Archive | July, 2016

There’s A Big Cloud In My Pants

30 Jul

Trump pants

 

There’s A Big Cloud In My Pants

(another translation of a poem by Mayakovsky as if mistranslated by Donald Trump)

 

There’s a big cloud in my pants

when I’m not with you

 

People assume the bulge

is my penis

which it is

but there’s also a cloud in there too

a really big one

 

Because when you’re not around

frankly, I get gloomy

ergo: my crotch gets gloomy too

 

How gloomy?

That’s a ridiculous question

Let’s just say

 

You wouldn’t want to be playing

golf down there, in the type of weather

that goes on in my pants

when I miss you

 

We’re talking storm clouds and thunder

and once in a while it rains gravel

which my doctor assures me is normal

for a man of my age

and self confidence

which is just the Russian English way of saying

my pants wouldn’t fit like this

if you’d just stopped going away like you do

 

Where are you right now?

Are you even listening?

 

There’s a cloud in my pants

and it’s raining cotton shaped opera

 

Believe me,

my cumulo starts going nimbus over here

 

Exclamation point

exclamation point

exclamation point

 

Every time

that you’re

gone

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26 Jul

ephemeral

 

The legend of the Yeti who went out on a fishing boat

in an attempt to win back the love of the woman

it had been verbally critical of in the past but who

it had found itself missing after she’d gone

 

is not a very well known legend

actually, it’s not much of a legend at all

it’s more of an ephemeral tale

that this one dude who hangs out

in the parking lot of the Broomfield Del Taco

 

likes to scream at people as they enter

the gas station/restaurant to purchase

their Macho Burritos and tacos with extra stuff in them

(currently known as the ‘The’ Del Taco)

 

nobody really listens to him

his audience being for the most part un-captivated

and in various stages of hunger

 

so the details are fucking shaky

but the way the parking lot dude tells it

there once lived a Yeti who’s ass was so hairy

that it made its ears look smooth like un-kissed glass

which is apparently saying something

because according to an ancient porta-potty painting of the beast

that was uncovered almost 15 years after the 1990’s

its ears were super hairy too

 

the porta-potty painting depicted a Yeti

who was more hairy in certain areas than others

standing on a boat

trying really hard to come off as seriously articulate

and emotionally broken

 

in its hands it held a long fish

pressed parsimoniously to its chest

for some goddamn reason

 

the dude at Del Taco

couldn’t remember why

but he knew why the Yeti was out there

 

the Yeti had gone boating

because it missed the girl who it had never deserved

and also it was a little bit nuts most of the time

and liked to think of itself as a more pretentious version

of Kevin Costner

Why would someone do that?

I asked the dude at the Del Taco

but the dude at the Del Taco said

he couldn’t remember

 

he’d smoked a whole lot of weed four days ago

and then every hour or two for every hour or two

after that until right now

 

and so what?! I mean, who hasn’t?

What’s any of this have to do with a goddamn

Yeti who thinks he’s Message In A Bottle era Kevin Costner

standing on a goddamn boat holding a dead fish

while pondering love?!

 

Ha! That’s not the right question!

The point is, Kevin Costner, he was like

great in Waterworld!

I mean, I don’t know

 

The Yeti thinks its emotionally attractive

because it feels the same pains as Message In A Bottle version

Kevin Costner

 

when in reality, who gives a fuck?!

the Yeti holding a fish on his penis-less boat

isn’t the story that we should be focusing on

 

we should be focusing on the story of the woman

he never deserved in the first place

 

fuck that dead fish toting Yeti

and the porta-potty its legend rode in on

 

because the legend of the Yeti

is bullshit

the legend of her, on the other hand

and : cliffhanger! sexy boogers!

 

her legend and sexy boogers

(and also the fact that we do our best

to not let Trump become president)

might save us

all

 

 

 

Your Backbone and My Flute

24 Jul

trump

Your Backbone and My Flute

(translation of poem by Mayakovsky as if mistranslated by Donald Trump)

 

I’d like to build a wall

around my penis

and I’d very much like for this wall

that surrounds such a thing to be

your vagina

 

That’s how special you are to me

The media doesn’t get that

If you’re trying to build an ant farm

you’re going to fuck up a lot of ants

 

before you get the rest of the ants

locked in there……what is that?

Plexiglas? Doesn’t matter

 

That’s just how it goes

I just happen to be really good

at stepping on things

What can I tell you?

 

But that’s only when I’m being Blue Collar, baby

In the bedroom nobody knows where to put it

like I know where to put it, believe me

I know where to put it

 

We’re gonna make so much love

with my flute, shooting Beethoven

all over your backbone,

 

that it’s gonna take a cleaning crew

half a week to get that place

straightened out again

 

I know this, because

I’m a job creator

Believe me

 

I’m going to fuck you so good

that Mexico will have to pay for it

 

and if Mexico says

‘Screw you’

then I’ll declare the following day

National Fuck Them Day!

 

and we’ll just order another jar

of lube up from room service

and charge it

 

to France

I Want To Pack Your Items in a Box That Says ‘Eggs’

24 Jul

dutch

I Want To Pack Your Items in a Box That Says ‘Eggs’

 

I never thought about the fist

coming out of the tunnel before

 

the tunnel being

it’s sleeve

 

I never thought about

where turtles come from

 

I was just ecstatic that they could fly

that first time I watched Gamera

 

in the bathroom

at the local Walmart

someone in the bathroom

 

pissed tomato soup

 

Jabba The Hut loves Twinkies

 

King Kong might’ve loved

french fries

but instead

King Kong loved

 

Fay Wray

 

Expho-lee-ate this!

 

I’ve got the Pepto Bismo Blues

 

I can see through everything these days

and still I find everything baffling

 

our love hopped in a helicopter

but this helicopter’s not landing

and all the parachutes have been laced

with bee shit

 

 

and we all know

there’s nothing aerodynamic

about bee shit

 

so our love hit the ground

like a dump truck

 

and the ground took the punch

like the tunnel takes the train

when the train has no idea

where it’s going

or which thing to follow

 

because trains are for the most part

stupid creatures

and love leaves

 

tracks

like a hearse

in the snow

Nobody Knows More About Love Than I Do, Trust Me

22 Jul

trump

Nobody Knows More About Love Than I Do, Trust Me

(translation of poem by Mayakovsky, as if miss-translated by Donald Trump)

 

They said Munich

and I heard it as McDonalds

and then somehow it turns out to be both?

Give me a break

They sound like my second wife now

How is anything my fault? Exactly

The only thing my words radicalize

is your female sex parts

which in turn succeeds to radicalize

my sex parts

 

and by my sex parts, let’s be clear here

we’re talking about

my penis

which is spectacular

trust me

I don’t know what they’re complaining about

so what if they read stuff

I’m great in the sack

 

The entire media’s just expedited their own periods again

but I’m not going to let something like ISIS or the tragedy of others

forget to water my luxurious golf course

aka

bring me down

 

because I am important

which means we are important

 

my books have saved more animals from drowning

than any book ever published, second only to the Bible

and we’ve got reservations

me and you

later this evening

in the very exclusive restaurant

of my pants

 

table for two by the fireplace

and by fireplace I mean your womanly longings

and by two

I mean my nuts

 

because you’re special

I mean that

because we are in love

 

if orgasms were umbrellas

then trust me, you’re gonna need one

because it’s gonna be raining in Cleveland

after we finish our non-metaphorical dinner

of some absolutely gorgeously subjective steaks

 

We’re going to eat

and then I’m going to say seven or eight

extremely clever things in the elevator

and then as soon as we get back to my room

I’m going to Google myself to make sure

Putin still likes me, and then I swear to

every dollar I’ve ever made while doing business

with China

 

I’m going to make your vagina great again

 

If your mouth is the media’s insistence

that Hispanics don’t like me

then my penis is a really great Taco Bowl

like they make at Trump Towers

 

I’m just saying

when you put the two of these things together

we’ve got a great photo opportunity

I can tell you

 

orgasms will be arm wrestling love tonight

in this room, believe me

 

Vote for my penis

and I promise

everyone wins

Chicken Tonight

21 Jul

CHICKEN-TONIGHT-COUNTRY-FRENCH-6R055_1

Chicken Tonight

 

Tonight I’m not chicken

or the semi solid sauce

that used to hold it all together

 

I am a middle aged man who still

pees in the sink sometimes

 

  1. because it’s easier and
  2. you can get away with shit like that

when you’re alone

 

and Darlin’, I’m alone

 

so earlier this morning when I was peeing

and preheating the oven

at the same time

I was also humming that damn theme song

from a jarred meat commercial

that used to run on TV in the 90’s

because it’s been stuck in my head for weeks now

like a tiny version of Dennis Quaid

or a photo of loss locked in the shed of a sad camera

so like a dumbass at random moments throughout

recent days I’ve been blurting

without conscious reason or coupling

 

“I feel like Chicken Tonight! Chicken Tonight!

Chicken Tonight!”

 

but there is no chicken here, Darlin’

there is only not you and a live feed of

the Republican Convention streaming on the laptop

 

There is only Zuul

 

There is only heartbreak and screaming

strapped to the ass of sunsets

and manic billionaires sweating

hypocrisy all over these cat pissed

up pages of whatever in the future

will pass for a history book

 

there is no chicken, tonight

 

there is only loss and the long loomed

reality that what’s been missing

will stay missing coupled with the fact that

we’re potentially only 4 months away from

the coronation of President Trump

 

there is no chicken, tonight

not in this place where her love

for me is like The Love Boat

without the love and my love

for her is like The Love Boat

without the boat

 

love sinks

even in that gravy slop

they used to jar chicken in

 

there is only loss here

there is only Zuul

and the unrefrigerated memories

of jarred meat

 

and that’s just: depressing

and I’m sorry

 

Please don’t listen to this story

if you’d rather not feel bad about love or

politics or jarred chicken

or if you’re allergic to stories

because just like the medication Xarelto

stories come with a long list

of side effects too

 

fiction can cause dry mouth

around your naughty bits

 

fiction can cause you to sound

like an old timer who says things like

In my day we didn’t have selfie sticks

if you wanted to take a picture of yourself

you duct taped a Polaroid to your dick

and screamed Cheese!

 

fiction may take human form

and murder you in your sleep

 

so if you have dry mouth on your crotch

or have been murdered stop listening

to me now and start listening to

something else instead

 

I should’ve read something different tonight, maybe

I should’ve read my Dennis Quaid story

 

Dennis Quaid in the streets, Randy Quaid in the sheets

 

but I don’t feel like reading Dennis Quaid

right now I feel like chicken, tonight

chicken, tonight

 

chicken tonight

 

 

 

(written for last night’s FBomb show, Mercury Café, Denver CO)

the way you struggle off to work each morning makes me think it’ll be ok

17 Jul

this

the way you struggle off to work each morning makes me think it’ll be ok

 

the way you pull yourself out of bed every morning

before I do harnessing pure dread to manipulate gravity

causing you to fall up and sort of sideways towards

your parts of the closet instead of down the way you

open the bedroom door and stare

 

down seven hungry jungle cats to get to the bathroom

the sound of the shower sputtering into action and the

shock of warm water dressing you up in shampoo suds

and post seven a.m. drenching the way the walls move

to please you when you return once

 

again to the bedroom to stand: an army general

surveying the heavy rack of loyal wardrobe troops

clothes pick themselves out for you as you curse the

gods of this particular work day and bend down

to kiss me before issuing the command to charge

 

out the front door where the world has it coming

inspiring me to action I throw on what’s necessary and

follow you berserker screaming, there will be wounds

naturally but we’ll patch each other up between

5 and 5:30

 

my love is so thick for you

it sticks to walls

 

 

 

(from The Night We Called Dennis, Amber Lodge Press, 2005)