people have stopped
answering their phones
people have stopped
leaving their voices
in greeting
or goodbye
so I knock on windows
late at night
long and loud enough
to awaken
the possibility
of an inhumane monster
on the other side
long and loud enough
to get some of them
praying
for that
which they
give:
an empty footpath
under the cold glow
of the street lamp
the image
they have etched
in another’s
heart
late at night
he told me beautiful women
bring nothing but pain
i was too young at the time
to know what he was talking
about
but now, i do understand
heartache
alimony
a fucking rolodex of what
could have been
yet, the whole thing about
pain is some of us need it
crave it
even think we deserve it
so, hello to all the beautiful
women
try me
If someone sells synthetic highs
Does that make them a spice rack?
He claims he doesn’t sell such things, of course
Just suicide without commitment
Oblivion in instalments
He seems to do alright
The sky is moving further away
Though few seem to notice
This receding firmament
Like the ring of pale light haloing a black hole
We’re happier with the dark
Than with the ever-fading light
Looking into the rot of the unseen muse wondering about a rosy fingered dawn slashing across moonscape illumination against the velvet atmosphere
an unceasing cycle of relentless winds will not blow away skeletal remains of our aborted futures fallen
I like the kind of sex you can’t get at k-mart anymore…
blue light special going off
in the fitting room
raw dogging and slapping some temporary meat vessel in the nose with a rotating wiener dunked in ketchup
they say we’re crazy but I just don’t know anymore when they’re the ones who made all this
dead space
inner dream time
our only escape
maybe it isn’t so much boner skin with our lusts bursting through paper bag repression as much as it is boned skin
bones
poking out the flesh
leaping skeletons that just can’t quite get free
the bells toll ptsd tinnitus
you can only stand to hear so much and listening can sometimes be a pure act of sadism
or maybe my downtrodden being really is just a colossal boner unfurling its skin to penetrate the world
impregnating with all the wrong reasons in this season of madness in unforsaken bliss
why try anymore when it’s all over
playing home movies
in my mind
more like
suspense driven horror
minus the the thrills
pumped with the mundane
ever sickening pallets
natural light hitting pastels and eggshell whites
plastic totes
with all my belongings
eventually my military duffel
eating out of garbage cans
sleeping under overpasses
ruminating over confessions of an unlived life
what keeps me sleepless at night
holding my dick
dating a series of sociopaths
no sex, no love, no affection
maybe once in a while a display of allusive kindness teasing me with what we shared before which never was there in the first place causing more than one of us to starve for more
something happened once
or rather many things
at once
sometimes
more
piled on high like a filipino box-spring hog…the way the trucker in the pink crop top and white cowboy hat described his wife
who wanted me to see the back of his trailer at the bookstore I worked at over a decade ago
pornographic machinations in a foreign land
you can just grab a woman in a bar with a fistful of dollars and have one
are the outlets the same for filming there like they are here?
I just write scripts
So you set the mood?
deep inside
I know
I could
turn it off
but turning it back on would be a problem ‘cause it gets harder to get back towards a path of compassion
nah…
I’ll just take the verbal thrashings
the economic torture
the emotional beatings
and be on my way with a condition red soul
slipping a sense of subtle sabotage
when I can
I refuse to bow down
To kiss your shoes.
Leather boots
Might change my mind,
But there better be
Scant else above,
And a riding crop
In your hand.
Making a baby is easy! Jerk off into a cup and you are halfway there.
And they give you aids, not the disease, but help. So many bloody aid workers
around you get thinking that your life might be one big disaster. And Felice knew
she should have called in sick today. Sat up in bed thinking about it for many hours.
But here she was, working reception at the sperm bank when this man in a faded
denim jean jacket walked in. Are you here to make a deposit? Felice asked the man.
A withdrawal, the man said. At first, Felice thought he was trying to rob the place.
I’d like to speak to the bank manager! the man said excitedly. It wasn’t long before
the boys in blue showed up. Is there a problem here? Jesus boys, the shield has such
a lousy pension plan that you have to come down here and make a deposit
for a few extra bucks? The few men sitting in the lobby area got up and left.
Now we can be alone, that is how babies are made, the man said. The boys in blue
could try to cuff him, but he wouldn’t make it easy. Balling up his fists,
stacks of magazine rolled themselves like a personal thievery. The corporate art on
the wall grew wet with excitement. It was time to make a baby.
I still believe in Emma Lazarus,
and her poem, “The New Colossus.”
So when I reach the land-of-liberty,
I’ll embrace the first stranger I see.
And I’ve long stopped reading the news;
reports of strife I couldn’t take anymore.
The plane’s landing and the tarmac’s in view;
soon I’ll embrace a stranger and maybe more.
Now upon this land where I wasn’t born,
I utter just to start a conversation,
“I believe in harmonious race relations.”
The stranger sighed, “You watch too much porn.”
There are 15 types
Of Literary Criticism
There are thousands
Of writers & poets
None of whom
Actually give a shit
Keep writing
Malice is boredom
Malice is uninteresting
Malice is dead
Malice lives
Down in a hole
And hides from the
World of it’s own
Opinions
There are thousands
Of writers & poets
None of whom
Actually give a shit
About Malice
At all
Keep writing
They’ve abandoned
the 7th Avenue exit of Penn Station
their essence still lingers
the sour smell
stains on the concrete from bodies
and body fluids
the ghosts of the pipe
linger in that long
dank corridor
with hypodermic needles swept
into a pile waiting to be cleaned up
They’ve gone to another spot
this one jammed with police
they are unable to shoot up
within the peace of the thousands
of people exiting up that staircase
unaffected by a needle piercing
a groin or a leg
All quiet on 7th Avenue
a vein will come back in time
and so will they
Pedro is on his way to his baby’s baptism
after working all morning throwing mud
on cement blocks.
He gets fender-bended on Alameda
by a drunk Yaqui in a shit-colored bug with a door missing
but he doesn’t have time to fuck around
and just lets it go.
When he shows up 5 minutes late to the church
the preacher slams the door in his face,
dead-bolts it.
He’d warned people not to be late
and of the fires of hell.
Pedro is locked out and the rest of us are locked in.
Pedro’s wife Yolanda is with the baby in the front row
with all the other mamas and papas and babies.
It’s 108 degrees.
Preacher man won’t turn the air conditioning on.
Nobody knows what his deal is.
Hand fans are going wild,
babies are crying,
murmurs and whispered protests fester in the pews.
Yolanda is pissed at Pedro and preacher man too.
Pedro stands outside yelling and pounding on the door,
the whole world can hear,
Pedro with hard hands and cement on his pants.
Preacher man does his thing with the babies,
mumbles the words and flicks the holy water
like you’d flick an ant
all in an orderly assembly-line manner.
Then preacher man splits out the back
through a secret exit.
A eunuch lackey finally unlocks the front doors
and we all flood outside
where Yolanda hands the baby to Felipe
and slaps Pedro on the left cheek hard.
Each family paid 500 dollars for the ceremony
and there are now 20 new babies in stinky old Hermosillo
waiting to be embraced by the great unknown.
Horror Sleaze Trash 