the open window
into the hot wafting breeze
shooting far into the stars
deep into the blue grape
licked Summer

Whatever happened to
You?

I sometimes think 
all the years of many women
have been my way of trying to move on
where I’ve known
I can’t

You came to me in the midst of a bad dream
last night
I don’t know what was said 
but I saw again
the fawn drops of your almost child-like eyes
I held so precious
and smelled the baked Texas cool dough of your soaped skin
and found you again resting in my heart as I woke up

3:43 a.m. 
I am awake

Now

I am alive
perhaps
while you are 
at rest

I’m Afraid of Monsters

You have a beautiful singing voice,
but I can’t hear you over the screaming.
This is not theatrical-
these are gigantic women that rape men
of their emotions-
and gigantic men-
men as large as couches-
they devour women-
swallow them whole
like the goa
of ambitious pythonesque
middleclass monsters
out for a bit of fun.
They killed your parents.
They ate the titan girls.
They killed their own children-
at least according to gossip…
at least according to the wolves.
But who can trust those old whores?
They run with hawks
that see everything
but feel nothing.
Good god-
what a dream!
What is this fear of nightmares?
And you can’t even breathe 
with your dusty lungs
full of ants,
and termites,
full of fears 
you can no longer express,
because the child in you
was eaten alive
by a Medusa
driving around
in a beautiful new car-
Hallelujah!

How proud they sit
in their rusty cages-
the dogs with their 
cancerous fleas
have been locked
in with the lions.
These are not 
the brazen beasts from fairy tales-
lies to make children sleep well.
No- these are putrid
down to dirt earth snakes-
white eyed,
no slit
for the trusting-
no heart for the loving-
no warmth for the soul.

These are nightmares incarnate.
You’re not afraid 
because you love them.
You adore the spiny worms
in the ground
that eat your children
in their practice coffins.
They bundle like infant weasels
waiting like buffets
for creatures
of very little wit
but very large ambitions.

Are you uncomfortable with all of this?
These are the monsters that you love.
They eat your parts when you sleep
and you don’t say a fucking word
because these creatures…
they take care of you.

You are the pet of dead-eyed apes
with the brains of frog kings
and the guts of stray insects
that feed birds too fat to fly,
and speak to you in your nightmares-
and tell you how much they miss you-
how much they miss looking into your eyes.

Dirty Books

At least we got the Bible out of the schools,
all that violence and vulgarity
no better for elementary school kids
than the so-called danger of LGBTQ books.

Davis County’s always had its problems,
standing out even in a state as white as Utah,
widespread racial harassment throughout
the school district, hundreds of complaints
simply ignored by the local authorities.

A few years back, a school-bus driver 
slammed the doors
on a biracial kid’s backpack,
dragging him along a few hundred feet.

So I was glad when one of the parents
leveraged the new law aimed at LGBTQ authors
to complain about the “pornographic content”
of the Bible, to get that “sacred text” banned, too.

Of course, they established a “committee”
to review the request, 
all that filth in “Song of Songs”
about his sister’s vagina tasting like wine,
her breasts being “pleasing” to him,
the part in Numbers about raping a three-year-old girl.

Finally, the committee agreed the Bible
was a “challenging read” for children,
best taught and discussed in the home.
The best part? Watching my neighbor,
that smug, hypocritical bigot,
fuss and fume about how the country
was going to hell.

The Ranch

We’re watching late night comedy
Undressed like animals
Woody slides the coke tray out from under the couch
Neil working the swivel-recliner
Upndown
Backnforth
Roundnround
Cold frosty bottles in a brown paper QFC shopping bag on the coffee table
Becca can’t keep still with my boxer shorts stuffed in her mouth
I puffing albuterol nebulizer
Paired with bong tokes 
Neil jokes about the blood of Christian children
He uses instead of bong water 
Woody’s back pain following him from the Wing Stop
Where we’d just pulled a job
It was Becca’s idea
Sometimes she had one
Like a light bulb in an attic
It looks like she wants to say something 
I yank the shorts out
Take your time says Neil we got all night
Little do I know that while I am at work Neil and Woody strap her down to the coffee table and take turns objectifying her body
Woody and Neil
Lumbermen of imminent GenPop video games
I think, Becca starts her eyes wide with speed I forgot my cigarettes at Wing Stop!
Give her something to suck on Ivan, if you can find it Woody chortles
Maybe you left ‘em in the safe we just emptied at gunpoint Neil points out
You think? Becca pipes incredulously
She has one little dainty white sock on while wiping her armpit with the other
I stand up
I sit down
I stand up
I sit down
I stand up
Willya fuckin’ quit that lvan you freak you’re freaking me out yells Woody
I sit
Tufts of cat hair adrift
Somebody needs to clean up after that fucking cat I proclaim
Becca’s baby blues startled, head darting about
My kitten! Where’s my little baby kitty?
Between your not-so-little legs Woody jokes
Comedy punctuated by commercials for insurance against tragedy 
Becca pokes me
Gimme a smoke Eye
She wants a smoke Eye mimics Woody
Give her a smoke Eye parrots Neil
I still wearing my rubberized dead president mask
Fuck all of you 
I got an agenda
Let’s split that stash so I can take this mounting phallus and stick it in Becca before the world ends
They’re used to my scat
My scandalous
Scatalogic
They indulge in it
Even revel 
I can’t phase them 
Woody snorts a chub, chugs a frosty
Starts waving his limp baton around like a schizoid Viennese conductor 
Didja hear him Neil? Whip out that stash
Neil stunned, frazzled
Fantasizing about prenatal Jesus
How to reverse the Resurrection 
Woody like a field marshal of the Lower Rhine 
Brandishing his deflated pizzle in circular motions 
A man in charge
Despite palsied rats running his spinal column
Upndown
We’re flush
From the rush of crime and chemical intake
Frosty bottles
Cold skin like Japanese porcelain on a mist-shrouded morning after the flattening of Hiroshima
We got the shivers 
The fidgets
Wary of sirens slashing apart the sky
Random phones ringing
Angels burned at the stake
Woody’s wee willy flopping like a wet sock puppet
I explode
Damn it to hell you morons I demand my cut this instant!
Becca prods
Becca’s got issues
Becca’s got needs
Becca wants her membranes stimulated
Olfactory
Pulmonary 
Anally
Let’s take a shower Eye
Let’s do Jäeger bombs
Let’s do a line
Light my smoke willya
Rub my back
My feet
Pull my hair, slap my ass
Make me one of those omelettes you make
Becca twists around
Doesn’t he make the best omelettes?
Becca talking to the wall again 
Seeing her friend Melissa again
Melissa the bar slut everyone wants a piece of
A cute fat young thing
Who’d suck you off for a double vodka cran
Until the night she got super drunk at a party on a boat and fell overboard 
Nobody even noticed she was gone til the next day when her body was discovered floating face down in Shilshole Bay
There was a wake for Melissa at Wing Stop
On Taco Tuesday
Becca accuses me of lusting after Melissa’s fat stinky fanny
Is that any way to honor the deceased I wonder aloud
Admit it Eye! You want that ass! Everybody does! You’re no different! Fucking men!
Too true Woody agrees
She did like dick Neil adds as he flops back down on the squeaky recliner
Empty-handed
Any motive for rising in the first place forgotten 
Must’ve been days later maybe hours but realistically just minutes
Bills rolled
Benjamins
Crispy from the take
Powder mirror passed
Smudged with gas
Gas from ass
Frosties quaffed
But not so chilled now
Neil announcing a need to drain the liz
I enact my agitate-Tourette’s routine
Stand
Sit
Stand
Sit
Stand
In jerky pantomime 
Working on the Stoli now
Surreptitious hits from the kitchen freezer between rapid pacings
I look closer
Between bags of frozen peas and Trader Joe’s wontons
The big fucking bag of cash
Our foolproof stronghold at the Ranch
Top-load freezer in the kitch
Guys not playing with very many cards in the deck here
I re-animate my Myoclonic epileptic routine
Sit up
Stand down
Sit up
Patent that shit
As Neil settles deep into recline
Stretching out
Swivels from the flatscreen 
Accordions spine straight up 
To grab a bottle with a lurch of the chair’s mechanism out of which erupts a
Sudden
Blood-curdling squeal
Like horror movie macabre
What the fuck gasps Woody
Becca practically leaps into my skin 
Neil petrified 
Frozen in space
Spasmodically I sweep into action
Becca caught in my wake like a house in a hurricane 
Woody clutches behind his back
At his spasming sciatica
Neil gone dormant
Catatonic
Shock he’s in shock right, Eye?
Quite observant my love
But you might want to step away for a sec
Why what’s wrong is Neil okay? Should we call a parametric?
Naw
Actually 
I believe this is more a job for the hazmat crew
A what? Omg what’s that smell?
I stoop to lift up the swivel-rocker’s flap of fabric
Sure enough
The cute kitten had covertly crawled into the mechanism
Warm dark and cozy like a womb
Until the shifty weight of Neil returned
Woody flat on his back on the couch as if gunshot
Writhing 
In turmoil
I tease
Can I get ya a beer Woody? A toke? How ‘bout a little railer? Good for what ails ya?
I sing dangerously close to exalt
Woody waves me away grimacing 
Neil inert
Zombified
The rapists
Out of commission 
Becca glued to me like duct tape on an open wound
High time indeed to
Decamp
Vamoose
Skedaddle
All the obsolete terminologies for disappearing
Throw something on girl, any old burlap sack will do
I tug at Woody’s track-suit pockets for the keys to his pickup as he squirms and struggles
As Neil fights petrification
Becca tottering naked as a wasted Venus yet still with one dainty white sock on
Woody fighting back now despite palpable paroxysms of torment
In a grapple of disrobed scarecrows
I yell
Damnit woman we gotta scram! Put some clothes on and in the freezer? There’s a bag with the green! Grab that stash, I’ll be in the truck!
Suddenly my marble effigy of a tart sprouts wings
Keys clenched in a fist I ransack the hall closet
Holes punched through the door
Like every other door at the Ranch
Snag a bloodstained chef’s coat, stiff black leather chaps
Clutching my privates with an old catcher’s mitt
I flee
Out the door and into the black
Becca already tucked in the passenger seat of the truck
How’d she get that fast?
Didja get the goods?
Becca with SpongeBob pajamas on
Her ample anatomy jutting and swimming
Her face streaked with tears
Lamenting her massacred pussycat
I gun the engine which screams like a horse being butchered alive
We tear out of there
I snatch the brown paper sack
Gaze salivating within
Wtf?
At a bag of frozen peas
Becca where the fuck’s the cash?
What? I grabbed the green like you said! Why do we need frozen peas anyway?
I still wearing the dead president’s mask
I try removing it
I tug and yank
But it seems fused to my face
Becca starts laughing 
Frantically 
Idiotically
Maniacally hyena-like
The night speeding with hallucinatory flashbacks
Now you got a dick for a nose!
A dick for a nose
A dick on your face
Adickadadickadadickadadick!!!
Keep laughing wench! I scream
You’re the one with the dead fuckin’ pussy!
Sonny and Cher on the AM radio
John and Yoko on the FM dial
Sid and Nancy dead at the Chelsea
Bonnie and Clyde we are not