fent-colored clowns

when us 80s and 90s kids
were comin up
it was all dare
don’t take candy from strangers
now it’s all rainbow fentanyl 
a deliberate effort 
by drug traffickers 
to drive addiction 
in kids 
and young adults 
dear dea, didn’t catch
american gangster
it’s been a while
for me personally
but it’s made that way 
for the scene 
the brand
at least 
that was the way 
with all our mdma 
white dolphins
pink camels
purple doublestack shamrocks
not to specifically
target children
not that the sight
of such lively branded pills
doesn’t increase
their dreamy attraction
I mean 
what american child
would not be intrigued
by the fun promise
of any pill
to make one happy?
our brain candy
is our disease 
everyone else is selling it 
so why not the ‘cartels’
as if every pill maker is mexican
but there’s no clowning about 
110,000 ods on the wall 
of mt. rushmore 
one pill can kill 
three grains of sand
in a tipped hourglass
and group texts
of friends relay 
a tale of just one 
touch killing a kid
or cop 
a rumor ringling
bros barnum & bailey’s  
into urban myth
like 90s hiv on needles 
in change dispensers 
or movie seats
our panic 
the greatest show
on earth
from which we 
can never od
but it all chutes 
down to playgrounds
the thrill 
of the ladder
and that 
the saddest
souls
amongst us 
won’t be cured
not even with hugs
it’s a street circus
milton bradleying
the neighborhood
just like heroin 
in the sixities 
on black blocks
so pull
your stool
up to the new
shooting gallery
and bet on the blue
bear hanging alone
from the heavens
shiny eyes lips
stilled
in a smile
odds are
better
than ever 

Making a Career Online

Before, prostitutes roamed the streets
Looking for clients
Or they hung around industrial parks
Suspension bridges, crossroads
Or around churches or cathedrals
Where I had the experience of some
Who followed me, grabbed my jacket
And said demandingly:
-Don’t deny me, pal
I’ve got a hen for the chicken for cheap.
Today they advertise online
Or they write you emails begging for a good husband
With email addresses faker
Than counterfeit money
Or telling you they studied at Catholic schools
Or universities.
Circling the cathedral nine times
Or the church closest to my house
To some I replied:
-Stay put, whore.
Stay with God.
With Him you’ll be safe.
Some of them would reply:
-I don’t want any god
But a good man to get me pregnant
In this foreign land.
I want you to give me what’s mine
And not just any old pigeon.
This week I’ve received a ton of emails
With the sole intention of scamming me
Using the looking for a “fascinating boyfriend
Or husband” method
With deceptive reasons
Accompanied by photos of beautiful women
Top-notch, the best
Some showing their privates.
Since I still have the urge
To “let loose”
I’ve arranged to meet one of them by the statue
Of the Bear and the Strawberry Tree
In Puerta del Sol, Madrid
Which, judging by the photo, is gorgeous
Whose name is Julia, a Claudia’s friend
From a Friends of the University association.
We’ve arranged to recognize each other
By her exclaiming “Giddy-up” 
And me saying “Donkey.”
When I got to the statue
Some woman said: “Giddy-up!”
I exclaimed: “Donkey!”
Seeing a worn-out, old lady
While gesturing with her hand
And who startled me.
“What a rip-off!” I thought,
Saying to myself:
-You deserve it for believing in scams again.
When she asked me:
-Who is this handsome donkey
That I see in my stable every day?
I turned to leave
But not before saying to her:
-Grandma, I’m sorry, you whore.
I don’t see you on my peg.

Afraid to Google Myself

I haven’t done so in years

I feel as if others are doing it,
they are probably are

They see that I am a writer

Okay

You wrote that,
those are books you published?

All the stuff you wrote over the years 

Something from 2006,
something from  2012

Oh, I am not that person anymore

And there you are, the writer,
that they will figure out

Some thoughts laid out for the world,
labeled an author with a name
attached to it 

I am not that person anymore
and don’t want to be

Perhaps all you need to know is that
I am this person standing in front
of you with a heart and brain

Thoughts and blood and insecurities
and truth or whatever seems to change 
every few years 

As I read something from back then,
somehow I have forgot

I am amazed reading
my old stuff sometimes,
wondering who wrote that stuff.

Toxophilite

The bowman’s shot is true
though his intentions might be false
Robin hoodwinked me out of my trousers
painting a bullseye between my babycakes
At 180 lbf, he plucks his string assiduously
plucking my heartstrings, ass hideously
a target puckered in concentric rings
G.string twang
flying in a gentle arc
pitilessly splitting my arrow.

The bowman’s shot is deft
like Eros, unerring
he aims with the fidelity of a surgeon
Open-heart incision
slaughter of the senses
bypassing dinner, the drinks
the dancing and the heavy petting
Folds of denim pooling at my feet
kicking knickers straight to the heart
Cupid claiming my soul.

The bowman’s shot is swift
swift as an arrow
swift as a fox
swift like the fox named Swift in David the Gnome
Swift as the wind
blowing on my ear
The thrust of the fletcher
hard against the bowyer’s back
notched and tightly strung
recurved and resplendent.

The bowman’s shot is fatal
and it’s just my fate
a fatal attraction
Love is a fate worse than death
love is eternal, they say
they say to him “You wrecked him”
Wait, did you say rectum?
Brown eye bullseye
sliding into French third base
The bowman’s made his mark.

Sherri 

Of the many opening lines 
desperate lovers long to hear 
a clinking of glass to glass
is offered up like the eucharist 
while a dead song plays 
barely audible 
over the din of laughter and
lack there of

You see that bright light 
to the left of the bartender – it says
last exit 
as in get out now 
it’s not a neon sign for shits and giggs
it’s a warning sign
your signals crossed 
you thought someone sent a code with 
the Chin don of yours and his 
Seven and Seven’s
you don’t hear the angels screaming
your name?

Some juggler of hearts 
hovers above the long mahogany 
of anyone’s bar 
peers into your crazy eyes that could and will
lie 

You’re quiet now
judge all men’s ties for a price-tag that affords you 
with all your baggage piled around the bar stool you stopped sitting on
decided to stand 
accent your height
draw attention to legs
that no one pays attention to

The eyes
the dead song 
you’re a sitting duck
offering slick lips to mother Hope
a day late and so many dollars short 
from a wild ride 
you stepped off of 
to cozy down 
into fuzzy nights filled with
no vacancy

Another Nail in the Coffin

What am I going to do about the girl 
from the wrong side of the tracks
What am I going to do about her night moves
She wants to open a little nail salon 
She wants to start a podcast
pull up to the bumper 
double nickels on the dime
She wants a wedding at a chapel on The Strip 
What am I going to do about the girl
whose father fixes matches 
down at Gloves & Glory
who has a collection 
of Nazi memorabilia
and a wife who slips the tongue 
when we say goodbye 
after Sunday dinner
What am I going to do 
when the walls close in
and Hell’s conductor comes calling
I’m going to marry that girl 
and buy a plot of land 
and give her some money 
for that little nail salon. 

A Respectable Widow

Tired of going to have sex
Behind the Church of San Francisco el Grande
In Madrid, the capital
Or in the El Batán area, in the Casa de Campo park
My friend brought me a clipped ad
From a Madrid newspaper, Dating Section
It reads:
“Respectable widow with three flamenco dancers
In need of a dancer to teach them.
Call this number during office hours.”
Since it caught our attention
We called from a public phone booth.
We arranged to meet at 5:30 this afternoon, Thursday
Which is the day that soldiers serving their country
Go out to dance or have fun at dances
Or in parks like El Retiro, mainly.
We went to a building in the Diego de León area
Ranged the doorbell on the first floor.
The respectable widow answered
All dressed in gray.
She led us into a living-dining room.
She made us sit on a two-seater sofa
Near a small table
On which rested one of my books—what a surprise!
Title: “The Posh Girl and the Posh Guy”
Which, she told us
She bought last Sunday at the flea market
(El Rastro).
I didn’t say anything.
With her, seated in a beautiful mahogany chair
We agreed on the price:
€30 for a quarter of an hour
€50 for half an hour.
I gave her the thirty, my friend the fifty.
She clapped her hands three times loudly
And at once appeared
Three very slender flamenco birds
Who were her daughters
Masked from the waist up.
From the waist down, they wore thongs
Yellow, red, and purple.
The three of them 
When they removed their masks
Were very beautiful and pretty
With prominent breasts
That had undergone cosmetic surgery.
The first one is named Filomena
The second, Timotea
And the third, Segismunda.
They all asked us at once
How we had our little dancer or soldier.
They said they were having sex with flamenco masks
We were choosing
At our whim, the hole where to put it.
We answered that we had a dancer
Healthier and more dance-like than Antonio “the Dancer”
Flamenco dancer, choreographer, and artistic director.
We already flipped a coin
For Segismunda and Timotea
Because Filomena had her period.
I got Timotea
My friend got Segismunda.
The honorable widow took us
To two different bedrooms
We already had our dicks out, erect
Freshly washed by the widow.
When it came to sex, it was amazing.
Damn, a flamenco dancer!
Since we were both hard from the enema
I came on her vaginal lips
Begging her to let me in her arsehole
Feeling a new erection.
-Don’t deny me, Timotea
Or I’ll fuck your mother.
-If you want to fuck me in the arsehole
You have to leave another fifty euros on the nightstand
Because you’ve already come
And time has passed.
I went to my wallet, took out fifty euros
Leaving them on the nightstand.
I fucked her so hard and panting from behind
That I snapped the flamenco dancer’s neck
Her mother had to come
When she heard her screams of pain
Because, at the moment of ejaculation,
I was trying to bite off
Her ears.
I should mention that the honorable widow arrived
Wearing a gray flamenco mask
And black panties.

at the naked eye

they say the president liked this place 
getting airborne on his barstool 
clad in proud colors 

second shift naked workers take the stage
record spinner bumps the loud
squirming in the suited businessmen

floorboards rough with immemorial grit
bar bills soaked in effluent booze
soon befuddled legs will do the shuffle

bartender slogs through invisible water
quaaludes on his startled mind
anything goes behind his back

not far from where the quakers dangled
from their gallows tree we afternooners
swill and watch the nudes defile in order

and all is as it should be
distribution in this lumpen paradise
every day is payday at the naked eye

Nights of Madness and Fucking

nights of lunacy, when the
booze and the drugs flowed freely; when 
getting high made perfect sense.
Gina by my side, naked and exhausted, I wanted to
write but couldn’t. would just chase pulls of rotgut
with puffs of rock and the world would momentarily make perfect sense.
for a single moment, I saw it all, I was the best philosopher of all time and
if only I could keep the state of mind alive for more than a second.
she’d blow a kiss on my lips, her fingers would tug at my cock; my
gaze remained glued on the nicotine-stained wall. my mind traveling
to distant universes, conversing with geniuses and morons existing
in some dimension where the laws of nature and of man
were mere suggestions.
her mouth would go around my dick, her tongue trying to lick it into action.
it was pointless; I was drifting along interdimensional clouds, seeing
things that were, that could have been, and that might be. everything mattered except
for the ever-elusive here and now. the moment was gone, her lips abandoned my
cock but her hand would squeeze my balls until I groaned and was
momentarily brought back to the reality I refused to call home.
I’d guzzle more bourbon, have another puff, and she’d sit on
my lap, her pussy lips against my dead prick. not even with her
sturdy tits on my face could I stop chasing the answers that
were hidden behind another veil of reality.
“come on, baby, stay with me,” she’d whisper in my ear while grinding
her cunt against my limp dick. her voice could barely reach my brain,
nothing but distant music penetrating the thick walls protecting my cosmic travels.
the walls of my flat had dissipated, the whole town had evaporated, I was
somewhere in between dimensions or worlds and her
pussy was still poking at my cock, her lips nibbling on my earlobe, desperate
attempts to keep me connected with what she perceived as reality.
I didn’t care; my hand mechanically would reach for the bottle, my mouth
would thirstily accept the swallow and my mind would feel it even if it
violated the laws of physics. sometimes, she’d even succeed at
causing just enough blood to migrate southward and make me
go inside her, but the tight embrace of her pussy could never
suffice to bring me back to the reality I would never acknowledge.
at some point, she’d give up; sometimes after she made me come,
sometimes when she realized the substances in my blood made
ejaculation impossible. to me, it didn’t matter; I was elsewhere.
chasing grand dragons through worlds with purple suns and mauve seas.
as my hand mechanically, automatically, kept on reaching for the bottle,
I’d pass out. naked, sweaty, my cock soaked in juices. I’d barely
notice. it was fucking alright.
when I’d come to, several hours later, she’d ask “are you okay?”
“I’m fine, yes. why?”
“don’t you remember last night? you spaced out for a long time.”
“it was a great trip,” I’d reply, bombarded by blurry memories of
my expedition to other universes and of her trying to keep me anchored
to one reality.
nothing ever mattered. one day, she disappeared. don’t know
what happened, where she is; I’ll never know and
somehow, that feels alright even if it isn’t.

The Big Meat

I’m still not over her but I’m talking to this other chick 
She’s like an actress or cam girl or some other shit
Takes all my money, messages me every day 
“You better be there baby, do what I say or I’ll shoot you in your face”
Haha ok
And yeah I don’t have a degree in bitch psychology 
but I’m pretty sure she’s into me 
That same feeling 
Stuck in time like that dream where all your teeth fall out
your fingernails too
Someone kills your family or your mother gets run through 
and you wake up knowing shit went down
but you just can’t fucking recall it now 
Two hours and she’s back on again
Something’s gotta give
Blood loss by the litre
But that bird eater pussy 
Is the son and Saturn the Devourer 
Blackness as Goya would paint her