Poetry: Snaps

The Ticket and the Lecture were an experimental

dance-pop

poetry duo from Statin Island, and they twisted

around the made-up minds

of the tea-cup Uberclass, intellectualizing thought

itself while calling it illusion, and they fucked

everything up the trail painted gray, so to speak

jumbly non-rhymes aplenty flowed

like breath seeping, through the air-brush

daytime taverns called shit

like Twisty’s and Fidget’s, stupid nonsense

like most of it always is

in the country, except the fields

I guess but who cares?

 

Because ain’t shit

out there anyway, wandering aimless

dummies down a path to doom, whichever

direction they end

up heading, smashers hypostitize

from centuries abstract, crushing cream puff

pillowcase pieces of shit, in the city too

as all and sundry are hollow, saying and meaning

nothing at all at any time

anyway so shit, might as well

go to McMulligan’s China Bistro and Tavern

at the bottom of the sea, drink the day

away like a shot, just write your name

in the sand with a stream, cadmium downgraded

from the gin, plumb death infinite, because depth

is too hard to make flow, though a reality.

Poetry: Snaps

Poem: Down Low

Delicious, lovely happenings abound

around the area floating, if you look for them

in your imagination

that is, they reside on the slide

in the pride of losers clinging to each other

while the world changes behind their backs, again

just like before when it happened

to their fathers, grandfathers buddies cousins

boss’s bro’s and bandits, all of us a link

in a chain that knows nothing connects

really, which is sad

but only kind of, honestly.

 

Because Flavor is important, in all places

at once, preference being a fact of life

we express our spirits through, what we enjoy

is like a fingerprint, and could we catalog the world

in this way, as if compiling examples, or would our spirits be

like sand in water, or pliable

like Play-Doh fresh, and I think maybe all

simultaneously, meaning you could create

databases of libraries, so I guess it’s no use

considering impossibilities, but a sense is created

by what you’re a fan of, I guess.

 

All this is important because I am sickened

by what you people like, and this gives me comfort

unbelievably massive, cloaking all of us in a shadow

of spiteful noncompliance, is the consistent popularity

of 2 Broke Girls an eternal question

or just a fact, that most people are braying

assholes who think it’s funny to embarrass ugly people

in front of the others, which it often is

but still, you don’t wanna broadcast that shit

homie, gotta keep the devil

on the DL in more ways than one.

Poem: Down Low

Poetry: Print

The Mondrian print I have on my apartment wall

behind my computer

is shitty, sort of, and the Rothko print is much better

behind me on the floor, scattered among free fly shapes

made falling from the sky

in formation, like a doodle

penis shape, notebook margin

sunbathing, kaleidoscope blues

squeak the pundits, bouncing ball

lobelly babbling, squabelly traveling, what does it matter

in the end to be truthful, is the point

of morality to judge winners

and losers?  I am better than the best

of you in this room, hear record of my tales,

Everyday I give my girlfriend a foot rub

almost

to completion, orgasmically

speaking, and it puts her to sleep

every time, which is useful

when planning bank heists, make sure sure you use chicks

with bonko knockers, of course.

Poetry: Print

Poem: The Last Game

The host held the mic at its base, wielding it like poo on a stick and jabbing it at people,

“What’s the answer?”

words pointed sharp, loud and aggressive at first,

when young, sweat beaded, teeth whitened, a positivity tornado,

after three decades, he hates it all now,

everyone, braying bitch bastards, mistake machines and turbo divas,

making eyes at the camera, never for cue cards and kissy faces,

“God you are ass-ugly,  stupid,”

and they laughed, cheered and put him in magazines.

he stares straight forward, asking himself to monolog, but he forgot the words,

weeping on the white tile floor, landing a squish moist mat,

six bullets in the revolver, ready to bang a curtain call,

“Get this wrong and I die”

he threatens with barrel to temple, pressing and shaking,

“Honeydew,” she said, though the answer was cantaloupe,

two words, short and sweet to be his last,

“so close,”

bang said the gun, everyone screamed

retrospect hilarity, and they study it in school now, too,

he wanted to win oscars, now he’s a psychology thesis,

“Richard Preston, suicide champion, the dawning of a new performance art.”

Poem: The Last Game

Poem: 7 Curses

My favorite curse word is fuck, for obvious reasons

it’s like seasoning, as if salt in soup it flavors

the entire world, acting an umbrella part it plays

tunes on which to end and to start, signaling ejaculation

destruction and frustration, stubbing a toe

pained yelping eruption, ceremonial victory

flagellation enhancement, it wears masks

abundant as the day is long, and I love it.

 

Shit is number two, on my list as well

existing colloquially, meaning general detritus

piled in a wheelbarrow, a weapon of apocalypse

fertilizer ideally, good for growing bonds

to feed plants and air, the best in bouquet

hilarious and lovely, an unwelcome surprise

for debutante balls, in punch bowls especially

useful flowing, solitary signal stench.

 

As the cock crows at dawn, dick is number three

when used correctly, with the suffix -ish

describing celebrities, authority and fluency

set in a sneer, introducing itself fiendishly

everywhere it can fit, stands as pointed

satire for gender politics, most are tiny

bits of self importance, aesthetically accurate

found art, especially when fully erect.

 

At bottom is the ass, end of heavy meaning

for the fourth part, posterior is the central

function of fat, booming bass drum parump

parump parade leader, eyes are drawn down

to its focal point, rhythmically rise and fall

hypnotizing both genders, as well it suffixes

panoramic descriptors, jerk and candy ones

smell what a stone cooks, barely a swear.

 

Bitch is a tricky snitch, betraying sexist potential

leanings of spirit, can’t ignore aesthetic beauty

to the sound of it has, onomatopoetic expression

descriptive to a tee, sniveling backstabbers

conspiratorial politicians, mostly wastrel males

hiding under figureheads, scratching a societal itch

which seems obligatory, patriarchal mastery

sinking ship captain, command no respect.

 

Number six is unrelated, shunned and forgotten

bastard of an unwed home, but times change

mending wounds of slight, suddenly wedlock is cool

as it should be, having lost its vulgarity this term

describes only a villain, general perfunctory

graphic parlance, when spewed with emotion

substantially portioned out, tagged by an exclamation

point when uttered with vigor, it is not nothing.

 

Finally comes a friend, for tits are pleasing

as they move up and down, they sway and bop

the rhythm of time, jiggle jangle or perk up

welcoming a sunny day, as the star rises

they draw my gaze, unforgettable on film

though in person heaven, unfathomably soft

welcoming a lover, for all intoxicating view

from any angle nice, all of them lovely.

 

These are the seven, I could think of today

not impressively various, uses by the truckload

expand and contract, creating a dialect

distinctly American, connecting cultures

without pretext of coin, social status or accent

they carry emotion, comic acoustic shortness

of sound percussing, they are a kaleidoscope

for the masses, linking us to each other as god.

Poem: 7 Curses

100 word story: Surprise Breakfast

There was a sandwich waiting for me on my breakfast table in the morning, so from the jump off I was amazed and energized.  I guessed she’d forgiven me, which was pleasingly ahead of schedule.  It was my favorite sandwich, eggs and sausage, but I couldn’t eat it.  I’d cheated on my wife, and the impact of this betrayal hit me in my soul, looking at the sandwich.  I decided that I couldn’t eat through the guilt, so I went to apologize, tearful and loving.  When I opened the door she tried to stab me, talk about a crazy morning.

100 word story: Surprise Breakfast

100 word story: The Fatalist

Hanging on a ledge by my fingertips, I jeopardize myself like this, and I know this, but I’m not worried.

I could die today and it wouldn’t really make a difference.

Not to me anyway, and they would all get past it eventually.

Probably, really they’d be better off, and let’s face it so would I.

Imagine all the heartbreak and pain I wouldn’t have to experience, and all the disappointments I would never visit on my loved ones.

It would be simple, and I’d never hurt anyone again.

But I’m only ten, and it’s my birthday party.

Oh well.

100 word story: The Fatalist