The Polack

I am a long way from home,
seven hundred miles removed
from the boiled cabbage smell
of an ill lit corner tavern
with Okocim on tap and a 
bartender who answers to “Ski”.

I am two decades beyond
Polka Saturday night
at the St. Casimir rec hall,
tackle football at Pulaski Park,
the taste of a fresh perogi
served by a thick-waisted
woman wearing one sock.

out here where I am now,
Polacks exist as abstractions,
a fucked-up comedic archetype
known to go crazy when challenged
to piss in the corner of a round room,
rumored to change light bulbs in crews
numbering no less than a hundred.

I can imagine THE POLACK
as a problematic tarot card
depicting a blind-folded man
stepping off a steep cliff,
the tarot reader gasping as
the card is laid down, saying
“oh my! you’re about to do something
very fucking stupid in the near future.”

I carry the outline of Poland
tattooed on my shoulder,
hoping the boys under the banner
of the drunken warbird can defend
their border this next half century.
and when I defy established logic
as I sometimes must, I point to
the tattoo as justification.

exiled now, this Polish Mafia of one,
where once were many, now are none,
every round room remains dry,
every light bulb dim,
and even the Polish festival
back home just outside Chicago
is currently celebrated by Mexicans.

cocaine whores and machine guns

she told me she dreams 
of unicorns and waterfalls

i laughed 

i dream of dying under a 
rainbow of cocaine whores
and machine guns

she was fascinated

wanted to tell me what 
my dream was actually 
about and i stopped her

it all goes back to a shitty 
childhood, piss poor father 
and dysfunctional parents
thinking staying together 
for the kids was the best 
thing to do

she laughed, said no
it means you are sexually 
repressed

two more drinks please

Bug Zapper

You could tell me again 
how you love my voice on nights
you can’t stand your own
because a mouse and a lion have traded tails,
not just tales, and jails, oh, you said shadows
You could tell me again 
how you grew bored of predicting 
her every word 
You could say anything at all
But instead, you say everything
by saying nothing
because cowards keep secrets
thinking there are such things
Cowards daydream 
of shopping sprees and gold-digging ditches;
of bronzed beauties and secret winks
serving up blowjobs and foot rubs,
all while jerking off into cracks 
of couch cushions
because it’s summer and they’re not wearing socks
to avoid confession
or even saying anything
they really mean
The weather reports more passive-aggressive hail
All hail the passive-aggressive, they save us
from The Devil
And by Devil, I mean writer’s block
You say everything by saying
nothing, you’re brilliant that way
And by brilliant, I mean
Blinding

It’s cool, new eyes for a poet
are easy to cum by baby
We get off on having nine lives
MEOW   (I wasn’t yet a lion)

Your brilliance once rented a room 
on the ocean floor of my desperate eyes 
Desperate because 
I thought I was drowning at the time
but silly me, I’m a water sign
Anyway, turns out
you’re the desperate housewife
of the mouse house
that played the part of the least convincing 
soul I’ve ever roared inside

Cowards never get to fuck poets for very long
because pretending is exhausting
and because pseudo bug-out panic attacks bore us
One fine day, they just wake up 
zapped

The Knife-Thrower’s Wife

She said, let’s forget we’re strangers 

Let’s talk about ragged breath
gasps for air

Let’s talk about rope
binding hands, ankles

Let’s talk about pleasure too deep to describe

Let’s talk about exquisite agony, the freedom
of release 

Let’s talk about communion when pleasure collides with pain

Let’s talk about creating a world, our own wide-awake- make-believe-reality

Let’s talk about bruised wrists
flushed lips

Let’s talk about blindfolds 
black/white/red/silk/satin/cotton

Let’s talk about a hand on throat
fingers in pussy

Let’s talk about nails digging into skin

Let’s talk about pulsing sweat and body
pressed tight against the wall

Let’s talk about us

I bet you’re in love with me now

it was anti-climactic like all soft cock stories 

I was staring down the stars
in my mother’s driveway
with your mouth on my listless cock
and my mind was on baseball
and who’d be batting cleanup

You were determined
but so was I
to fly away to Orion’s belt
and live on sexless stars
but you wanted something resembling concrete
and you’d be damned if you couldn’t conjure
my frankenstein-fuck

Despite myself my dick got half hard
and you mounted me
and I swam through memories
from back when this
moaning imperative 
meant something

But then Zach Grienke’s ERA rescued me
while you tried to resuscitate my erection
and I allowed my self
to say Samantha
over and over again
wishing she was on Youtube
so I could see her in motion

And you surrendered back to the drivers seat 
and I got out of the car 
went inside under my sheets
and replayed the fraying memory of being in love
as my cock tried to crawl back into my body
to never be seen again

 Nude Model Audition Over The Phone

“A trash compacter
spit me out”
she tells me 
over the phone.
All negative charm 
and more than 
halfway stoned.
She wants to pose 
for me if
I got the cash.

“I don’t need drama
doll,” I say over my
brand new  phone.
Electric white noise 
humming in 
the background.
“Save me baby “
she begs, I need a fix 
before the sun goes down. 
I say no 
as the line strangles with
a dying pause. She
leaves me with slurred
words of a sexual outlaw:
“If you change
your mind
I’m yours to cast.
I’m on Alvarado 
with the whores 
and the trash.
Say the word
I’ll bring my own chains 
and my leather 
mask.”

Hmmmm…OK, I say 
and give her
my address.

A N.Y.C. Rooftop Party and its Aftermath Circa 1999

“Oh yeah he’s beautiful,”
these two American filmmakers were talking about me
“I’d like to use him in something.” 
I was flattered
but wanted no part of acting anymore
I was thoroughly invested in poetry

then I panned out from the scene
and saw all of these heads on the roof
like decorations

later I think my buddy Ryan
had his way with some kind of bong
either beer or pot
maybe one of each
I remember a weak round
of applause for his efforts

he and I were always competitive
and I definitely won that night
there was some kind of electric current
in my veins
with the bright power source of my heart
pumping out the charge

I spent the night at Rhonda and Rachel’s sisters who I knew nothing about
but had been really kind to me at the party

I masturbated on the bed
in their spare room
to a woman who was
also on the roof
her black hair blending
into the darkness of the night

I remember I didn’t get even one drop of cum on Rhonda and Rachel’s sheets
or anywhere else in their room
which was a great success
a miracle really

it was the perfect nightcap
the orgasm was wonderful

and I fell asleep
dreaming that I was in
the same darkness
the woman and her black hair
had also
succumbed to

cocaine and the tears of dolphins

she told me she was 
made of cocaine and 
the tears of dolphins

i laughed, ordered 
two drinks and got 
ready for the show

she said she achieved 
her dreams when she 
ran away to the circus
as a teenager

she had plenty of stories 
of getting raped by clowns 
and blowing a guy while 
fucking around on the 
trapeze

but she wanted to know 
if my poems about hookers 
were true or not

she had certain lines 
she would not cross

i finished my drink 
and ordered another

started to tell a story 
about a nun tired of 
serving god and how 
being in the right place 
isn’t always about luck

Tough Guy

He’d get drunk
And invite everyone
To piss on his grave,
After he was in it,
Of course.
He talked a lot
Of shit with his
Fast tongue,
Loose mouth.
Blatantly offensive
Trash words.
They found him
On the sidewalk
Sunday mornin’
In a pool of 
Piss and blood.
Guess somebody
Didn’t want to
Wait for the grave.

With Love from Ocala

Ain’t a miracle she came home knocked up 
after eight years of marriage 
she waddled around
with the baby name book 
makin list upon list  
stuff you didn’t get done 
cuz it interfered with your beers and shows 
but later when that kid crawls around 
on the cracked linoleum 
blonde wave of hair 
cornflower blue eyes
starin you down 
you know damn well kid ain’t yours
he look kinda goofy 
no-how yours

Old lady runnin around in house slippers
when you met she was wearin those stilettos 
you thinkin how you gonna send this kid back
this foul mouthed little shit
look nothin like you

And now y’all sittin on the back porch 
she’s potbellied and run down 
you’re itchin to get at her anyhows 
but this kid is suckin its thumb to a nub
got nothin to do with your dark hair
your eyes black as night 
and olive skin rough now 
from all that outdoors work you didn’t do

Something ain’t right with this dirty thing
rollin around the floors like a pig in mud

It ain’t right you say

Maybe it’s ok the little runt 
is loose in the walls 
and you’ll grow fondness 
or perhaps some admiration 
when the kid’s old enough y’all can have a chat 
a little tete-a-tete at the table 
with the devil servin y’all 
those baby blues starin 
straight into the soul you don’t have 
needling the message you dead-ass missed
about shootin blanks