Archive | November, 2015

Lobster Love

28 Nov

lobster love

lobster love

 

when a lobster gets big and outgrows itself it molts

out of its old shell and then it eats it

it eats its old body that still looks like it’s always looked

and the parts of what’s left/that it doesn’t eat, it buries

 

beneath a pile of wet rocks or inside an old notebook

or between the back tires of Helen’s car, and shit   (hm) that’s just: weird

Helen loved lobster and her heart was always molting

so maybe there’s a connection there/or maybe there isn’t

 

my favorite shell that she grew out of and thereafter

immediately consumed was the one that looked like her heart

when she still loved me, but hell she’s shit that one out years ago

 

so: fuck, are you still going on about that shut up, I guess I’m still

going on about that some people molt faster than other regarding

certain things and apparently I’m unlovable and           I’m a slow eater

and I spend too much time missing things that have already been et

 

 

(well this poem didn’t turn out like I wanted it too but I was married

to Helen, so I’m used to that. I’m used to that happening. Maybe tomorrow

this poem will be better than it is today. Maybe it won’t. And so be it. Everyday’s

another goddamn molting. That’s the point really. Change is a virus and we’re all

infected. Nothing’s exactly like it was yesterday. But I love nature documentaries

Blah blah and more blah.)

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I Don’t Have Poop In My Butt

26 Nov

matchbox twenty

 

look at the light picking a fight

with the stress ball

shadows just laying there like a fist kick

in the nuts                         (stop)

 

what are you doing for the big Holiday, Helen?

Ya, right. That sounds lovely

I’ve got a Chef Boy R Dee pizza in the other room

I’ve got a stress ball over there, weeping in the corner

 

with its nuts up in a recently punched in sling

I’ve got access to a small army of movies on Netflix and I’m stuck with

this future-ly projected memory of what I’m pretty sure it might be like

 

to be with this specific someone that is someone other than you .

I know, right? Lord knows I’ve done enough of the all this bitching

about everything, but; Her eyes are like etc., I mean.

 

If we don’t count Rob Thomas:

Who knew?

The 31st Strange Land Measurement of Grunt

19 Nov

grunts

The 31st Strange Land Measurement of Grunt

 

my head is a patched-in-chunks land mass and the thoughts

of this girl are an endangered species which has taken up residence

there and these thoughts, (oh! aka who the hell came up with

the idea of thoughts?!), they’re dangerous because they demand attention

 

and run a small carnival along the thick edges of town

dedicated to the novelization that my heart may be broken

but broken maybe doesn’t have to share definitions with forever

or non-repairable

 

or something like that

I’d grown used to the idea that the two things

were, if not the same thing, that at the greatest least

they were not exactly different

broken and forever

 

shellacked in room temperature turpentine

and then lashed together and left flopping around

but it turns out forever is a long sketch of spaceships

vs dinosaurs maybe and if I know anything now, I know

 

thoughts like these thoughts of her are rare like first edition

copies of Lovecraft or butterflies that speak Latin

and thus to the bone graves demand our trust that we’ll

protect them and even if I wanted to deny this protection

 

(because I’ve totally tried to deny, I tried to deny it protection)

I can’t just evict them because these thoughts are their own species

and this species, it’s endangered and should be protected

by me, probably

and if I fail, then by bigger things like cosmic law/moral codes,

 

the everyday strivings of civil decency, and outer spaced armadas

 

helmed by a cadre of relocated prairie dogs

screaming for justice or sometimes: grunting

 

but what is that?               what the hell is a grunt?

 

  1. a grunt is something people exhale during sex

or when they’re thinking about sex; as in their not-having-had-of-it

in a particularly long time

 

  1. grunt = one of them poor bastards who’s job is collecting bullets

inside bits of their upper torsos or various limbs during all those wars

 

  1. A grunt is also maybe: a fish.

 

Really?

 

I can’t believe that’s a real thing

Does Russell Crowe own Wikipedia?

because that last bit about fish,

I totally Wikipedia-looked-up

 

the point is

the world seams mad a billion times over

and it’s been going on for so long

and I have no idea how anything ends really

 

especially:

 

  1. this poem
  2. the numbering of strange land measurements
  3. grunts

Who Wants To Play The Lake House?

18 Nov

lakehouse

Who Wants To Play The Lake House?

 

They played this game called The Lake House where every day she’d go to the mailbox and find a letter he’d written as if he was writing her from the future and she’d take it inside and he’d ask What ya got there? And she’d smile or shake her head a little bit or scratch her ass and then she’d sit down in the big chair on the other side of the room and read what his past self posing as his future self had to say.

Sometimes the letter would be something simple like You looked pretty that day we fucked in the tool shed 20 minutes from now or While you’re reading this I know we’re about to go sledding but where I am we’ve already sled.

And sometimes the letters would be hopefully prophetic like I portend that you can’t stay mad at me forever or You were correct in insisting that thing I told your mom about being able to buy pot roast at the weed store wasn’t funny. I say stupid shit when your mom makes me mad.

The early letters were filled with optimism and rambled on manifestoes concerning the immortal loyalty of love because that’s how things had been in the beginning. Things weren’t like that anymore. Lately his letters from the future appeared less frequently and when they did show up they seemed a bit more nihilistic or pissed off or sad. These days she found the whole thing exhausting. Some days she wouldn’t open them and other days she’d avoid the goddamn mailbox altogether but this day she’d been drinking a bottle of wine that’d been corked on her brand new secret boyfriend’s vineyard in Napa. Well. He didn’t own the vineyard but he did live next to it. Twenty miles down the road or so. Or however that goes. The point being: on this day, she opened the Lake House letter that he’d hand delivered to her mailbox from his make believe future. Because she was about to leave him, anyway. And also she was drunk.

As she stood beside the big chair reading he sat on the couch watching his reflection on the fish tank, him watching himself watching Shai LeBeouf watching himself watch himself on a live 72 hour fucked stream. It wasn’t important. This would not put a dent in things. Their loneliness stank like glue.

Today’s Lake House letter started out proper enough:

 

Dear Helen,

 

We’re doomed?

 

This was a question. I’m sorry. Let’s move on to something that isn’t. I live in the future and am supposed to have answers. So I’d like to make sure to set this straight. Charlie Sheen doesn’t have aids, America. Aids has Charlie Sheen. Not just the HIvCharlie virus. We’re talking full blown Charlie Sheen! Which is terrible. It almost makes you feel bad for aids.

Back in your time 7000 people died in America every day from various causes. Total. Out here in the future 7,000 people die every hour from improperly worded tweeting. (Yes, we have retained some sense of justice) Still, 95% of the population spends 30% of their time pissing around on the internet looking for things to outage them so they can spend another 55% of their time screaming on social media about how unfair the goddamn world is because something just pissed them off. Outside my window an old woman just stabbed a baby in the neck because it was already the middle of November and this baby had had the goddamn balls to wear a red onesy that said “I Heart Grandma” instead of “Merry Christmas” or whatever the hell the old woman had thought it should respectfully say.

It’s a madhouse everywhere. In our future Facts have been rounded up, forced to live out the rest of their feverishly shortened lives in mud puddle infected camps. Love has been forced out into the streets where it’s inevitably come down with a harsh case of the Charlie Sheen. For a time the disease was kept in check with daily doses of Denise Richards but last night the Denise Richards ran out so it’s only a matter of time now. The Westboro Baptist Church is busy misspelling picket signs in preparation for Love’s funeral as we speak. Or as I write this. Whichever comes first.

Are you still not talking to me for some goddamn reason where you are tonight? I can’t remember at this point in our everything, which days you weren’t talking to me and which days you just stopped being around. Ever since that case of wine mysteriously arrived you’ve been distant and mean.

But hell, every day in the future 7 billion people appear distant and the rest of the goddamn overpopulated population are just flat out mean. But you were doing both of those things simultaneously long before this Helen, so it’s almost like you invented it. Do you feel like a fucking trendsetter tonight? Everyone’s doing what you’ve been doing for a while now Helen. So, congratulations. You’re like the Jimi Hendrix of being distant and mean.

Helen, your eyes are like padlocks and your face is a sad locker and your combination isn’t mine to remember anymore. But I do it anyway, damn it Helen. I remember. There are still nights when I wish I could stash my gym bag in your forehead and run in circles until you smiled but we both know that’s not going to happen because your sadness is fucking stubborn and I’m no good at working out.

At this point she stopped reading his Lake House Letter and told him she was tired of being his Sandra Bullock so she was leaving. She didn’t mention anything about the fuckhead in Napa. When she left, she took the lake with her. And the mailbox. Leaving him alone in the internet connected silence of Shia LaBeouf watching himself like a fireplace in a lakeless house, alone and outgunned by an army of Youtube videos, a litter box full of cats, and gloom.

 

 

 

written for last night’s FBomb, Mercury Cafe, Denver CO

Were You Watching That, Helen

14 Nov

shia lb

 

Were You Watching That, Helen

 

It must’ve been cold in that theater

where Shia LaBeouf watched 72 hours of his own movies

in a row—with his t-shirt under a grey hoody under some

enormous army store jacket eating what appeared to be candy coated

 

cocaine out of a small soda cup and every once in a while

between moments of almost sleeping he cracked a smile

or scratched his nose or threw his hood on and silently farted

Were you watching that, Helen?

 

 

Did you see the medium-close framed selections

of optional human emotions that have been on display here

electronically over the past 3 days?

 

Or were you otherwise occupied

by I don’t know, whatever the fuck it is that otherwise occupies

you these days. How would I know?! Yes. How would I know?

 

I took herbal Viagra last night and my dick stalled straight like it was a Nazi

standing for 3 hours in front of Hitler despite the fact that my dick

is not a Nazi. But you already know that, right? I mean, your vagina

was from Poland. And my dick was on board with that

 

Shia LaBeouf has a facial expression for our situation

I’m not sure if you caught it. It happened around 58 minutes inside

his detached dude re-watching of Holes or was it Disturbia

or that goddamn time he swung through the trees with monkeys

 

like he was purposely trying to destroy the legacy of Indiana Jones

Either way, tonight I’m smoking alone and cooking a pizza

Tonight you’re building your new life on the carcass of our old

 

battle field and tonight Shia LaBeouf’s probably falling asleep

while taking a shit on some pretty chick he met at the movie theater’s

orange toilet. With his mouth filled with forgottenly chewed bologna

because that’s how things roll

He Just Yawned

11 Nov

shia cry

He Just Yawned

Watching the new David Foster Wallace bio-pic

made me miss my old bandanas it made me start

blaming Jesse Eisenberg for things that he was probably

never involved in it made me start drinking more

Diet Rite I get sloppy when I’m sober while she always tended

to sober up after being sloppy but that doesn’t seem like something

that should be insurmountable, right? That sounds like something

that should be totally mountable! I’d mount that, right?

Wouldn’t you mount that, Helen? Shit I know I’d promised myself

I’d stop writing about the shit you mount but fuck you. You should want

to mount that! You should….I’m sorry I got distracted Shia LaBeouf’s live streaming

himself watching 72 hours worth of his own movies and he just yawned

Helen, you preternatural mounter of damn near everything else

besides that thing that was us working this out

he just yawned

Sloppy Joe Day At The End Of The World

10 Nov

the 100

 

Sloppy Joe Day At The End Of The World

 

He didn’t really eat meat anymore and tried like hell

to avoid bread but it was Sloppy Joe Day at the end of the world

because everyones hearts had been broken and opening a can

of Manwich sauce is so much easier

 

than attempting to create a goddamn salad from scratch

nobody likes to do dishes when they’re lost, especially this guy

because he was really bad at it, incompetent to the point

where he was embarrassed. I think I’d be less uncomfortable

 

with a stranger watching me masturbate than I would

if they’d walked in and caught me washing a pan

he tried to explain to an episode of The 100 Season 2

 

that he was watching on Netflix

but The 100 wasn’t listening

The 100 was thinking about someone else