saint adeline of verse cocks erato's gun

sometimes gwen stacy just has to die

2010-08-24T18:52:00.002-04:00

the story goes something like
a young girl gets raped by her uncle
and her sadistically christian mother may
or may not believe it
cannot accept it
the denial placing her constantly
on bended knee
on pleading hand
and deaf ear

on the day he is released from prison
mother wants her daughter to
welcome him back to the fold
forgive and forget and let's all
be a happy family

but she does not forgive
and mother is upset
bends knees and prays for her
la-la-la's and closes the ears
and casts aside all stones
not aimed at the girl

there is a fine line
between forgiving
forgetting
and forever
it is not so easily done to say
it doesn't matter that an uncle raped
and especially not for the girl

but how i ask
can it not also be
not so easily done
for the mother
who forgives the familial wrong
before the seed

and expects a victim
just to say oh yeah that's cool
no harm no foul
for the escaping of youth
and the bursting into an
atheist lesbian experimental adulthood

no
mother
no

the story actually goes like this

sometimes gwen stacy has to die
sometimes the hero has to kill her
sometimes we have to be cast
single-handedly and scarily
into the bronze age
ripping the code to pieces
screaming in the faces of the censors
that sometimes evil prevails
that life happens

sometimes the neck gets snapped
sometimes we have to
get up off our knees
fold our hands from prayers to fists
take what we're dealt
and not
even think
about
forgiving it

today i was fitted for new ear plugs

2009-11-13T00:09:00.001-05:00

shaped to my inner ear
and the battlefield scars of my
holed non-waterproofed eardrums

bulky and protruding
with large r and l indicators
tiny grips for convenient removal
and embarrassingly bright blue

in the mirror i see them
as others see them
bold blue beacons of differentiation
and confidence loses its
reflection

flashbacks to childhood
those bits of wax the size and
shape of hominy
tiny chunks that would break off
get lodged in my ear
requiring surgical removal

the humiliating days of
middle school locker room showers when
it was apparently humorous for others
to poke fingers in my ears at the plugs
despite my sad begging look of
a thousand starving children

now the future is here
in molded plastic and a comfort fit
pieces that don't break off
waterproof with a tiny carrying case
annoyingly labeled with my name
in case you didn't know the defective one
complete with chain to wear as beach bling
to the special olympics

specially formed for my
scarred and damaged eardrums
to go under water in complete comfort
without design flaws
except one
for my confidence

but hey doc
i'm sure no one will notice
that they're
fucking bright blue

no, tom brady doesn't come here

2009-11-12T20:49:00.003-05:00

look around this bar
and tell me
what tom brady would find here

yet he visits up the road a piece
his dad a regular at the
difference a few blocks and
a few more wines can make

when john malkovich used to
sit back at booth 24
i thought it a good fit
his quiet bohemia mingling with
pbr's and dim lights and
bad-tipping tufts students

but he was no football star
the ooohs and ahhhs not so grand
below the breaths and eyes
quick to turn away
easily distracted by the equally mundane

no supermodels on arms
no small talk because he's been
hit too many times
to think of anything clever

yes that's what this bar needs
more glamor less intellect
less poetry
more shoulder pads

the day edward norton came into my bar

2009-06-25T17:32:00.001-04:00

i wished i were naked
not because
i want to be bare
in front of ed norton
but because
i happened to be wearing
under terrible coincidence
my incredible hulk shirt
like a geeky comic book fancore nerd

over my shoulder
tvs blaring previews
for the very movie
whose wares i am sporting

approaching the table
placing coasters just perfectly
he knows i know
offers eyes
and says

nice shirt

in my head
i ask him for his autograph

out loud
i ask him what he'd like
to drink

exoskeletons

2009-05-16T11:55:00.002-04:00

sweeping tiny
exoskeletons
from windowsill
into palm
righting the pots
dusting loose soil spilled
from the latest
feline mauling

i hold the chewed
broken body of
seedlings i had nurtured

a small tree i had named
spruce springsteen
now a slimy mess
of gummed trunk
and budding needle
struggling to breathe

and elvis parsley
now just a spot of
green gunk
held in my
mothering hand

the feeling
of birthing
a stillborn

leper messiah

2009-05-12T15:04:00.000-04:00

shifting of mismatched eyes
androgynous stance
through filtered light
feathered hair
fetished mascara and
outlined lips
of persed liquid language
pursed shimmer
stardust flecked
mismatching
those eyes

but boy
could he
play guitar

sally bowles' final bow

2009-03-18T14:18:00.002-04:00

a decade ago
i perched in
the middle of row m
smack in the center
where the sound
hits your face
the best

as you spun
a decadent character of
delicate melancholy
and tragedy

spending her time
on her back
in a bed
on the stage

the tinny taste of
metallic irony
of your removal
from the stage
to the bed

where melancholy characters
finger your broken head
with delicacy

the reversal of tattered roles
quiet hum of machines
fighting to hold
your spotlight in place
your head in place
their lives intact

the one second that
next second this
thoughts of what
should i could i
have done on lips
as silent as yours

cords plugs decisions
lives on many
metaphoric lines

all get pulled
and pushed back
and forth
sway like curtains
pulled after the bow

the darth vader breathing
dr manhattan stare
occasional twitch of
frankenstein reviving
or ophelia resurfacing

your last great role
resounding
in curtain calls and
light fades
autographs
fermatas and
pianissimo
the held chord
a lasting echo

none of the odds are
in your favor
but maybe next time
you'll be lucky
maybe next time
you'll win

bangs are that on which the world hangs

2009-02-24T11:44:00.001-05:00

strutting
along mass ave
central square
hopping with a
hip step
strolling with a
cool swinged
swagger
checking myself out
in the curio windows
the reflections of the
junk shops and
hobo hangouts

thinkin yeah baby
that's right
i'm bringin back
the bangs

and i blow up a
little puff of breath
to feather them
as they fall into place
in love with each other

when

my hip hips
and sordid ankle
strike the hole where
a brick had been borrowed
for the foundation of a
hobo's house

and down i go
pride and face first
my bangs landing
across a puddle of
rainwater

wet as anita ekberg
and still dancing
in their own fountain

spare change

2009-02-19T22:10:00.002-05:00

en route to the bank
three thousand in cash
burning a hole in my messenger bag
dollar bills
tips from the bar
here and there cash
collected from two months
of not depositing

there ahead the regular
selling the
spare change homeless newspaper
for a buck a pop
his eyes
his hands
asking only for the buck
one small dollar

here i am
with three thousand of
the very thing he asks
and who am i
to pass
with fists tight
knuckles emerged
eyes down

i hold out my hand
into his hand
a crumpled bill between us
shuffles the papers
i've already got this week's
and just say keep it

eyes meeting for a split
in that shameful space around us
i wretch past
hear him
unfold the bill and gasp
another and a blessing for me
but i am too far gone now

i step to the teller
slip in hand
cash in the other
say
it will be short
twenty
just scribble it out

the day i lived at the airport

2008-12-29T23:01:00.009-05:00

3:54 am

silent drive leads to
a silent nod
pops the trunk
dumps our belongings and our feet
out onto the curb
tipped the nod well
for someone also in
the biz of collecting tips
collected instead our early a m
pico kelvin shivered heavy thoughts
thumping roller bags across
sidewalk cracks in the numbing rhythm
of lumbering elephants
through the labyrinthed complex
of glassed sliding doors
and blinking digital screens
all taunting the canceled flights with
the single interspersed departure
actually leaving on time

4:00 am

those doors cry the heavy
creak of marley's chains as
they crawl to a close
behind
us
to

utter
emptiness

absolute
zero

the quiet of a graveyard
quilted in a blanket
of nuclear fallout
and the hush of
kittens' paws tinkering
among the ash

there is but one lone
tsa soldier
marching his greedy steps
out of earshot
of my excuse me sir
could you please

turns the corner
never has silence
been so

close

4:30 am

the single brave northwest teller
opens his check-in terminal
to a barrage of
half a dozen
enraged displacements
waving confirmation slips
and slamming
luggage full
of anvils and bricks
down onto machines
built in the 1920s

when our turn arrives
the outlook is
as dank as the weather outside

5:00 am

i trigger the alarm
to a patronizing woman
asking if perhaps i have
a toy gun a squirt gun
maybe one of those
new ooze squirters
my replies are all no

what might i have that looks
like a toy gun
a gift for someone i
don't remember
perhaps a squirt gun

mike asks
what did you get ethan
she leans in over me
like a looming cumulonimbus
yes what did you get ethan hmmm
perhaps a toy gun

no
an ipod
i leak out disparagingly
my brother is 29
and i do not buy him toy guns

she glares in disgust at
my absent memory
i say
when you mention toy gun
all i can think of is a
toy gun
and no longer something that
possibly resembles a toy gun
and no i do not have a toy gun

the glare deepens as an old man's
wintry wrinkled prune face
folding laboriously through the
waves of fatty facial flaps

what do you have in your bag
that resembles a toy gun
she inquires for another go at it
this time deepening
all i can see is flaps flapping
and how unpleasant she looks
in slow motion
as i feign listening in search of
a memory jog
for what i had actually packed
even just a small jog

too late
it had already finished the marathon
was parched and exhausted
needed a tasty branded sponsored beverage
a checkered flag
someone to remove the safety pins to
the number on its chest

no time for all that cheer
the squads had already been summoned
the lock broken
my nasty bra flung through the air
on the feet of hermes
garments strewn as
a fourth of july parade
for the locals to sweep up
the streamers of grandma grundies
the confetti of holed socked
the onslaught of ornaments and
stocking stuffers wrapped in tissues
betwixt worn pit-stained shirts
and once-white sweaters
to reveal the

ah-yes-that
moment

the anti-climactic retrieval of
dad's last-minute impulse buy
the zip-tie cord strapper
that i guess
yeah
sorta
resembles
a
toy
gun

5:30 am

the clock
just
ticks

9:00 am

the fingers remain crossed
for standby
waiting as all the ticketed
breeze by
as if sporting poodles
and bouffants
diamond rings
and mink furs

parading across that stupid tuft
of dirty red elite carpet
as if it could fly them there
itself

we are still standing by
as we watch the plane
push back
our faces pressed to the glass
of departing gate e1b
like a child
whose parents
just finalized
the divorce

12:00 pm

there goes
the next plane
and we are
listening to ipod
playing psp
our standby passes
turning to dust
in our pockets

2:00 pm

her silver feathers
under a thick coat
of snow
her breast and belly bare
her back beneath the blanket
blasted off by a symbiotic
parasite

as the door closes on
yet another victim
it's time to bring on the assholes
those whose canceled
friday flights
caused them to spend
saturday night in disgust
and sunday afternoon in
angst

he prowls at the counter
with a shindler's list of
demands longer than the
screen of cancellations
flashing like wallpaper backlighting
on the technical device of life
berating and pointing
fingers while the closing gate
threatens the tip of his nose

when it is my turn
i smile and say
please just do what you can
to get us on the list
i understand
that you didn't make the snow
and by the way
i am going for
coffee myself
so would you
like a cup

she moves us to
the top of
the list

6:00 pm

the flight is delayed
first by fifteen minutes
then by three thousand six hundred
and forty three seconds
then by eleven thousand
and twenty nine seconds

we count the seconds
and don't
even have tickets

at this point we've had
two sausage egg and cheese croissants
eight cups of extra dark espresso
one grande cafe latte
one chicken caesar and one
horrendous turkey blt wrap
two tuscan ham focaccias
between us
well over a hundred delay
and cancellation announcements
and fifty thousand four hundred
and sixty eight seconds of
christmas music
on a one thousand three hundred
and eighty five second loop

and we
count the
s
e
c
o
n
d
s

11:12 pm

looking out the
tiny oval
panel of a dc9
the land is white
and relief veils my eyelids
in a heavy mantle
the drooping ears of
a bassett hound
twitch in burden
against my fogged and
dirty glasses
the plane smells of
stale sanitizer
the boxed-in compression of clean
and sucked out through the tube
that blowing pressurized air
at always the same speed and
temperature
too cold when you are comfortable and
too cold when you are cold and too cold
when you finally get warm
mass thrusted tension
implodes my head
to tiny bits
of gravitational rest

the lights of the cabin
have no dimmer
they just go out
leaving only a trail of
bleeding dots and speckles
breads crumbs to the
exits and attendant call buttons
pleading abuse
from the neglect of too many
smooth flights

lullaby of the engine
roars a quiet tune
the headphones
do the rest

going home
never sounded
so
sweet

j.j.'s blood clot

2008-11-08T21:32:00.000-05:00

i've been up all night thinkin
about it as i'm sure
you have too

your thirty-two year-old lungs
daring to snap you

to release a
bubble of aliens into
your ventricle center

the theater of which placates
the spawning of tiny green men
throughout an otherwise flawless
and recurring system

your aliens make me lose sleep
the battleground broadening
horizoning into mine

i fear that bubble snaps into
your heart from legs or lungs and
removes a splotch of ink from
pages and fingertips
removes a captain from
a ship and a poet
from a collection of
decades

legs cramped from this position
are transferred pain of
the worse-off
vessels in your vessels
twisting along the inlets
stabbing at the peninsulas
beating back the cliffs of
normandy scaling utah to omaha
perched at pointe du hoc
gutting gold swords of juno

looking for any signs that the
troops may be resting
for the aortic infiltration of land
the capture of the flag
the fear of the destruction
of democracy or dictatorship

the crumbling
of the
land
into
the
sea

daily crack on twitter

2008-10-19T15:49:00.002-04:00

want something fun to do? check out my twitter page for awesome links. Take them, spread them, and make them viral! fun, political, retarded: it's daily crack!

mr. ledger, sir, it's too late for your autograph

2008-08-21T15:59:00.003-04:00

there's that magical age
when all celebs shall transform
from being youth into being
all growed up into being
gone

that statistic again

and in the shock of the moment
it has taken me this long
to pen it

for the outpouring blubbering
placation of sudden grief
from traditional media
to become solid honest words
that make sense
instead of drivel
and could have should have would haves
and let me wet my lips for
the kissing of societal high standard botox buttocks
right on the balloon knot
if you will

i didn't worship you
i waited till that tide fell in and out
to write you now for your autograph
you weren't some teen idol
boy band style obsession for me
as with some girls
you certainly were

morbidly so
still are

instead you were a human
a being of flesh and brain matter
severe style and headlined vessels
rhythm and statued torso of skeletal frame
the same as we are all skeletons under there
i saw you as a shame
a mirror a page turning fresh look at
someone not celebrity

but
my age

consumed by the same starvation
equal attention to detail
probably ate the same grub liked similar music
hated the government on metaphoric levels
with similar intensity

transferred pain from page
to bones
not to
implants

my age
exactly
give or take the trivial counting
of days in between and gone by
seemingly of no importance to you now

something is very human about that
not that untouchable silicone and academy award and dolce
and prada level of attempting beingness
but very much on my human level

and not just that thought
that it could have been me
instead

but that
if it were
these past days of unimportance would not have existed at all
i would not have eaten at ole cito today
or kissed my lover or known that my azalea is finally poking
its head out of its little hood
i would not know this day's clouds
or local brewery special
or that my cat has newly discovered clawing the fresh tablecloth
that i would not be admiring

prior moments are as far
as i would have come

on poet justin.barrett

2008-08-21T01:24:00.003-04:00

whose words are like cancer
and candy squeezed up
into cellophane together
as one glistening pitched package
marketed to a
cavitied and chemo'ed
shopper in a
tidy book aisle

loose and funny at one with
tugging of strings inside a body
as thick and hard to cut as
piano wires
drenched and bloodied
from battle in guts
but leftover in the
freezer of some sadistic
mortician's heartstring collection
next to
his lopped heads and
rotted teeth
toe tags
stolen wedding bands of
rhinestoned delicacy
and gi dog chains

those words a
catalyst for such collections
as these

could make any
level-headed become
shining on like a
crazy diamond

could maybe end
anyone's futile striving for
world peace
seeing as turmoil
is the true
truth
and no one needed those
frozen heads
those rotted teeth
those items of non-necessity
after death
anyway

paul, on your deathbed

2008-08-15T15:14:00.002-04:00

looking awfully fragile
these days
you are still
a falcon in the dive
you are still
intense blue eyes set ablaze
by prey sighted in the
crevice of a dry canyon

an oasis in the dirt
thirsting for the floods
once adhered to your tongue

i read the news today oh boy
so hold on to yourself
because this
baby
is gonna hurt like hell

my first love
rivaled by my father
you were every man i
ever knew
ever needed
ever hated
ever fucked
ever left

in line with my
reasoning for men
set the mark too high
for all others to breach
the mortar and

brick

at first feeling
affection attraction
sexual turbulence
we are still cats
in heat
and the roof
is
on fire

at final feeling
paternal
our love affair
warped
in the fatherly face
of time
but more than the roof
is strangely still
on fire
down there

never did that leave
anchored to me
like irons

they say
you never
forget
your
first
love

farewell pollack

2008-06-11T01:35:00.001-04:00

the black film acetate
cooling fans in old projectors
dead in a blur of
dust and cells
you catered they say
a strange and interesting life
on the reel
flickering

the light is out on the projector tonight
the bulb to be replaced by
wasted blasts of silver screens
and red carpets and gold statues
far exceeding their
worths and limits and
times and parking meters

with flesh undeserving
stories not necessary
names not even
valued mentioning
while you could not exceed yours

the legacy wrapped up in
final throes of still lighted flickers
the shadow instead making an
iris of grey
an outline of a stranger crawling
across an abandoned screen of
the old vacant show houses of
deserted detroit and the
rioted east coast amusement parks

as abandoned show houses
of the 1960's
turn to dust
so too
do movers and shakers
and idols all excessively idolized
masterminds
of visions and geniuses still
even undiscovered
but whose mothers remain so proud

as film
sealed snugly but not air tight
in tin canisters
piled in stockrooms
without capital to give birth
thusly dies
and within its tin box
also turns
to dust

so too
does human

the fire sale at the thrift of america

2008-06-06T16:39:00.000-04:00

you were lookin for a bargain
i was nearly half priced
eyes glazed over in monotony like a
salvation army paper doll
toy off the shelf of a dime store
the thrift caricature of a
human being

you were just needing one of those
to spew your message
and i was just needing you
to have one to spread
a packet of seeds i could
scatter through fields
of waste to displace the
garbage
with calla lilies
funeral flowers for
america's dark historic harvest

she is blooming now
from the detritus
her pink face
cheerily peeking at me
sideways
waving a bluster of hope
that could fill

a row of tenement houses
in the urban decay

a thousand glass recyclable jars
that get incinerated instead of reused
the smoke from which
clouds supporters of the others'
judgments visions spectacles

the christmas stockings and
tefillin boxes of a thousand
religious children

hope
a simple word emotion
thought vision
that could very well
change the way one views
the very urban decay
and religious views he
may well exist among

penetrate break and restore
again the customs one
deemed vital
the ideals he couldn't
drink away
buy with a paycheck
blow out in a pack of
smokes
those one still believes
might make a comeback
no matter how acute
or obsolete

those that can't drown
in sorrows
or
beer

the eager spring of politicking

2008-06-03T15:06:00.003-04:00

the bitter cold flap of the cardinal wing
is gone birthing the breath
of the wren a subtle cloud
overhangs the watering can
in my dirty grasp

it is spring
spring in an election year
on the east coast on the dawn of
change and the platform of the people
all sounds so grand i think as
i water sprouts also eager for change

we are pretty fragile now
clumsy eggshells weakened by
the season's cold
but weakened more by the
future's humidity perching us as sloths
so high up in a tree we cannot
possibly know what policies
matter down there on the ground
nor move fast enough
to evade them
or partake in their chaliced finish

the tubes are squawking with blathering idjits
all fork and knived at the table
waiting for a chunk of the meat pie
the stuck pig
the fish sticks

i sip a latte
down below
on the ground
amidst the policies
a springtime latte on the front porch
of a home below the trees

from here i can point fingers
and laugh at the wasted ideas
and breaths
of anonymouses and lonelygirl15's
and politics dot gov

my neighbor climbs slowly up her tree
clinging closely to the constant trunk
with her flag pin
she feels that
if you stand too tall and proud too quickly
you might get dizzy
you might fall
your high horse might just
take off running

i say
get on the fucking horse

at least it will be a
good ride

teddy

2008-05-29T00:54:00.001-04:00

maybe now the windmills of
nantucket can be spinning
on the hills of the sound
where the richies can see

blowin out there with
your legacy your depth
your final great roar as
the last congressional lion

explosions are best
confined to engines
to leave the head
well enough alone

i suppose in those crushing moments
you saw flashes of that infamous
family curse
perhaps the most noted premature deaths
in history
and you saw your own history
fleeting like the last
extinct big cats of the sahara

your head is left with
the holes of your past
filling those legacies in
with decay
decomposition rust
dysfunction distortion
disorientation
instead of
history
instead of
future

bukowski tavern cambridge massachusetts in the spring of 2008

2008-05-07T14:26:00.000-04:00

there is a bar
in boston
that bukowski would not
touch
with the great wall of china
would not gaze upon
a namesake
of tongue and cheek
salutations to alcoholism
buk would
celebrate his beer but not
his alcoholism
for with that comes the
recognition of hollow caves
for organs and
cavities and vessels

buk would identify it
but would sooner
drown in it than
celebrate it

a vague semblance
of hometown
but hometown is expansive
the scars spread around
squares and crossroads
and towns with screwed
up asymmetric non-phonetic names

hometowns lack definitions
lack obedience here
the luster of the very definitions
that make the word
complete

the tom waits leonard cohen
nick cave johnny cash
regular mantra
soundtrack pouring
deafeningly from
all corners of
the bar
where i sit in search of
a hometown
or
something buk would
have liked

lizz

2008-03-14T14:24:00.001-04:00

she sips her can of soda through a straw
a surly sly grin
when she chooses
or not
if she chooses
her neck tattoo says
beautiful life in italian
she is sicilian
i can tell
and i won't act like
i don't know her
i know her well
but she is perhaps
the greatest mystery
laid back and uptight synonymously
a pretty lady and a punker
burnt out from old days
and she's still young
an oxymoronic graceful
wretch of beauty and
hatred and youth and
wisdom
she slings drinks with the best of em
fast and accurate
rarely eye contact except maybe
for the few she's slept with
along the years
again if she chooses
a woman of will
she emanates compassionless strength
brute force and flowering delicacy
in one full blow
which is taken with dependency
on the mood of the taker
if the taker is like this taker
he takes the fancy
the ladylike flowering
as a treat for a bruised mind
and memory
and discards
the rest as the unnecessary
part of life that hardens
us each time we breathe
our protective shell
that is so lovely
when cracked

the who gets it girl

2007-12-19T19:56:00.000-05:00

i am not the one lying in bed
with you so i do not
get the say

but fuck man
what a slap in the face
to turn away years of friendship
for one lousy flip
just like that

shouldn't even matter if it's just
a lame social networking device
that you've occupied to erase me
from your existence
this time

like secrets and hush hushes
make us go away

or like deleting my salutations
wills me disappearance
and keeping me from dangling among
the rest of your friends
in a box
silences our past

no
just what could maybe be
a successful future
that i won't even dignify
with a reply to sender

taste

2007-11-02T14:07:00.000-04:00

worshipping idols
living by alarm clocks
but i couldn’t keep our dreams alive
got a hangnail
got a bad bruise
got a hangover
from nights of want want want
if i can get lost on the interstate
then maybe god got lost
when he was turning my wishes to gold
who knows where can he be
so you got tired of the floor
[where i could smell you
you smell so sane]
and a cold city found you
pretending to be a man
but oh how i love the little boy
so you turned judas
into a folktale from watercolor endings [that i never see]
from which i am still recovering
[oh how your beauty blows me away]
your galaxy has no room for me
to invade your artsy city walls
i know the taste of my tears well
the salt may heal my wounds
you said i’d be a sexy vampire
so i’ll just drink my tears like blood
and pretend you didn’t leave me
for your love affair with the city lights

the phone rings

2007-11-02T13:57:00.000-04:00

isn’t she lovely in princess green
the color of jealousy
the prize of the drunken rock star
while dreaming of him in indy
in shades of violet where he’s maybe forgotten her
or else how to use the phone
she drinks him silly
the pain is somehow gone
for the count of ten
and a new piece of candy
on the advent calendar
but where is my love
where oh where can he be
he doesn’t show much these days
but maybe if i suck his dick
then sometimes we get some progress
he’s a cheerleader for the winning team
tucked inside my prom dress
where he thinks his hands should be
i love him madly in sequence
my thick brain analyzes his intervals
the phone rings i want his breath
i want his freedom
his ring his name his child inside me
i want glycerin feelings
my mother’s mint pie
these familial things to end
this madness just to turn to love

vacancies

2007-11-02T13:55:00.000-04:00

filling these small vacancies of paper and thought
and possibly love with nothing in
particular but pen scratches and
the ghost of our affection licking my
outside window

ashtray

2007-11-02T13:49:00.000-04:00

wear a little school girl outfit
with your hair in pigtails and a little skirt
so i can fuck you up the ass
and pretend you’re someone else
in a hot hot video on mtv
because it’s really all the same
as long as i don’t call you by her name
because it’s so easy to let myself be loved
when i’m loved by someone like her
and if i don’t love this girl in return
it’s okay as long as i don’t show it
just hold out for awhile until
the next best thing comes along
with holes that i can exercise my love in
it feels so good just to be loved
that i’ll hold out until i find
i’m gasping for air because the devil is
making me drown in my own pool of cum
from the stained sheets and the stained
emotions of knowing this isn’t really true
but she loves me all the same
so i’ll ride the wave until it drags me under
she knows when i’m lying
she knows that i only tell her i love her
when i’m drunk but when she makes me into
a good man i’ll break her just for spite
because that’s what the entire universe
has done to me
so bend over while i’m still horny
and if i can’t cum then i’ll just pretend you’re
someone else maybe idols maybe mommy
maybe something sticky in the porno slot
jammed in the vcr with skips in the screen from
repeated play but it doesn’t really matter
as long as i only say her name
i don’t even have to hold her
i’ll just bitch until it drives her away
i just need a cigarette and i could use her for
an ashtray in our disposable love

the guts of a bee

2007-11-01T19:48:00.000-04:00

there are some boys

young mexican welfare boys

running around the parking lot

yelling at a bee

waving their arms frantically

in gyrating disco style

and shrills of prepubescent misunderstanding

in octaves only dogs can hear

dogs and me

as i think out loud really

to the rearview or the steering column

or whatever hears

that the bee is more afraid of you

than you are of it

and that the bee won't sting

if it doesn't feel threatened

if you'd just stand still

and let it find its sugar

instead of confusing it with commotion

as all animals react to commotion

even we humans

whom are always so victorianly above everything

but respond rather vengefully at others

flailing their arms as if sinking on a ship

but the boys don't know or think this

perhaps they are too young or too threatened or

too ill-edumacated

as they stomp the bee to the ground

and stand over it

poking at its little yellow guts

with a stick

we all have to begin somewhere

2007-11-01T19:02:00.000-04:00

i am new to blogger, only just truly exploring it today for the first time in my attempt to place a profile of some sort on every possible webpage to promote my writing and artistic endeavors. this blog is for my writing, mostly poems or short jotted ideas, and it will be updated when i have the time or something new, whichever comes first. i hope you will enjoy. and, if it so pleases you, share it with others.