Archive | March, 2017

The Door Was A Lazy Lover

30 Mar


The Door Was A Lazy Lover


The door was a lazy lover

it just splayed there between the walls

like a sexy bulldozer

not moving

in a thong


as he went in and out of it

reputedly, with manic gusto

or as the curtain rod once called it:

sweaty dong vs. misplaced glee


thrusting himself in and out

in and out

fueled by his safe coal love

that had wound up forging an unlivable atmosphere

for her, leaving him


anywhere else to go so he went

inside, rooms inside rooms,

in and out the same door


a stiff river of comings and goings

the kind of river with which he found it

impossible to disagree


his love made him horny for this

the in and outs followed through

with the back and forths


love fueled horny

or maybe it was the thong


the cynics say thong

but he was still betting all his abandoned pants cash

on love, even though he was still a long mile away

from payday and


everything he’d ever lost stayed that way

and the door remained propped there

between all the exits and enterings


not giving a shit


My 45 Year Old Penis vs. The Penis Of My Youth

25 Mar

My 45 Year Old Penis vs. The Penis Of My Youth


Where do we start here?


Do we start with girth? Ok, Wait! This poem interrupted

By today’s news that Trumpcare failed to make it off its own runway

Or into the connected sex pool


Or through the front gates of its cold hearted corporate owned

Slaughterhouse of money-first-doom

And now Paul Ryan looks worse than sad Ben Affleck


After the shitty reviews

Of Superman Martha’s Batman had poured in

Trump’s been forced to double the dose of his daily denial enemas


In an attempt to convince himself and everyone else

That he didn’t just lose BIGLY! because losing is for losers

And he’s not one of them guys, he’s a kung fu narcissist


Which means he couldn’t have been defeated so BIG LEAUGE! today

Unless he really wanted to be

Which means he must have planned it this way


Which means: HA!


And if that wasn’t enough

Mayte’s written a memoir of her love

and life with Prince?!


I had no idea how much

I wanted to read this thing

Until I just now found out that it exists



I mean shit, I’m in such a good mood right now

I don’t want to do what I’d just sat down and started doing


I just wanna listen to a whole bunch of Prince tunes

and read Vonnegut and write something else after

something else


I don’t feel like talking about my dick right now

We can talk about my dick later

Today was a good day


Knuckles At Dawn

17 Mar


Knuckles At Dawn


I just sat down

Am I writing a poem?

No, I’m ordering a pizza


Find the coupons

Squint over the choice of toppings

Wipe the tears from everything’s head


Until I’m not ordering a pizza anymore

It was never a pizza I was looking for

I never really ordered that pizza


I just didn’t feel like feeling


or letting you go and


I’d run out of Vonnegut novels and Jurassic Park movies

To read/watch weeks ago or last night or that time I had to be

A thing that was required to answer a question like


If you had to be a tree what kind of a tree would you be?

With the instructor eyeballing me harshly

As if to convey that it would be best for the collective mind-hive


And everything at war against it

If I’d just sodomize my own soul like a good boy

And say something supportive like ‘sequoia’


But fuck em

Because just: fuck em, my soul’s asshole is invincibly sensitive

I’d rather scream ‘Martha!’


At the mid-end of a horrible DC superhero movie

Than salute ‘sequoia’ on command like a trained ventriloquist’s crotch prop

So when they asked me what kind of tree I’d like to be


If I had to be a tree

I didn’t say sequoia

Or birch


Or maple-shits

Or whatever the fuck

We call trees who never frackin’ asked


To be called anything in the first place

(They just wanted to be left alone)

(Alone together as opposed to alone/alone)


In a room composed for the most part

Of people well practiced in the duty of ironing a shirt

Staring at me waiting for me to declare what kind of tree I am


I said Noodle Salad

Quoting Jack Nicholson in a behind the scenes documentary

Of The Shining


Nobody in the room got the reference

And the instructor just rolled her eyes like I’d just shit

Her pants and moved on


While I sat there counting the minutes

Until I could be back home again watching Buffy with my last cat

Perplexed because, shit, moving on is really hard


But she’d just done it like it was as easy

As microwaving a cold casserole of salami

She’d moved on, I mean skip forward to last night again


The entire day had been going on in a similar fashion

(salami casserole)

And I was tired of almost everything

So I decided to go to bed


But that didn’t solve anything

I just rolled there in circles while Shutter Island

Jumped up and down on my face


As I mumbled ‘Knock it off’,

Trump’s choice to head the EPA endorsed Carbon Dioxide

And Shutter Island grumbled


“Nickel’s dead.

I sleep on your skull now.

What else am I supposed to do?”


The world is a wasteful place and

I’ve got a heart like a dumpster

And a complicated cat who misses her sister


If I had to be a tree I’d be an astronaut

If I had to be an astronaut I’d be a maple leaf

If I had to be a maple leaf like I’m a maple leaf


I’d be the sort of maple leaf that still gave a shit about

Everything that’s still left worth giving a shit about

Even post-fall and I’d been shed to the ground


I’d be the sort of maple leaf screaming

Knuckles at dawn!

At the current wave of American Fascism


And everything horrible

the brand new Trump administration

Is trying to hump through


I’d be the sort of maple leaf that I am now

Hanging in there on the ground, almost 7 years now

Post-the falling, trying to find my way to move on


I miss your tree

Notes on Skull Island aka What if Kong Had Survived The Fall

15 Mar


Notes on Skull Island aka What if Kong Had Survived The Fall


(the world is one big spoiler alert, so naturally spoilers (Kong: Skull Island) exist here too.)


Remaking the original 1933 King Kong is a pointless act, like repainting Van Gogh’s wheat fields or fucking a ukulele with a tuba on a deadpan Wagner-tuned rainy night shaped bassoon. It’s sad madness but that hasn’t stopped humanity from doing it anyway. Dino De Laurentis fucked it up in the 70’s with his goofy monkey suit version and Peter Jackson gave us a big budget take in the early 2000’s that had Jack Black attempting to fill Robert Armstrong’s movie boots and a flawed CGI Kong ice skating in the middle of New York for some goddamn reason. [Historical Note: Jackson’s heart was in the right place, loving the original as much as all of us who love the original, and I respect him for that, still it’s a tough thing to forgive, all that goddamn ice skating in a script that just never felt right.]


[Historical Note 2: Son of Kong was pretty great, but that’s because they didn’t try to remake something that’s in no need of remaking. They made a sequel. Sure it doesn’t have the Kong-equals-unrequited-love-type-layers of the original and can play sort of like a jungle island version of Home Alone with Kong Jr. taking over a role originally played by Macaulay Culkin, but fuck it. Leave it alone, cynical bastards. I like the hell out of Son of Kong. (and Andy Schneidkraut digs it too.]


Just like I liked the hell out of Kong: Skull Island. Skull Island isn’t a remake. It’s a brand new movie that plays out like an alternate timeline sequel that goes something like this:


What if, in the original movie, Kong didn’t die at the end? What if he survived the fall somehow? The fall and the knowledge that the only lady he loved didn’t love him and the fact that half of the entire city of New York had seen his weiner (from both a distance and up close and unconsciously personal) because he’d been abducted against his Kong-will and wasn’t adequately packed for life in a big city/he didn’t have any pants on/I don’t have any pants on/We’ve all found ourselves inadequately packed for the city at one point or another in our lives/let’s move on.


Ah, but that’s the thing now, ain’t it. Kong can’t move on! And that’s what this Skull Island thing’s all about. Say Kong survived the fall. Say he managed to crawl his way out of the city un-re-captured and booked passage on a crab fishing boat of some kind working odd jobs here and there at sea until he eventually made it back to Skull Island. Say he made it home and now it’s 40 years later and he’s spent the entire time eating octopus, staring at a lake like it was Netflix, and missing the girl he’s still hung up on and will always love.


That’s where we find our hero in Skull Island. We find a post-lost-love Kong mangled by the effects of all those years that have followed the loss. We find a Kong alive in a world that at all times holds its stomach in like it’s trying to pick a fight. The metaphor has been shifted to the island in this one. The island is lost love. This is what the world looks like post losing your Helen. Lost love is an island full of loneliness and terror and monsters that must be fought daily.


And Kong fights them. Because that’s what we have to do. Oblivion is inevitable and also oblivion is not an option. And even on Skull Island, as hopeless as it is, not everything is inevitably hopeless. There’s a small group of natives that are still alive on the island, a small group of natives and John C Reilly, a small group of natives and John C Reilly who still have a shot at this. They are born and then they die but between all of that they fall in love. Even on an island that represents a post-love nightmare, there’s still love. And this new Kong can relate to that. So he protects it. He’s re-dedicated his post-Helen years to protecting the love that’s still out there. And when he’s not doing that he eats octopus and stares at lakes like he’s watching Netflix while wishing that Fay Wray’s happy out there, somewhere, wherever she is.


Because that’s all Kong really wanted from her. To be happy. He wanted her to be happy. That’s what this new Kong wants from everyone. That’s what this new Kong movie’s all about. Kong wants you to fall in love. Kong wants you to be happy. And he’s willing to go on fighting inside his own nightmare because of this. He’s still willing to fight for it. Because Kong knows what something like that feels like.


Because Kong still remembers like we all still remember.


Kong fights because


Flash forward to the past a little bit:


For a couple of million minutes or something like that, Kong was happy too.

A Month Without Nickel

9 Mar

A Month Without Nickel


Sleep is an old vacuum cleaner from the 1950’s

The kind they used to sell door to door

Most now buried and the ones still around

Don’t really work anymore


And when I do sleep

The dreams eat all the floors

Until I wake up perpetually exhausted again

With no safe place left to stand


I miss everything about her

Even the things that used to piss me off


I miss her reverse Hitler mustache

And the way she’d leave old action figure twist ties

And other random shit like ham in the middle of my futon

For me to find when I returned home from work on the weekdays


I miss the way she used to follow me everywhere

When I was in a bad mood and she’s slap her paw

Against me face every time my face needed slapping


In that way she had

That seemed to say

Hey, we’re alive


Life is hard

But we’ve got each other

Cat logic goddamn it

We’re gonna be ok


I don’t have that anymore

I’ve lost my best friend

And that reassurance that came

With the two of us simply

Being together in the same room


I miss the way she’d crawl beneath the blankets

On the long nights when my mind was surrounded

By all the beautiful things that have left me


I miss the way she’d chase me up the stairs

And I miss the way she’d manage to break into the basement

And I miss the way she’d scream for cat treats

At the top of her lungs when she was breathing




I miss you so much

That I have a hard time believing that you’re gone

And fuck I’m so sorry

I took you for granted

When I took you that way


Like we tend to take

All the things that keep us going

For granted


You’re buried in the back yard now


And I’m whatever I am

And I am now also the backyard

You’re buried in me


And I will carry you until

Until my legs turn to dust

And then I’ll carry you some more


Because fuck it

Death cannot stop us

Because I refuse to let it


And I know

Wherever you are

That you refuse to let it

To stop you too


And p.s. also

Shutter Island also misses you madly

And says: hello


Me Too Night: King Kong

6 Mar


Me Too Night: King Kong


Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President Homophobe, members of this library instead of congress, today’s assignment is to converse about a specific work of art, artist, or artistic process that we’ve found specifically inspiring in our lives. That being that, I’ve chosen for the subject of this address a film that I’ve felt deeply connected to for most of my childhood and whatever this thing is that is generally referred to as my adult life, a film that exposed the dangers of mongering fear and a mob mentality, the deadly consequences of unregulated capitalism, and the sad horror of unrequited love. That movie is: King Kong.


King Kong is the story of an introverted gorilla the size of fuzzy ferris wheel who finds himself inevitably captured by a gang of greedy Americans whose goal is to drag him back to their big corporate owned cities so they can chain him to a rat infested stage off Broadway and make a fortune selling tickets to the soulless masses who are always willing to pay for shit like that. Welcome to the modern world. In the midst of all this madness Kong finds himself falling in love with a woman who doesn’t love him back. She’s in love with some cardboard creep who thinks ladies don’t belong on boats and treats her like a continuing annoyance that he occasionally tolerates because he feels the need to put his dick in something that isn’t a partially lubed tube sock or his right hand in the rain. This is a story that any every day romantic can relate to. Amazing women are always falling for the wrong dude or porta-potty’d Yeti. At one time or another or in my case always, we all take turns being a Kong.


I’m a clunky human being. I’m inevitably walking into rooms in which I feel like a giant monkey with a broken heart who doesn’t belong there. The behavior of people constantly baffles me. I have no idea how to talk to a woman I’m really attracted to. I’ve been killed before. I’ve been gunned down a few times and more. I’ve had my heart’s grip ripped away from the tip of that big skyscraper that is love. I’ve taken that long plunge towards the cold concrete of cracked sidewalks more times than feels humanly possible. Thus my recent multi-year retreat back inside the illusional safety of my futon shaped jungle. I’m horrible at meeting new people. I see a girl I might be fond of and I immediately start hearing the sound of 1930’s airplanes flipping the safety switches off on their machine guns. I’m dangling naked on top of the Empire State Building all over again. I’m just a big broken gorilla capable of basic gruntings these days when it comes to things like potentially dating. Hey, you appear as if you may be potentially awesome, would you like to go out with me? I’ve never known how to talk to a woman like that. It just seems crazy. Fortunately, I happen to be a poet. A poet who tends to meet women who know how to talk like that to me. This is the only reason I haven’t been alone my entire life like I’m alone right now.


Just like Kong was alone. That’s the real reason they refer to him in the movie as King. He’s a perpetual martyr for loneliness and unrequited affection. Sting may be the king of pain and Adam Duritz may be the king of rain but Kong is the King of love. And love is impossible to control. This world is ruled over by billionaires and politicians who live to control things. In this life everything is dictated by politics. A terrified population is much easier to manipulate then a population that loves. And that’s why the natives on the island in this movie decided to build a wall around Kong and told fake news stories to their children and gullible constituents about the beast on the other side and how its sole purpose is to illegally sneak into their corrupted world view and rape their girlfriends and murder their lawn mowers and steal jobs they have no intention of doing. Which is ridiculous! Kong doesn’t want to rape your girlfriends. It would be physically impossible. His penis would never fit inside something like that. His penis is the size of seven or eight girlfriends tied together. It’s basic science, people. That’s why the current administration hates science. Kong doesn’t want to murder your lawn mowers. He’s from the jungle. He likes his grass long. And he sure as hell doesn’t want your jobs because most of your jobs suck. Kong just wants to be left alone and find a girl who loves him and wants to be left alone too so they can be left alone together. And the corporations that rule things can’t stand that. If everyone gave up on their hate and decided to choose love they’d lose control of everything. So they built a wall around Kong in an attempt to maintain control of things. Without hate and fear they are powerless. So they built a wall around love. In King Kong, that little plan didn’t work out so well. Love breaks out. Yes, after breaking out love is drugged, chained up, finds out that the girl he’s hung up on doesn’t love him, and is eventually gunned down by an armada of tax payer funded war planes. But shit, what else was Kong supposed to do.


At least he tried.




(written for the Me Too reading hosted by Jonny Montgomery, Boulder Public Library, March 5 of the year that is now)