The morning I clung to the stairs, while mom stuck her finger down your throat
When my younger sister
came back from the hospital,
(war, she will later say)
she had on her wrist a little white thread
and hanging from the thread
a black hole.
A sliver of bone
was removed,
(plucked)
by the boyfriend
and replaced with 27 dusty red aspirin.
Her stomach full of sleeping cardinal wings
(It was Halloween).
The time before this one, when you said you'd stop drinking
Before your sad mouth
it was windy after 8 p.m.
And on Friday
(your day off).
We leaned
forward: close to the floor.
In bed,
the spaces above our chests
were soft, they
were empty and
waiting
to be filled
with sand (and heavy)
and patient as teeth
before ice water,
forming rings:
wailing reminders on the side table.
Next to your gum.
Behind the frame.
Feeding off the faces,
warred on,
by a flask
not yet
dry.
Habituary
The smoke from your mouth
is a crow's nest
or a hollowed egg shell
swaddling a message signed,
Sincerely,
Our sex, like a Dali painting
1.
A low growl
tightening.
2.
Pitch:
the kettle's sharp exhale
a glass harp nervously teased
3.
Trying not to shift.
To keep open.
To spasm like sugar
in water so hot
it splits before the scream
is even thought of.
4.
Before shivering
into diamond
when released.
by John Grey
Stunted
Apartment's so small
even the mice must make adjustments
or they'll bump into each other
as they skitter across the kitchen floor.
Nowhere to park the car
but who needs one anyhow
when I can walk to most places
I need to be.
But two people can't undress
at the same time in the tiny bedroom.
Sadly, there is no other person.
The birds are city birds, that's for sure.
They sit on my windowsill and sing
as if the space it offers is a big deal.
And I have a stove so small,
it has to puff itself up
just to boil water.
At times, I feel like Alice in Wonderland
after she munched on one of those
"Eat Me" bits of bread.
I feel as if I could walk the city
with this third floor flat on my shoulders.
And yet, I only have to live.
I don't need to see my face
in a mirror that isn't cracked
from top to bottom.
I can easily sleep
though my feet dangle off the edge
of the bed.
I can eat takeout at the table.
I can sit on the crate I use for a chair.
The digs are humble
and I can be humble with them.
And I can rest my laptop on the lap
it was intended for,
scatter emails to the ends of the earth.
I can be a little man in an undersized place
and yet still touch others,
big and magnanimous.
I even get replies.
And none come to the cramped in me.
Maid Poem
It's not so much I'm wealthy but I'm useless.
And I've money enough, at least, to afford my shortcomings.
So twice a week, Adolfina. the cleaning lady comes.
She's in her forties, from the Dominican Republic,
speaks in an accent so thick, my ears would need to be
Moses to part it. But she can get into the corners.
She can maneuver behind the refrigerator.
She can scrub a bathroom floor so clean
no roach would be seen dead crossing it.
And it's no slave-master thing, that's for sure.
In fact, for the hour or two she's here,
that feisty gray-haired woman is in charge.
I'm the one who has to leave the room,
whose every move and action is at her behest.
while she shakes her head, repeats the
Spanish for pig-sty over and over.
When she's done, she asks me for the thousandth time,
why there is no woman in my life,
someone to mop and wipe and scour and
not hold out her palm when she was done.
I don't have the heart to tell her that there was
a woman once and that these are the very things
that she refused to do.
The day my lover left, she slammed the door
while screaming, "What you need is a maid!"
And a month later, Adolfina arrived
My heart was still broken but at least the pieces
were no longer lying around.
The Suburban Jungle
He shudders when a car backfires.
"Got me," he mutters, though not in jest.
And the time that soda bottle exploded,
he dropped to the floor,
covered his head with his hands.
Don't pop a balloon anywhere near his ears,
is all I ask.
And get him out of the house on July 4th
a drive into the country,
far, far away from the mortar blasts of fireworks
and the colored flak in the sky.
These days, he is not made for sudden noises.
Loud is okay
as long as it's a visible and persistent loud.
I've seen him sleep through jackhammers,
freight trains passing by,
even a blasting stereo could not wake him.
No, it's the cars in the trees he fears.
It's the soda bottle hidden in the brush,
bubbles pushing hard against glass walls.
And there's that balloon in the third hut from the right,
one pin prick from taking him down.
And it's that July 4th, every day for one long year,
a blast here, a rocket there,
more dread than awe,
more young man's horror than children's laughter.
Twenty years ago,
the doctors at the VA were confident
there'd be no long term effects.
Sudden effects, they didn't mention.
Table of Contents
by Chase Owens
Outlaws
You and me,
let's be outlaws.
Fasttalkers, swindlers, grifters, and conmen.
Crooks, bandits, and pirates.
Let's go on the run,
with model white smiles on our most wanted posters.
I'll get a black leather jacket
and fill its pockets with cans of beans.
We'll trade sunrays for moonbeams
and the steady marching suburbs
for brambled back woods safe houses.
Let's head for the Sierra Nevadas
and carve outlaw creeds
in sequoia saplings so in a hundred years
they'll sit with the stars.
We'll run from this boredom
that settles in bone,
the apathy that weights heavy
like dirt on the coffin.
Let the good people slam closed their shutters
at the sound of our step.
Let's be young and irresponsible,
find Atlas
and shove him over,
until this world rocks and rolls.
When they have us surrounded
we'll embrace and never let go.
Let's be
cheaters, smugglers, and thieves.
Hustlers and scammers,
on the run from a culture
unwilling to do what it takes
to make love last.
A Prayer
These days I pray for poetry.
Poetry for the weathered wanderer
with a dust soaked cloak that marks a true rambler.
Poetry for the wind burned sailor and the starry-eyed storyteller.
For children wrapped in bedtime blankets
and mothers and fathers giving out goodnight kisses.
For those alone and those together,
God give them poetry.
For the disenfranchised,
the disillusioned, the unwanted abortion dodgers of failed evolution,
with lotus stains on their lips.
God give them poetry.
For new idealists camping under city lights
and an old puritan who had plans to put a city on a hill.
God give them poetry.
It's a small gift but it may keep us sane,
while we're working with callused hands and kicking up the dust of men.
It's a small gift but we all need to see words stretched
and pulled, until they fit around the supernal truths
we've always suspected.
For my generation,
the vainglorious, loquacious, bombastic, erotic and neurotic,
all sympathy with little empathy,
crowned kings and queens of triviality, slouching on thrones of apathy,
God grant us poetry.
Write it on our bones,
so we won't forget how to live passionately.
For My Sleeping Beauty
Go to bed with stories.
Go to sleep with songs.
I've strung my heart tight
for you, a harp
I play while your eyes are closed.
Dream of dragonflies,
of forgotten seaside coves,
of poking clouds fat with rain
and laughing with the sudden shower.
And while you're there,
empty your pockets
and find the kiss I left you.
I have another
waiting for you to wake.
A Guide to Marriage
Watch the way the spoon imposes its shadow on the bowl. The silent way it breathes. It wasn't her soup, or the bustling around the kitchen. Rather, this is the image that was fallen in love with: the shadow, the chipped bowl on the wooden table, the looming position of the breadbasket. Above all: the quiet. The still. The home: lopsided under their feet as they balance themselves together in this wood, avoiding each other's gazes.
The Way Politeness Wears
Later, when they question, tell them.
Tell them I bit back my tongue, not because I didn’t know how to raise my voice but because I wouldn’t. Tell them I learned the meaning of girl when I was in an old white plantation house, in the new South, against a platter of corn and pies. Tell them I learned it when I carried out dishes to men who sat, sputtering opinions of supreme court judges and the half black half white running for president an the former wife-lady opposing him. Tell them I learned the weight of its meaning as I balanced my feet between the curves of plates and salad forks. Tell them I heard its chains clinking, pushing into my tongue along with thick cornbread words like sweetie, don’t worry your pretty little face. Let me explain it to you, honey. Of course we wouldn’t expect a girl to know that, doll. Later, when they ask why I did not speak, tell them I fell silent sitting at a wooden dining table, in a boat of boys, a sea of laughter churning my stomach. Tell them I the back and forth sway of their conversation sickened me, the loud waves that slapped the table when they spoke, no care for the froth left in their wake. Tell them I bit my tongue until I tasted copper, that even with red spit I held my head high. Tell them I smiled politely in someone else’s home. Tell them I wore my skin proudly. Tell them it burned against my yellow dress. Tell them I was beautiful. Tell them I sat still and drank my own blood while everyone else drank wine. Tell them I smiled. Tell them I learned the meaning of girl here, brown girl in a white plantation house, that I let it weigh down my tongue, hammering it to silence.
Apple peeling.
The earth gives forth wheelbarrows of gifts that I bake and spice. I slice off their skins frantically, no care for their exposed insides wheezing on my countertop. On one, I slice my finger, watch my exposed blood cough into a droplet before it cries down my hand. Later, friends gather around and marvel at the flaked crust spice apples in their plates. I smile, do not tell them my blood has gone into this meal. The soil. The earth's fingers, letting them fall into my basket.
Falling into flight
And really, the point I’m tryin to make ‘bout these birds is, they don’t know what the fuck they’re doin’.
No, no, follow me on this one.
They don’t know what the fuck they doin’. They ain’t got no idea. You ever watched a bird fly? Seriously, for a long time, not just casually looked up and see them dart around? Its like it confuses isself into motion. Like everytime they try they learning it again, for the first time. Like they inventin’ the wheel again or somethin. I mean it- watch ‘em-
See that one? Its falling into flight. Accidentally. Its fallin and fallin and then at the last minute it remembers how to use its wings. Like a last resort, when Goddamn man, those things take up half its body! And that’s what I’m sayin man, that’s the point I’ve been makin, is those birds, they jus don’t know how to use the air properly.
Not like I’m saying we do at all. The land I mean. We don’t got no wings you stupid fuck. But we got these legs man. I’m just sayin we don’t either. Well what I mean is, well what I’m tryin to say….
What I mean is, what the fuck. I’m just a person. I don’t got no fuckin idea.
Eros
The body manipulates itself for the pleasure
of forgetting, plowing through tits and ass
like sheaves of wheat, sweat dripping
from field to field, life covers life, both run
from the true, fear consumed with a moan
a sigh, a whisper of a misplaced name
on a stranger's lips, memory never gained
a race never won.
Phileo
The jeans, cemented to my calves by sand
and salt water will not let go, stick close
as the afternoon sun glazes them to skin
scissors can not pry them from me, the push
and pull to remove them only causes pain
as they finally rip free, leaving me exposed
to the cool of the bathroom, the sting
of hot water peeling the beach from my body.
So it is, removed from my friend
a brother of spirit, and not of flesh
his voice removed from my ear
his guiding hand removed
from the small of my back
leading me against the waves.
Table of Contents
Selective Starvation
Five more hours. Tick Tock . The digestive enzymes
are slowly subdued by drinking water flowing down
from esophagus. That big gulp with eyes at wee clock;
bodily need of some dizzy eyesight. Poor birds walking
in circles. With some twinkle? I start to blink keeping
my soul open for strength. But, this is too much. Too
laid- back. Got laid- off. Staring blankly at Nowhere .
Hands cripple and start to be cold. With all ARRGGS
and painful looks, the meaning of starve exists here.
It proliferates ONLY here. Why not THERE ? Choosy.
Zero Hour
The clock always ticks and instructs me to wake up, be alive and be aware. In a split of a second, I hastily grab a chance- the once in a lifetime privilege to put up my eye bags again. At times, I fight with the time. I do run out of it. At my verge of desperation, those eye bags transform into lost souls doing somnambulism each night. I just pound the walls for I always argue that, sometimes, I also need to feel the world where I live in. Time is always not yours.
It's You Mother Mary
I feel so lonesome on the campus,
like a candle among condescending suns;
my thirsty eyes seeing only one figure.
Through the library's TV-like window
I discern a tree trunk
resembling a devoted woman,
holding endless branches and leaves
displaying and relishing security,
oblivious to the woman's perpetual pain.
It's You, Mother Mary.
Waiting for my friend each dewy morning
I see that massive rock,
with vivid cornflowers leaning
against it, near the elegant bus stop;
it's like a flawless woman.
It's You, Mother Mary.
When I spend the evening under the bridge
admiring the fragile swans transport their
blissful bodies across the river
I feel a motherly presence
in the rhythmic ripples, as the harmonious
water turns into a gilt-edged frame
for Your beautiful, brave face.
I know too well,
mothers are experts,
perfect experts in lying about their miseries.
And at night, along
the ceiling there is always
that silent workaholic carrying a
cute baby in her tireless arms.
My friend once told me that my
ceiling is a canvas paying homage to slavery.
I know
it's You Mother Mary.
I won't tell my foolish friend
I always keep the light on to
feel Your Holy Light, Holy Support
and Holy Silence.
Where I Find Love
I find my love from
the dust on the windowsills,
from the blackened flowers
in a garden
behind my favorite bench.
If this vast sky can see itself
in a puddle,
why cannot I see
my beloved in the sky?
The human tongue is
never tired to spell love.
I find my love from
the whispers of holy silence.
If you play with love fire
jets out and
burns the whole stable.
Drawing scars on
dead love stories is useless.
The cops won't arrive
and arrest you
for changing your name
one morning
because of love.
I find my love from
a tireless, tiny river
flowing over unknown lands.
Maharashtra Magic
Solemn bindi beaming with new oomph,
pondering how to spend the holy day—
On her lips are legends that
may resurrect a whole dead civilization.
Her flowing, fragrant hair
might instruct cascades how to commit
suicide safely down the loftiest cliff.
Her hourglass figure is timeless.
O Lord Ganesha, thank you
for adorning this purple doll
in that impeccable kashti, in
which she has captured peaceful,
friendly waves of Krishna River .
Bright bangles are poised to melt
into circles of pious passion— sure,
every wind will reload its perfume
by blowing on her whiteness while
her prayers will shine like the
conspiracy of a thousand peacocks.
Queenly expressions—
stately, hand on hip,
she can paralyze the eyes of kings,
her feet flinging dew into fiery rings,
towards an intimidated sun.
She, a living tapestry of cultures
breathing in her green heart.
The oval mirror that has tasted
the feast of her beauty
is the most priceless magical eye,
showing me how she neither
has form nor is without form.
A Dying Filly
Your wild eyes fixed on the sand,
you dance for the mild moon
hanging just above the horizon.
One leg holding the bullet
that intoxicates you, the rhythm
in the other three
matching the terror in your
tail, digging into the warm sand.
The moon feels
you are her dying rival
amidst the scent of the pine trees.
I feel you are a dancing angel,
taming the stray devil
even in her last moments.
Nostalgia is in the wind
blowing at your undulating hair
and you seem so alive,
graceful, smiling filly.
Your eyes can't lie
and even buried flowers will
always get up from sleep
when I'll think of your muscles,
rippling in passion
towards the hills of adventures.
Your tail
like a snake ready to sting,
you've made me dance,
in pain, with death
in your once majestic eyes.
Writing a Cripple's War Draft Of Eventuality
Bang
bang
broken
glass in the eye it goes, and
darkness follows for eternity.
Before the darkness there
was light, a house, windows
clouded by dust and
grime of neglect.
In the middle of the living room,
without living, sat a turned over
table grey and arabbed, the couch
warped with age, the fireplace
smoldering with a fire not made
from wood and flint.
The night was cold,
a place to stay was a necessity
to hide from the guns and fire and death.
A fire made from that death was made in fire
was placed a signal from help
that only led to the dark.
Rolled into corners for warmth
away from cold sand that filled everything
with its grime that would mean a grim
glass mixed with flame. The fire brought
misfortune bringing the darkness of the
eyeballs that lacked purpose as tho from
warring peoples with purposes that
shouldn't have mattered to the divine.
Screams were heard but only after the bells
stopped ringing with a hunched back pulling
on ropes with the strength of 500 men and 3 horses.
The screams in the dark were those of a blind
man whose face was marred by war and fire,
glass & grime in a grave that was not home.
The coarse red never seen again yet always seen
in holes of mirrors that showed pictures
of a working walnut.
The mirrors are there but they are cracked
and smashed in places, one beyond repair,
the others stuffed with shards that aren't
part of the right kind of mirror.
Those pieces can't be used to fit those mirrors
the fired glass isn't the same and the darkness
is endless.
There was nothing anymore,
the rainbow laughs at the blind
a smile of the world
that taunts the endless
broken mirrors until anger
overtakes and more mirrors break.
The moon too laughs at the sightless
with its in-audible mouth
that dares to live without air to breathe.
But one day the shards are plucked free
with gushes of head red fluid
that is always near without being seen.
One mirror is left
and from there things look flat and grey
lacking color in the old static
that threatens the inevitable.
Aurora
I hoped you would come
bringing blues and golds
in blinking rays and cotton waves
Everything in me
hoped you would come
with flecks of glitter, gold and cobalt
You move and the sun falls, rises
in your hair, eyes, skin like gold dust
a universe circles your irises
You turn the world from watercolor
to oil paint, rich in golds, azures
my fingertips find the textures of you
Your laugh, a cascade of plum turning silver
spirals in me as I try to remember
the scent of you, the harmonies of your face
You left me in a trance that spins
where the world flows, but without you
I can't stop watching the door
Warmth, loving on my breath
fills the spaces around me
where you were, a mosaic of colors
Transfix me with love
and let me study your geometry
your wide A sounds, your blue eyes
Red under prickling moon-glint
I offer you my two hands full of stars
but wake before you take them
Your colors flood to me
my heart opens to them, echoing as they swim
in through the pathways
Ripples of silk golden and waters sapphire
create a hush. White light keeps
me in your hues
stanza break
I die away waiting for you
in thin silence, substanceless air
a scar in my hand, I hold you
You watch me, lightning webs across me
warm and human, our legs close in the booth
your bed-blue eyes have me.
Falls Apart
I climbed into her room, her moon garden
with magnolia, snowdrops, yarrow, and foxglove
with tulips, candytuft, and pear trees
with these, there was me
and her dead body
under me, young and brown.
I let her go. I knew she'd die
I killed my girl in Kuwait. I let her mother
suck the air out of her room and I killed her
I let her mother tell her we couldn't be
I let her believe I let her go
I let her go. I let her go.
I let her go with earth chattering under foam
on her street, on angel drive
I let her go in thin blue air
I let her go. Closed her brown eyes
I taste the salt of them. Stillness
in material blues, darkness throws me through
air. She dissolves when she dies. I let her go
my arms close and close around nothing
my insides, my insides, she took with her
unrepentant center petals
trap forbidden patterns
I felt, I died. I let – I collapse from the sky – her go.
I close my eyes, see forms in surf
warmth, wash bodies, beautiful
clinging in waves truly dead truly
the beautiful dead ones
she whispered don't ever let me go
don't ever.
The Coffeehouse, Normal, IL
At the coffeehouse, I fall in for four hours
molecules evaporate note by note
the scent of curry spinning in the center
it is dots and lines of orange
in the oxygen and carbon dioxide
the wooden furniture, longstanding room
remind me of the smell of cats from another time
behind me, the woody, musky scent of men
before me, the soft, soapy smell of women
silver glints off the spoon and mug, clinking
through my reverie
whiz khalifa in instrumental
to my ear buds makes me feel like I belong
a couple of hours south of chicago
all in my blood with bumping, spanking bass lines
round folks jamming into booths
my feet in purple converse, faded star
bouncing on the gray carpet
drumming secretly, heartbeating
phatt man, the heart beats backwards
coffee with trailing cress twists the senses
november corners
the aura
brown so alive it bends beyond the rim
warmth
down deep into the infinity of me
where there is time
a balloon of light with stripes of all colors
hangs over Mary's head as she stacks cups
with long brown hair, mellifluous, waxing gold
she lapses into the fold of air bringing her footprints
her white teeth creating song, her voice bel canto
she walks mezzo-soprano, mezzo-legato, full bow
with controlled wrist movements,
flesh and shapes, her body moving
the chocolate sound of cello, bringing cadences
of night and warmth taking the space inside me with her
and bringing it back with the lilt of her phrasing
the coffeehouse is a map that marks the crossroads
and tells me that I know what I never should have known
it shows me its ghosts and dares me
to tell them to come and get me with the lights off.
by Gary Glauber
Night Ride
Sometimes there's no choice but to surrender
to ruling passions, the emotional turbulence
that courses through the soul in a crazy tarantella
that spins and flies in the face of all patient logic.
Let the beating of black wings commence, allow
the dark shadows to stretch beyond the moonlight's
reach, through the coyote pack's frightening wails,
into the yellow realm of reckless judgments, and
the pale blue of wistful conquests remembered.
It is anger that moves fast, a chemical imbalance
in the inner canyons of the cranium, neurons
that spark and burn, a heat lightning that cracks
a restless summer sky, singing and singeing,
a taste of ozone in the air, but no victims claimed.
Cage those afflicted, wait for the jungle storm to pass,
find refuge in the seasoned plains of reason. There's
hope that veils are lifted soon, as moods come full circle
and this border battle ends - no apologies or regrets,
only things that pass unspoken, broken into flags
of hidden colors and again, all-knowing smiles.
Theory of Flight
He says flying's never the issue,
it's landing that's a problem.
That's not flying, it's falling, she points out.
I'm falling for you, he says in response.
She looks down into the deep chasm
of the dusty canyon in front of them,
imagining how this turns out
when that landing finally occurs.
Fair is Fair
Over the past year, the moments looked me in the eye
I tried to focus my pupils on the figures surrounding them
But the blur only spread into my ears
Now, these songs follow me around
While the incredible muses that they're written about
Are just figments of my clouded memory
"And you can have all the poems"
Betcha
tired of pickin meat off them bones
with dull teeth every meal
sharpen up your syntax for show
cause my ears are aglow
mumblin bout the rumblin in our stomach muscles
what's the fuss about?
the house is tumblin,
crumblin down with feral fuckin
mumblin mouths
blasphemous blouse
you're blinkin slow
you're telepathic telephone is ringin off the hook
the books youre burnin
learn to take it slow
so sway with troubled tremolo
and craft your clammy chemicals
slip beneath the gorgeous gaze
eat your mana, learn to pray
break my teeth, i'll crack a smile
scratch my throat, i'll walk a mile
cut the strings and bruise your wrists
twist your tendons, crack your ribs
i dont see stars
i see shots in the dark
i notice i am spinning
and i turn inside out
yeah, i blame myself
but i blame everyone else as well
what's fair is fair is fair is fair is fair is fair is fair
right?
too goddamn bright with no source of light
extras in black & white movies
nervous little blood cells
black out the details
comradery with dirt handled junkies
old ingrown thought beams
spilled mantras on torn jeans
porcupine calligraphy slate
ambled through the autumn
all the doctrines that i taught
oh, its not a diagram i debate
i'll hold my breathe and watch you writhe any day
i see and hear everything i know
a fraction late
but no one ever notices
due to their own delay
Headache
when you start to grow moss on your southern bark
makin doe-eyed doll face children walk for miles
while the highway isnt in six acres of your forest fog
who you long for longs for me for long tree branches
substances sucked bone dry
lotus lashes
and then there's that bashful black top
on a bashed in black top
these walls are a dam holdin back the water dammit
admission to the funeral folly falls far from frail
would you like to drink up your existential cocktail?
or mediate on a peacock feather?
it'll make your head spin
i wanna tangle weird wires down our spine
i wanna snake wrap ravel around your waist
i want you to grab my skull and shake me at the moon
spill my eyes on each milky curve as your pour out on the floor
we'll be two mirrors swirlin in the water reflecting how the water swirls around us
you talk about spirals like you have an idea what youre getting into
we are both clueless, no one's gonna fill us in
but we'll learn our lesson and drink down our poison
stare long into it, it'll make your head spin
my teeth are all rotten
and my tongue is cotton
there's some crimson static in them ivory o's
i swim through some ghost rings
slow motion movies
my cup is half empty and it overflows
i look out for ursa minor
sittin in an eternal diner
its a harsh reminder that there's silence still
in a smoke break montage
there's a gargoyle in the garage
and all that hodge podge for some powdered pills
youre such a headache
such a headache, darlin
and i never
get in the way
by Calvero
goodbye, smiles
She
doesn't smile at me
anymore
after I kiss her.
She
used to smile at me
all the time
after I kissed her,
a great big grin
from ear to ear,
and I'd think,
Man,
what a great kisser
I am.
I must really be
the best.
But I can't take all the credit.
Good job, lips.
Good work, tongue.
You guys make a great team!
I loved seeing
her smile at me
after we kissed.
She would smile at me
so big
and so wide
that I thought the corners
of her lips
were going to tear
and rip into her cheeks,
and blood was going to spurt out
everywhere
and all over my face.
That would've really been gross.
Plus I don't do well
with blood.
Seeing a lot of it
makes me want to pass out
like I have
the vapors
or something.
So I'm glad I never saw
her smile
tear into her cheeks
like that,
but at the same time,
if it ever had happened,
I secretly would've been
at least
a little bit happy
knowing that it was
because of me
that she had torn her face
smiling.
But
I don't have to worry
about that happening
anymore,
because she
no longer smiles at me
after I kiss her.
I don't know why.
I really wonder
what it could be.
I don't have bad breath.
I don't eat stinky foods
like onions,
or garlic,
or Limburger cheese.
I brush my teeth
too.
I also floss.
Well,
not every day.
Occasionally though,
and I chew minty gum
too,
and I shower.
I think I smell good,
so I don't know what it is.
Maybe I'm just not good
at kissing anymore.
Maybe I'm slipping.
Maybe I just need
to practice
my kissing a little bit.
I could do that.
I could practice
my kissing.
Look…
Mwah!
Mwah!
Mwah!!!
There.
I feel like a better kisser
already.
I hope that's all it is.
The one before her
stopped smiling
after I kissed her
too,
then she left me,
but I guess that's what happens
sometimes.
Women leave you,
and they take away
the kisses,
and the head,
and the hand jobs,
and the fucking,
but what always comes closest
to killing me
is that they take away
the smiles
too.
The smiles
are always
the first to go,
and then, all at once,
they suddenly take away
the smell of their hair,
their laughter,
the after-sex showers,
the kitten noises
they make
as they become sleepy,
the sitcom lullabies,
the sighs of euphoria
they let out
as they lay down in your arms
because you make them
feel safe, and,
in return,
you feel more like
a man
than you ever have
in your entire
life.
They take away
all those things,
all those wonderful things
which returned levity
to your encumbranced
being.
Amy,
you have already taken away
the smiles.
When you take away
everything else
please
do it slowly
and steadily.
It may be long
and painful,
but this way
it will not
kill me.
You see,
Amy,
I can get kisses
from any girl,
from any person,
even from your roommate's dog.
He tries to kiss me
all the time.
But what I can't get
from any of them
is your smile.
So please,
either give it back
or let me go.
I think
that's right.
I think
that's only
fair.
epitaph
"Sophomorically wise,
Idiotically brilliant."
That's what I want it to say
on my gravestone.
I used to want my gravestone to read,
"Man, what a monster cock he had…"
but I didn't think anyone
would believe it.
Plus,
I want to have kids someday,
and after I die
I'd like for them to occasionally come
and visit my grave,
and I just feel like they'd be
a lot less inclined
to come visit me if I had
"Man, what a monster cock he had…"
etched onto my tombstone.
But maybe if I did a good enough job,
maybe if I was a decent enough dad,
they'd still come and visit my grave
regardless of whether I had that
engraved
on there
or not.
I figure that if I can get my kids
to come and visit my grave
after I die
at all,
even just once,
that maybe my life
wasn't a complete failure,
maybe I wasn't
a complete fucking fuck up
as a human being.
We all just want to feel special,
and we would all love to be adored
by the entire world,
but maybe you don't need
the entire world to find you special,
maybe you don't need
the entire world to adore you.
Maybe all you need
in the end
is a handful
of people
that will still come
and visit your grave
even if you have,
"Man, what a monster cock he had…"
engraved on your tombstone.
Maybe that would be a victory
for me in itself,
and maybe,
just maybe
someone would actually believe
I had a monster cock
too.
Man
that'd be awesome.
energy drinks and diet sodas
I like energy drinks.
I like diet sodas too.
They both taste good,
and therefore I drink both of them
quite frequently,
especially diet soda.
Because I drink so many
energy drinks,
and because I drink
so many diet sodas,
I have to pee quite a bit
throughout the day.
Pissing so much
throughout the day
might annoy most people,
but I really don't mind it.
I don't mind it at all
actually.
I like taking pisses,
especially long ones.
Sometimes when I have to pee
I hold it in
for as long as I can.
This way my pisses last longer
coming out.
I like taking long pisses.
They feel extra good
as they spray out of me
and into the toilet.
I spend most of my day
feeling nothing at all,
and when I do finally feel something
it's usually something
pretty horrible like
sadness,
frustration,
hopelessness,
embarrassment,
aggravation,
anxiety,
shame,
dread.
But the long pisses make me feel good.
They're an amazing release.
They're like a longer
but much more mild orgasm.
Plus I don't have to chase
or beg
or by some girl dinner
or drinks
to get one.
That and I don't need to repay the favor
and have my face
stuck in between her legs
for forty-five minutes,
tracing designs
all over her crotch
with the tip of my tongue
as she squirms
and writhes
and continually tells me how close she is.
(I'm either really bad at it
or really good at it.
I'm not sure yet
as to which one
though.)
No,
all I need to do
to feel good
when I don't have any other reason
to feel good
is drink an energy drink,
or a diet soda,
and then eventually
I'll take a piss
and feel good again
inside.
It's never much,
and it never lasts for long,
but only until you're able
to find small amounts
of happiness
loitering in the shadows
and cowering in the darkness
will you ever be able to find it
anywhere else.
That's why I drink
energy drinks
and diet sodas.
That and they taste
really good
too.
freak show
Sometimes
I wish I had been born
with a dildo
on my head.
Especially one
that comically
wobbled
back and forth
whenever I walked.
That'd be great.
Or sometimes
I wish I had been born
with a third arm
shooting straight
out of my ass,
and instead of a hand,
I just had a tiny
boombox
on the end of my arm
that played nothing but
Creed
over
and over
and over.
Or sometimes
I wish I had been born
with vagina lips
on my mouth
instead of these regular
lips I have now,
and with a dog's snout
with a cold,
rubbery, wet
black nose
instead of this
plain old,
boring,
normal nose.
Or sometimes
I wish I had been born
a different color, like
purple
or red
or blue
or green
or periwinkle
or teal.
Any one of those
would be fine
with me.
I'm not picky.
Man…
It really would have been great
to have been born with any one
of those deformities,
to have something
so freakishly wrong with me.
People would've
stared at me,
spat at me,
laughed at me,
ridiculed me,
bullied me.
It would've been amazing.
Well,
maybe not amazing,
but at least then
I would've had a reason as to why
I itch
for isolation,
why I crave
solitude.
Because now
people don't
stare at me,
spit at me,
laugh at me,
ridicule me
or
bully me,
and still,
all I want is to be
all alone,
all alone,
all alone
all the time,
and you know what that means:
that means there's
really
something
wrong with me.