Archive | February, 2017

Digging A Grave For My Cat

23 Feb



Assignment: Erotic Chores*


Digging A Grave For My Cat


There is nothing erotic about digging a grave. It’s sexier than that new 50 Shades of Grey movie, obviously. But everything’s erotic when compared to something like that.


When digging a grave there is nothing erotic for the one doing the digging. For the digger this grave business is an erotic-less chore. There’s nothing sexy about dying. And still there is death. Everywhere. At all times. Why is that? Judging by the catcalls of a perpetual oblivion, something has to be getting off. Right?


I don’t know.


Maybe the ground gets off on it. The shovel entering tip first and all that. Each thrust propelled by the grief of the digger. Each thrust thrusting deeper as the hole widens and the tears flow. Is that a cockroach or a clitoris?! Wind-blown-into-the-yard candy bar wrapper or cum rag (or both)?!


Fuck off! My cat is dead!


Maybe for the ground this is erotic. Maybe the ground gets off on this shit. Something has to be getting off on all this death, but I’m not! I may have been getting the ground off, but that’s not what I was there for. My best friend had just left me. I wasn’t out there to fuck the earth like a grieving porn star. I was out there to bury my cat. I’d woke up earlier that morning and Nickel was gone, laying dead beside my feet. Her eyes staring off into something that couldn’t save her. Staring straight through me.


Wrapped her in a blanket and put her in the basement Norman Bates style, plan being to bury her when I got home that evening, and I went to work, crying the whole way there, crying through my first appointment of the morning, and crying as I canceled everything else I’d had scheduled for the rest of the day until it was 9:30 in the morning/I headed home


like Death’s call girl or a damn sex object for the cold Earth but fuck that! The world is full of horrible things that ejaculate! Nothing I could do about that. I had a cat to bury! Anything I caught taking sexual pleasure while I did this would be properly eye-balled and logged. Bury the cat first. Seek and obtain revenge on those sick fuckers after.


I needed a shovel, I realized.


Earth dildo! The dirt screamed


Shut up!


I didn’t have one anymore so I dove inside the first shovel store that I came across. I did not leave the store immediately. I walked around for awhile with the shovel held back over my shoulder with n eviscerating glare I my eyes picking fights with anything that looked as if it was finding any part of this sexy: half a rack of spare tires the glue guns, a cardboard cutout of one of those Duck Dynasty duck call making fucks.


I hated that place. I had to leave.


I didn’t want to leave though because leaving the store would take me home to bury my cat and I didn’t want to bury her. A sick fucking chore. I wanted her to be alive and follow me around, watch me brush my teeth and chase stuff and sit on my shoulder as I stayed up all night typing about love and the world being such a goddamn mess. Who was going to watch me brush my teeth now?! Who was going to give a shit about anything I’ve done?! The peeping tom of a backyard I lived next to?”


Fuck that.


But there I was, Nickel retrieved from the basement, shoveling dirt out of the back yard as the body that used to hold her stared through me some more and the backyard screamed deeper, over just a bit, that’s it! Do it just like that!


Death has a hard on older than alarm clocks and grieving and funerals and grave digging is the existential equivalent of post big bang cold universe porn.


Love leads to death

A package deal


You start out almost optimistic,

then heart breaking,

shoveling for love until you realize


the love shoveling turns


to the shoveling of death


(this last bit to be read with an Italian accent)


as there can be no erection without the penis

there is never love

without the death




*writing assignment Erotic Chores assigned by Marcus If


Tiny Notebook Poems

13 Feb


Tiny Notebook Poems


I Want You To See My Underpants


I want you to see my underpants

But I’m not wearing underpants

So where does that leave us?


What are we looking at here?

My weiner or

The end of the world



Adam Duritz Letter To Santa Clause


Dear Santa,


I need a raincoat, a sunburn, and a new car. Mom says I’m too young to drive and that the sun can be dangerous, but fuck that. She has thus far voiced no objections about the raincoat. Also I kinda want a puppy. I’ll name her Baltimore. Is that asking for too much? If you’ve just nodded your head yes then I don’t know, forget about the sunburn. I realize now I was being unrealistic with that. Sorry, I’ve been day drinking. Let’s just stick with the raincoat and the new car and the puppy. Thanks man.



Yr pal Adam



Saving Private Ryan 2


A post World War 2 Matt Damon

Falls asleep on the bus to the Denver Art Museum

And somehow wakes up in Cleveland


His family becomes worried when he doesn’t come home

For dinner that night because they had all planned to send

One of his twenty fucking grandkids to pick up a bag of


Taco Bell Doubledillas

Matt Damon’s favorite

So they call the police and report him missing


12 people die horrible deaths before they eventually find him

Standing in the TV department at Sears mumbling shit like

“When did Sylvester Stallone start doing tampon commercials?”


As World War 3 falls from the sky

Like cats dying

The end



Your Love Is A Boomerang


Your love is a boomerang

And I don’t know how

To throw a boomerang


I’m lousy at it


I have failed

many times

again and again

Hotel Yesterday vs Hotel Today

4 Feb


Hotel Yesterday vs Hotel Today


They had knock-knock sex

And took turns screaming

Who goes there?!


While I sat in the next room shaking

Listening as they fucked away madness

On the other side of the wall


Their grunts making oatmeal out of the drywall

Rubbing my face and everything else that wasn’t my crotch

In the electability issues that refused to disperse my long un-lost

Grass roots distrust of love/celibacy kick cloud


I heard it go in

And I heard it go out and then

I heard it stay out for an extra second or two

Until it went in again and then stayed in again

And stayed in


Blindfolded by the firing squad reminders

Of when all that in-and-outing

Used to include a present tense versions of me and you


I clutched my face in my hand

As if my face were what’s left of the memory

Of your right breast


And then upon realizing what I was just doing

I screamed bullshit and drank whiskey

Like a left boob stumbling into a demolished bra shop

On an abandoned mall kind of day


Listening to the sounds of what used to be us

In the motel room right next to me

I was living beside our own past


And our past was loud

And punctuated by a movie popcorn machine of

Abundantly buttered orgasms


In those long gone days

We used to be so goddamn loud

That it was pissing me off


I tried to watch TV to take my mind off tonight’s neighbors

The news was a stockpile of horrible actions

Which involved Trump arrogantly first-dating America


Jumping dryly from “Hi my name is Donald and my daddy gave me money”

Straight into the executive order in which he’s attempting

To perform anal without the proper permits again


So I flipped over to the re-run channels

Spooky eye humping Scully

Scully eye humping Mulder

Followed by a couple episodes of Star Trek where

Picard’s chest hair goes on a starship date with Dr. Crusher and

Even Lt Commander Data was getting laid


Flip the channel again

And everything comes crashing back down to Earth

Trump’s epically overestimating his crowd size again

Applause shaped like hemorrhoids

Crowds as far as the curtains can see


In the next room our past

Had just mutilated the headboard again

And it sounds as if an end table has joined in


They were us, and we were having knock-knock sex

Taking turns screaming Who goes there?!

While I was stuck in the adjoining room


Drinking whiskey on Brautigan’s birthday

The whole place surrounded by executive orders.

post-apocalypse sex, and fast food hypocrisy


Losing my mind until I thought about jerking off

But my hand said not tonight love, because its knuckles

Had a headache and insisted on half assedly

Finishing this poem