Archive | March, 2015

Picking The Hairs Of You Out Of My Teeth

13 Mar


picking the hairs of you out of my teeth
I am not smiling, but wonder
where is true love hiding?
because it wasn’t hiding in there


(from my book Beautiful Graveyards, Farfalla Press)


we are this blood

8 Mar


we are this blood


your love has shunned our outlet mall

leaving me still dressed in last summer’s Don Johnsons

unable to eat more than four burritos

in three sittings


while you sit inside your own dreams

of a somewhat more exotic JC Pennys

sipping mai tais out of mug shaped training bras


trained to destroy me

like grown up chicks

with Robert Plant hair


like to do




(from my book Avenge me, Baobob Tree Press)

Phil Dickpill

6 Mar



Phil Dickpill


Dear Friend. Please forgive me this solicitation but I am not spam for you. I am president of my own extraordinary company and have sit down to the business of writing you personally because that which I have in my bag of offerings for you has been proven to improve male confidence and save lifes. Small to flacid penis is everywhere not your fault if you are one of millions who sufferr. Your never alone with this. Studies also show big members make the females go vroom. My pills help america love women. You are america yes. You try pills two. Urgencie is already hear now! If you continue to have small gang plank your women will go shopping. This is the week of glorius specials! 100 pills per bottle equates 100 wrecktions for only 89.95! Thats less then 1 US dollar per lift off! You can get harder or longer your choice! No shame! Take product myself and last lady I goaled wept flowers of glory! Money back guarentees! Your dick no get bigger nobody pays! Persistnt limpnes same thing! My thanks for your attentions in this matter. Call me Phil!

While Watching Birdman (or: and also a couple of scenes from Jaws 3)

6 Mar


note: the following was written a few nights ago by Jonathan Montgomery, Shayna Lynn, and me after reading poetry on the radio (link to listen pasted down below) and then going back to my place and watching Birdman.

While Watching Birdman (or: and also a couple of scenes from Jaws 3)


“You’re drinking? “I’m having a beer.”


I’m having a Batman


My hairpiece removes 20 drinking years


While also looking back fondly on the days

when we couldn’t turn our neck


I’m having a Hulk

–the better one


Make it a double green

like shamrocked ass cheeks


with extra why-me?

and shaken angry/not stirred


Ok! Look who just walked in the theater bar…


A chance at being heard

leaving behind a telekinetic scene


screaming things like:

I want to hide my pot

in your peanut butter!


And ‘It’s only real if I’m hard’

“I need to feel real”


He can only fuck if they’re watching


so if you’d

you know,

like to look at me later

that’d take care of the watching


That’s hard too. Get self respect!


that’s how you keep yourself

on the edge of “did I

just do that?”


That’s how you make

a gravy & tomato sandwich

when all you’ve got is bread


(Who wrote this?)


The drunk on the stage

begging for flour


I am my busted nose’s

worst dream


I’m not afraid to bleed

When is he going to fly?


maybe as soon as it stops

snowing outside


Is there gonna be a blow scene?


Hold on a voice is talking to me


(Deep growl) Truth or Dare:

stick the long tracking shot

part of my penis

all the way into your mouth


He can only fuck when they’re watching

“Let em watch she says”

Is this my finest hair piece?


This is what we talk about

when we talk about

watching two people eat soup


one person takes turns being

the spoon

the other person takes turns

being the mouth


The critic Campbell’s labels

her actless opinions


Everyone gets fifteen minutes

of Warhol


which will take at least 30 minutes

of whisky to wash the Warhol out


Technicolor stew pot situations

the Birdman will rise again


I’m Birdman!


Everything we’ve ever lost

is Birdman!


the sock stuck behind the dryer


the cereal that falls on the floor

and rolls under the fridge



The guy you used to know

who was half-bird


is half bird man

like your love for me,

half Birdman


maybe your affections are

a seagull gliding over the ocean


or a jellyfish




The final act is a toaster

on number 6

Croutons or cracker bang?


the toast gets confused

but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t love you

even though it doesn’t love you



goes the toast


Big baby’s a banger

hope he wins a Tony


and if not a Tony

at the very least

a Ralph


Hope he gets a beak

for a new nose

or maybe a Joker face


or a new nose that can tell

the difference between Twitter

and my life in paint


a Darwinian adaptation

bright yellow or orange



A nose as big as

the nose building

in New York City


a face the size of daydreams


Cauliflower clouded

the few, did you see?


And landed with a

symbol crash?


the natives,

being no fan of percussions,

shot arrows into the very

heart of things


Birdman doesn’t eat seeds


But Seed-Man eats birds


and Seedbird eats man

when it’s on sale


And Jaws eats man whenever


Da nunn, Da nunn…

3D fish head

I didn’t need that leg anyways


we’ll just forward to the part

where he eats in the tube




(Michael Keaton, we love you)



radio link:

Disgruntled Plumbing

1 Mar



Disgruntled Plumbing


The kitchen sink looked down inside its own plumbing, listening to the man in the living room. The man who lived there. The man who tended to spend most of his off duty time writing war poems to his ex-wife, drinking Canadian whiskey, and watching old Sci Fi shows on TV. The same guy who didn’t like walking up stairs when he had to pee, and being that the toilet was on the 2nd floor, the man, this goddamn man, had taken to peeing in the kitchen sink.


The kitchen sink sat there like it had to, listening to the TV, tensing like a molested squirrel whenever a break would appear in the dramatic tension of the story because these were the kind of places the Networks tended to run commercials.


The kitchen sink hated commercials because it was during the commercials that the goddamn mutilator of proper urinary etiquette tended to do most of his pissing.


As the kitchen sink sat in itself flinching at the outrageous amount in which he hated those fucking commercials it could hear, sounds from the living room…….that Captain Kirk was no longer trying to fuck something. He’d been hitting on a sexy alien a minute ago. But he wasn’t doing that anymore.


Kirk and the alien woman were gone. They’d been replaced by a commercial. Which meant Kirk and the alien were fucking. (Whenever you’re watching Star Trek and they stop playing Star Trek and cut to a commercial it’s because Kirk’s most likely fucking something)


Kirk was fucking something now. And while Kirk fucked off screen a quiet woman on TV warned Americans that not supporting fracking is like not supporting not supporting abortions. The political ad has been funded by a group of billionaires with the collective balls to trademark words like ‘morality’ and ‘Jesus’ and ‘charity thongs’.


The kitchen sink had long ago disbanded its tolerance for society.


The kitchen sink had also long ago never tolerated this in the first place, ‘this’ being getting pissed on by a middle aged private investigator with a dick shaped like an out of work side kick.


The side kick was approaching now, dangled as it was from above, humming a stiff tune and staring into the sink’s drain like Jeff Bridges used to look at Michelle Pfeiffer.


One night not too long ago the quesadilla maker that nobody fucking used anymore had asked the kitchen sink what it was like getting pissed on night after night.


“I mean, the shameless bastard turns the light on and I’m up here on top of the fridge and I’m watching and it’s like, ew. You know what I mean?” the quesadilla maker had not been cleaned in a long time and it had thin sheets of crusted cheese hanging off it as it flapped its mouth. “It’s just so fucking rude.”


To the question of what it was like to be pissed on the kitchen sink told the quesadilla maker it was like having to suck Ben Affleck’s dick while humming the soundtrack to Good Will Hunting.


“It makes me feel like a toilet,” the kitchen sink told the quesadilla maker, “and not a kitchen sink.”


Meanwhile, in the current time line: urine began to flow from the averagely sized penis which hovered above the drain hole. Piss splattered. The quesadilla maker began to sob like Matt Damon. Silverware quaked.


It almost never helps to scream but the sink was doing it anyway.


The kitchen sink was screaming, but because its vocal chords were un-human the scream sounded exactly like a drunken private investigator peeing in a goddamn kitchen sink.