She
is a blonde destroyer
of antiquated gender norms.
Resplendent
behind the wheel
of that iconic brown truck.
And that
iconic brown uniform
fits her perfectly –
I’m tempted
to blow the rent money
on stupid shit
I don’t even need.
Stupid shit
I don’t even want.
Just to experience
the utter bliss
of having her handle
my package.
Your semi-liquid remains trickled down from the cross
Formed pools of black sludge in the cracked dirt
I writhed on the ground before you in pain and disgust
Your promised return a poem gone to fuck
You spoke of the God inside the pus in your brain
The Devil that gnawed at the valves of your heart
I sucked your flesh and drank your juice
You tore at my eyes so I’d be blind to your rot
As they dragged you away your deified
Face shot me a look as sure as a cock
With cruel bliss they plied me with ant covered
Snacks and a bedspread of xanax and spikes
Then I knew they had won so with pleasure and pain
I spewed up our hate that you called our love
Now I sit by a chemical lake plastic shovel in hand
Digging your grave and licking the coal from my heart
Heidi came running down the hall
and said that Frank had done it again.
Amy was charge nurse,
responsible for the entire building
And all the residents at the Guildwick
Home for the Elderly.
Sam was sent with Heidi to deal with Frank.
He did the same thing at least three times a week.
Went into others residents’ rooms
and stole their pants before shitting in them
and walking around the ward.
The smell was horrible.
Even for seasoned nurses and staff.
Ok Frank, pants off!,
said Sam.
Heidi stood back to avoid the splatter.
Don returned from lunch break and laughed.
Ah Franky, I see there was an accident!
Frank said nothing.
An acquired brain injury had left him
largely mute.
Sam double gloved and ran off to dispose
of the pants.
Leaving Heidi and Don to clean Frank off
and get him ready for bed.
Whose pants do you think they were this time?
asked Heidi.
Who knows,
laughed Don.
Frank kept cupping water in his hands
and splashing it against the wall.
His wife had died six years ago.
Frank had no one now.
Just a power of attorney who lived
in a different city and couldn’t care in the least.
It’s pretty smart if you think about it,
Don said.
What is?
asked Heidi.
Never shit your own pants,
Don said.
Look in Don’s closet.
He has at least twenty pairs of pants,
but never shits in any of those.
Heidi looked over to the large brown wardrobe
across the room and laughed.
So you think Frank is some kinda genius of something?
Heidi laughed.
Crazy, not stupid!,
Don said.
I think you’re going to steal other people’s pants
when your time comes,
Heidi nudged Don jokingly.
I’ll have my own gig,
announced Don.
Shit really isn’t my thing.
Are pants?
joked Heidi.
Just then,
Sam returned to check and see
how things were going with Frank
who kept grabbing at the towel
as Don dried him off.
I need you to go check on Natalie,
Sam told Heidi.
She’s up and screaming bloody murder again.
Heidi ran off to check on Natalie.
Amy was at the nurse’s station.
Having already begun the paperwork
on Frank’s latest incident.
Heaven wasn’t made for elves.
Santa’s boys just get recycled to the Christmas shop.
Some of them don’t like it, always toilin’ for Big Red
While he gets to fly around every Christmas Eve
Like it’s a party. Ho, ho, ho! What ya know, Joe!
That big lump of lard hits most the houses,
Hits the women that are willing and waiting, too.
One night outta the year, he works the heck outta his chubby.
Mrs. Claus knows it, has for years. So, she does the elves
While he’s out. Christmas morning, they’re all beat.
So beat, they skip church. That works out fairly well.
If they hit the confessional, they’d have it tied up till next year.
All the elves that met with accidents on Nick’s rounds:
Falling from the sleigh, trampled in a reindeer stampede,
Shot scaring the Hell outta people by coming out the fireplaces
That have chimneys too tight for Santa’s fat ass. All those elves
Magically end up back at the shop. It’s that reincarnation thing.
Ain’t one of them wouldn’t love to come back as one of
Satan’s helpers, his imps that rejoice in causing pain and misery.
Hurts the face smilin’ all the time being slaves to happiness.
Maybe they could mix it up. Yeah, some good/some bad.
If they could, the rum tab might go down at the workshop.
by hotel bathroom candlelight, she helps
you into a slip of white purchased for
a different kind of sacrifice. no belts
tonight or lewd advice, pubic hair or
pigtailed disguise to make this easier
at all. they do not even allow you
any alcohol while at the dinner
where they contemplate you over steak. new
girls feel best when they shake a little,
nervous skin she will open up for him.
while you whimper from the gentle
touch. never knew you’d feel this small again,
a college girl grown comfortable with pain
they teach the intimacy of shame.
Fire
in my lungs
and poisoned veins,
fading
in (to white)
out (to black),
I see the eye of God—
unflinching
cold
against the welcoming void
of closed lids…
…that dream?
Is He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?
Always attending
never
ending,
His watch, nary a waver,
there
between the veil
‘til shadows
of angels, wingless
white
against the blaze of
artificial suns, rouse me
back
to this world of light
and illusion—the Hell
of my own making,
Was He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?
I suppose I’ll never know
***
Originally published in Alebrijes Review
I hadn’t vomited
in a while
so I guess
I was in good graces
somewhere
But
I still had
no pussy
to relieve
the stress
of the job
No-one
to occupy
the vacant spaces
of my mind
So
I just drank
and drank
(but did not vomit)
and smoked
a bowl or two
before bed
Some people
would prefer to die
in similar situations
and many of them
do
The thought
goes through
my mind often
But
I’m still here
and tomorrow
will probably be
the same
When you learn
a friend died
on Facebook
you stop to wonder
if he was alone
at the end
Were we all
too busy typing
to hold his hand
And you imagine
the last moment
when the very last
breath shook out
of his lungs
You feel a boot kick
right in the center
of your chest
Then you click
the sad face
emoji and
sigh
and bad decisions, a Christmas snow storm
a slap of talcum powder in the face of Missouri
we’re exiles, we’re bruised soul bohemians, we’re
far from home and our actions bare no consequence
in God’s country, our daily bread is amphetamines
our sacrament is the blood we spill, the teeth we lose
the poetry we sing drunk on the back porch
It’s the most wonderful time of the year for
a taste of the sun, the drugs have run out
now we lay stupid, now we’re sick
but God takes and God gives
we’re in the art gallery and the only art alive
now is Milo cooking DMT in someone’s silver spoon
It’s the most wonderful time of the year for
a dance in the snow, spinning on Alvorado avenue
like the samaras falling from heaven, would they still
spin so free if they knew the concrete beneath them?
If they knew the street is where they go to rot?
From the couch, the Christmas light projector
paints us portraits of our past decisions
it casts the mountains we’ve built to hide behind
You say, “it’s so romantic getting caught up in it all, isn’t it?”
It’s the most wonderful time of the year
to piss it all away.
Playing the actor,
I once tried Shakespeare.
That amounted to
Throwing myself to the
Elizabethan wolves.
Monty Python, it was not.
I guess they understood
That crap way back when
They chugged ale and wine
And pissed in the Thames.
Oh, right, they still do that.
For myself, I’m more of an
“Intercourse the parrot”
Kind of guy. Clearly a
Product of our times.
Italian opera could have
Been my forte. But, I
Don’t sing all that well and
My Italian is doubly severely
Limited to random syllables.
Which invariably causes the
Rest of the cast to turn and
Stare daggers at me when
I open my mouth…but,
Happily, most of the audience
Doesn’t speak Italian either
And just assumes I’m the
Bad guy everyone hates.
Somehow, I managed two
Performances before being
Cast out with very colorful,
Seemingly angry words,
Which, of course, I didn’t
Understand. It was the
Accompanying gestures that
Made my expulsion acutely clear.
That much Italian, io capisco.
Horror Sleaze Trash 