Closet Entrance

Best pep rally I never went to,
I stood the nearly-nude 
editor of the lit mag against the wall; 
falling one silly millimeter shy 
of broaching her vulva; 
before an abrupt knock at the door 
ended the festivities. The editor 
flipped on the light; hustled into her dress. 
I snatched pants up from ankles; buckled, zipped. 
We tossed the editor’s slip and panties 
into a sack intended for uncollated pages 
to the spring issue. She opened the door 
on Mrs. Forget-Who, a social studies teacher 
in search of scratch, knew the kingsize 
walk-in closet that did for the lit mag office 
often stored misprinted pages 
teachers were welcome to take for scratch. 
I let the editor do the talking; and fast she talked, 
explaining, above the odors of live teenage sex, 
we were in the midst of an argument
about a poem when came the knock, 
and we hurriedly tidied the mess created 
when she had earlier thrown a pile of issues at me 
to, uh, demonstrate the correctness of her opinion. 
She was, after all, the editor; me? Oh, 
a potential contributor. Pep rally? 
Oh, yes, the rally for the big game tonight, 
of course; honestly, just slipped our minds. Poetry 
demands inordinate amounts of unmitigated focus. 
She got off with the English teacher sponsor of the lit mag 
admonishing her to pay closer attention to school-approved 
non-literary activities. I got off invisibly; 
as a potential contributor, someone obviously 
insignificant and not going anywhere in life, 
I failed to be worth wasting hot air on. 
I date – astonished at the editor’s creativity under fire – 
from that bang on the door forward,  
my fascination with poetry and the literary arts. 
My subsequent anonymous contribution 
(loath to cloud the editor’s eye 
with an affair of the heart) was, 
of course, rejected.  

that must be the gin talking

and here comes the spanish princess

she kisses you on the cheek and 
whispers how you have become
the world’s biggest asshole

you laugh and think that must
be the gin talking

you never remember that the story 
books of your childhood never 
had a happy ending

there was no royal ride into some 
beautiful sunset with the love 
of your life

there was always a bottle of scotch

a pretty lady you have mistaken as 
a hooker and some beauty in the 
corner with eyes that will haunt 
you until well after your death

she is nothing but trouble so, 
of course, she has to be yours

heartbreak is the dull side of the knife

eventually the scars become so damn 
numb to the pain that you no longer 
understand what pain actually is

and eventually

that sociopath gets to come out 
and be comfortable

unaware of any damage or any 
amount of hurt that persists

endless

just like love

Today

I hated today.
Today was a gnawing cloud
spreading its legs on the table
with its shoes on.
A dull headache.
A burning sensation in the eyeballs
when exposed to the light.
An angry outburst when the tampon
isn’t expelled from the tube.
It was the Hulk if the Hulk
was on his period.

Still.

Everybody else does it.

I can too.

Just not before damning the happy couple
tonguing each other on the park bench first.

Ten and a Half

Your body could not
be put on a pedestal,
but it could be
wrapped in leather
and chains,
or robed in silk
or scented with oils
or ridden in style
on a boat on the Nile.

Your great gift
was just to be you.
Lovers would come
and preen best they could.
All they hoped
was what you knew.
You had it baby,
and knew what to do
to make men beg
and slither and crawl,
and when you did,
they loved you best of all.

A sex poem

You get me as hard as poetry
Not that poetry gives me an erection
But poetry is difficult
That’s a play on words I think

I get you all wet like a washed-up comedian
Except, one that’s all dirty
I read an article about yeast infections
So I’ll try to remember to wash my hands

One guy I know ate buffalo wings and then fingered his girlfriend
It was not a relationship-building experience
The best relationship I was in was probably still a nightmare for most people
The sex was good but you wouldn’t make a movie about it
If you did make a movie about it it would be an awkward indie film
Starring Philip Seymour Hoffman
As a rich grandmother in a Catholic dystopia

But I digress

I want to fuck you, so bad
The sex would not be bad but the desire is
The sex would not be bad the third time, I mean
The first two might be fumbling and unfulfilling
If you judge me based on the first or second time that we fuck then fuck you
It’s the third time that clinches the thing
If the third time’s bad then that’s real
That would be a mistake
Like the third time I fucked your mom
The first two could be chalked up to being drunk
The third time I hadn’t even sipped a beer
I’d rather fuck you than your mom
I’m sorry

We played Dungeons & Dragons too, me and your mom
She would literally be perfect if the sex worked
And she wasn’t hooked up to that machine

You are like the perfect version of your mom
No machine
You can learn D&D
Let’s find out if the sex works

Yeah, I know I’m old enough to be your father
But I like to think of myself as your dad’s cool friend
And yes, I did fuck your mom about twenty-two years ago
But I’ll take a paternity test, I’m not scared
You know your dad
He’s an asshole
He did not want me fucking your mom
Not even once let alone three times
Forget about that loser
I’m not him

Come on already
Let’s fuck

International Lust

I had no idea what
She was talking about.
It works that way when
You don’t speak her language
And she doesn’t speak yours.
But she’s just mesmerizing
To watch, enchanting.
I smile when she smiles,
Scowl when she frowns.
Do a pensive head tilt
When it seems called upon.
I really only longed for
A chance at that body.
Her voluptuous shape
Demanded my attention.
We’re leaving the bar,
Presumably for her place.
I still had no idea what
She was going on about.
I just hoped she wasn’t
Talking about surprises
Like us comparing dicks.

Spongemaster 

I’d rather lick the dog crap 
off your shoe 
than wait in line for brunch 
I’d savor it, too, 
the pulverized bits of chicken bone 
the re-digested cat poop 
knowing I’ve avoided 
that line around the block! 
But, as a busboy, 
I have a unique perspective 
I’m also a foodie 
but instead of pancakes 
I’m a connoisseur of the bodega watermelon 
I spend all my extra money on them 
“Better not be mushy!!!” 
“Claro! New crop today!” 
They puzzle over me, 
the man in dirty chef pants 
spending $100s on melons 
(My secret is to forego toilet paper 
How? I use a sponge instead, 
I rinse it twice, trés francais!) 
In my tiny hotel room 
I’ll cleave one down the middle 
and devour its very heart 
the juice dribbling down my chin 
I love a good liquor store watermelon 
and I love there is never  
a line to get one, 
no cackling, selfie taking 
waffle wafflers, “I’ll do 
the million dollar bacon!” 
Though that’s not to say 
I don’t take my job seriously 
I’m an excellent busboy 
if I do say so myself 
“Look at him!” they gush,  
“the work ethic!!! Why, 
he even brings 
his own sponge!” 

Red Skies  

Endless patience 
of a vulture 
in the desert 
without eyes  
for mercy. 

Following me,  
he swoops down 
to whisper to me 
crazy fortunes 
and peyote  
truths. 

Death comes 
when your path 
is lost or denied 
or your car 
in the desert 
gives up all ghosts. 

You walk 
across nothing 
but endless sand 
sweating 
with an empty  
gas can. 

Various Hells 
panting reddish skies 
its flames 
lick your face,  
heat ticking 
stolen time left 
with your number plain… 

And the vulture 
waiting to sing 
to your 
last breath.

MRS BARNES REQUESTS THAT YOU FORGO THE EUPHEMISMS

He didn’t pass on.
He’s dead.
It wasn’t an unfortunate accident 
involving a sharp object.
I stabbed him with an ice pick.
Nor does he look
so peaceful in the coffin.
His face is a frozen scream.
True, he is going to a better place.
Anywhere would be
when you’ve been living in a trailer.

Things Along the Way

Such obscurity as to how these monstrous
obstacles land in my lap
must have been an awful wretch – the me before me
as they say souls are recycled

The last broken 
busted Goliath in my path
shut me down
almost took me
like a cancer

tsk tsk…..what to do with this behemoth
y’all know I’m gonna invite it in
have a chat
probably sleep with it
maybe keep it around
for a bit
every coil it wraps around my wrist
pulls me closer to its poison
I want it so

Later
bored out of my skull
dump it out there
cuz I’m done with its menace
place it strategically along the way
for some other sad and sorry sack
to pick up
where I left off