Hitler Dick

10 Dec


Hitler Dick


Somebody’s beating the hell out of

the soda machine

because it took their money

and then didn’t give them a soda back


That’s the civilized agreement we have with these things

money goes in the machine

and the soda come out

but that didn’t happen this time


it almost never happens that way anymore

that machine’s all fucked up

it takes the money and keeps the soda


that’s how machines work now in the Trumpverse

there’s no compassion, vegan decency, or common sense

civility’s been Shake N Baked and the die hards are voting for death

while the rest of us stand around gasping in dirty pajamas and horror

(if you were wondering about why the machine….)

that’s why somebody’s beating the hell out of it


These things can’t be allowed to continue in such manners

Roy Moore is standing at the plate, freeballing America

fuck you, baseball season

That machine has got to go


You put your money in and

Hell comes out

but no soda

and no money

all that beating and nothing, no change


Everyone’s crazy

Everyone’s misquoting Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall

and forgetting about Emilio Estevez

Everyone’s dying behind porch light

and fucking beneath iphone blankets

Everyone’s gloating or shamed


and that goddamn machine keeps taking all the money

giving back empty space where the promise of actual soda’s

supposed to be


I get thirsty, just thinking about it


Sometimes everything you have is just 75 cents

and when you invest everything you’ve got into something

and that something tells you to fuck off

using the language of silence and empty space

or the actual words


it’s easy to go nuts

such things accelerate the plunge


That was everything I’ve got!

you scream at the machine

Give me something back!


While the machine just stands there with its soul castrated

says nothing

everything is religiously followed and meaningless

everything is nothing


and because it’s all nothing

the machine’s decided

you don’t need that soda

or companionship

or love


that stuff is for people who think like the machine tells them to think

you don’t think like the machine thinks

ergo: you don’t deserve that shit


Fuck you and your 75 cents worth of everything

You never properly earned that 75 cents in the first place

so I’ve taken it back

and you’re not getting your soda

because the soda doesn’t want you anymore


so go off and go cry/weep for a long time about that


I’d maybe offer you water

but I don’t have any water on me

and the water that I have got

I wouldn’t give it to you anyway

so that would just be mean of me

the machine says

to offer you something I’ve never intended to give you

but screw it, you look so sad


Would you like some water?


Yes please, we all whisper to the machine at different times

guts cried out and pissed upon

protesting between old shoe boxes

sweating out hard rage and madness and fumes


Sorry, I don’t have any water

the machine reports back

no water for you

All the water these days has been set aside

for rich real estate assholes with bad credit and

grown men who’ve been banned from the mall


in a reality like this, everything just goes spinning


Titanic is the Karate Kid of floating boat movies

Float on

Float off


So long, Jack


Their lives together put a down payment

on a shower curtain

and when they divorced

two bathroom floors

took turns

being wet


while whoever was beating that soda machine

kept beating

because they’d just put everything they’d had in it

and nothing came out


they kept beating


ker crunch pop



and I sat there in a room just down the hall, screaming


Get that motherfucker

Hating everything is not a sustainable life style!

It’s their turn now

(I’m so fucking lonely)


Take em’ down!

Crotch punch it in the swastika

Hitler’s dick won’t win tonight!


(I want my Diet Coke!)


Get em!


I Am A Graduate Of Young Emilio Estevez Disguised In Old Man Makeup University

24 Nov

I Am A Graduate Of Young Emilio Estevez Disguised In Old Man Makeup University


Everything I know about writing I learned from a young Emilio Estevez disguised in old man makeup, like he was disguised at the beginning and end and throughout the various voiceovers of Young Guns 2.


It was a hell of a school I was the only student. There were no vending machines There was no campus. Classes were held beside a couple of dumpsters Emilio had used in his film Men At Work.


Tuition was affordable. Acceptable forms of payment: Milk Duds, information pertaining to the current whereabouts of Kiefer Sutherland, and used DVDs. We didn’t have to get the banks involved. Professor Estevez didn’t have time for FASFA. I graduated from Young Emilio Estevez Disguised In Old Man Makeup University with a non-accredited BA in creative writing and debt fucking free.


Our school mascot was Paula Abdul. Professor Estevez emphasized life experience over form.


“Tonight you’re going to write me a story about what it feels like to do homework when you’ve been stabbed.” Professor Estevez would say. “Have you ever been stabbed?” and while I’d sit there trying to remember if I’d ever been stabbed before he’d pull out a long bone handled knife and stab me in the leg. I’d scream and bleed a lot while he cleaned the knife using one of his dusty cowboy bandanas. After the knife had been cleaned and returned to his satchel he’d remind me that he wasn’t a big fan of double spacing and dismiss class.


I wrote a lot of stories about what it was like to try to do homework with a knife wound. For an entire semester he assigned this particular exercise at least once a week.


In the advanced classes instead of inflicting the pain manually and sending me off to write about it he’d ask me about things that were breaking my heart that day and tell me to go write about that.


It was most times hard to tell if Professor Estevez liked what I was writing. His face was hard to read under all that old man makeup and feedback was not given easily. It had to be earned.


Professor Estevez didn’t believe in grading papers. He also hated to be read to, so on those days he’d ask me to read to the class something he’d assigned the day before he’d always walk away from the dumpsters before I’d made it through the first paragraph. He’d stand far enough away so he couldn’t hear me, staring with a wild west looking-glass pointed at my lips, so he could tell when I was done.


When I’d finished he’d adjust his old man hat and false limp back to the dumpster, where he’d say something gravely and profound like ‘I don’t know about that one’ or ‘Write it in a world where the government has massacred all the commas. Them sons of bitches are now extinct.


So I’d go home and write it again without the commas and the next day he’d be all ‘What’s the matter with you boy? You write like you’re racist against commas.’.


I’d go home and get drunk, pass out writing, and wake up with pages emancipated with comas.


I’d show it to Professor Estevez. He’d light it on fire with his hand rolled cigarette without reading it and tell me to go home and write something that didn’t comma pander about what it’s like to have an old man kick me in the nuts. Post nut kicking I’d limp to the bus stop, my hands like a wheelbarrow, cradling my boot printed testicles as gently as one can.


It was a tough school, but Professor Estevez taught me how to translate all the lost love and pain in this world into words.


I learned a lot at my school. According to Professor Estevez, cellar door isn’t the most phonesthetically beautiful combination of words. The most beautiful word combination ever constructed is ‘No no, Pendleton’ or ‘sweet frost’.


Professor Estevez was an enormous fan of cake and confusing his movie roles with his real life adventures. He’d tell me stories about how John Tunstall had taught him how to read and long nights between ambushings when Doc Scurlock learned him about poetry and how it’s wrong to shoot innocent kids who collect marbles and how Lou Diamond Phillips taught him the true meaning of the word ‘pals’.


Professor Estevez knew all these things about stuff and because I was his student, I know them too.


Without his mentorship, I would’ve never written It Was Always Cyber Monday In Their Pants, the store of a lonely guy from the future unable to reconcile humanity’s greedy consumption of a dying planet’s natural resources with the fact that his dick was 3 inches longer when it was flaccid than it was when it was erect. His dick actually shrunk when he was excited. Everyone in the future mad fun of him. So he stopped being excited. It was a metaphor for water rights and globalization.


The story was a big hit in West Paris and went on to win The Martin Sheen Literary Award in 2014.


And that’s why your schools suck and my school is the best. Front Range? Fuck that. Front Range was my safety school. Red Rocks was my safety school’s safety school. CCD was my safety school’s safety school’s high school diaphragm.


Young Emilio Estevez Disguised In Old Man Makeup University rules.




written for the Nov 21 2017 FBomb Battle of the Writing Programs reading hosted by Jonathan Montgomery Mercury Café Denver CO

Tony Bennett’s Ghost

1 Nov


Tony Bennett’s Ghost


She was drinking Mai Tais

in the Tonga Room

where she wrote me an email

that I didn’t get


because life: is like that


There was an email

and then there wasn’t an email

and I don’t understand almost everything

anyway, so


Where’d it go?


Did it get itself lost inside the haunted house of the internet?

Did it trust an honest faced porn site for directions?

Was it seduced by mermaids and dragged down beneath the waves

of a Philip K Dick envisioned sea?


How do I know?


It’s not in my inbox

and it’s not in her outbox

It’s in the just-vanished box

pre-ordering the next Taylor Swift album

drinking whiskey like a tired gladiator on its day off


It’s gone


Nobody knows where it is now

but when I’d first heard it was missing

I was immediately sure I knew what had happened to it


because I’m occasionally cocky like that


I had become convinced with the equivalent

of zero doubt that

The Ghost of Tony Bennett Stole it


Tony Bennett’s ghost stole our email!

I insisted to her almost immediately

across the internet


I could just see him, Tony Bennett’s ghost

morphing his way away from the bar

smoking a quick cigarette with a potted plant

Trading pizza jokes with Don Rickles


as he absentmindedly swiped our email

out of the internet air, somehow mistaking it

at the time for his the phone number of a 1960’s cocktail waitress

or his car keys


With me, screaming


Leave that cocktail waitress alone! and

You’re in no shape to drive!

It’s Halloween for juke-box-sake!


Give us our fucking email Tony Bennett!

I could feel myself screaming


I was rambling at this point, naturally

when she pointed out, quite correctly

It couldn’t have been Tony Bennett’s ghost

that stole our email, because


Tony Bennett’s not dead

and she was right

I knew that


Of course Tony Bennett’s alive

and we’ll always have Tom Petty

Only songs can save us now


So what the fuck stole our email?

Damn Those Torpedoes (for Tom Petty)

8 Oct


Damn Those Torpedoes

aka So This Is Home


Existence is a sinking island

Circled by something inspired by battleships

That’ve been bombing the shit out of everything


Ever since roughly

around 3 and a half minutes

After the invention of whatever all this is


Let’s call it everything!

Let’s call it home!


Everyone alive at the moment living between oblivions

on the sinking island have their own theories about the battleships

and what the purpose of their bombing the life out of all of us is intended to be


Some people think it has something to do with faith

(note to self: remember to re-watch The Ten Commandments

and other Charlton Heston movies like I’m Charlton Heston and Soylent Green)


Some people think it has something to do with mathematics

(note to self: remember to re-watch Good Will Hunting)


Some people think it’s all about hamburgers screaming and nothingness

(note to self: remember to re-watch porn)


I happen to think that your eyes are constitutionally perfect

In all the ways possible, and I’m being serious

Do people still say things like ‘stunning’ anymore?


(“I liked the way we danced.” – The Legend of Bagger Vance)


That’s funny, because

I still happen to think that the universe is doomed

and your eyes are stunning

In the way those things we love move on

or don’t let us down are stunning


and I’d just like to say I’m sorry

I forgot to eat your soufflé

I’m sorry!


This poem is supposed to be about Tom Petty!

But, fuck

those eyes, if they were a fucking recording artist they’d be playin’

with The Heartbreakers right now

(ok now, here we are, back on track)


(the absence of many words here now meant to represent silence)


I want to tit fuck your eyes

Whoops, we’re heading someplace else now

where Tom Petty’s still dead and tomorrows are a recurring myth and


If I had one wish right now

that had nothing to do with fixing what’s wrong in this world

and everything, I’d want to tit fuck your eyes


Is there a more politically correct way to say this?


I want to tit fuck your eyes

With words shaped like my penis


There, now I’ve said it

Let’s get back to Tom Petty and those goddamn battleships

with their existence ending cannons


Damn the torpedo that took Tom Petty

when this world really needs him


Damn those torpedoes that’ve taken everyone this month

do to hate and gunfire and natural disasters and Trump


Damn those torpedoes that take everything away from us

Damn those torpedoes that un-unite humanity

Damn the torpedo that threw me away from you


I’d always known all this other horrible shit could happen

(I miss you too, Tom Petty)

But I never thought they’d get away with something like this


Those torpedoes managed to take us out too


Shit, so

Damn those goddamn torpedoes



I’ve been limping like I’ve been waiting in line

for the next slot in the meat locker since then

Which is seriously, ridiculous


I’m not giving up or anything, but

Those Tom Petty Damned torpedoes

aren’t fucking around




That was one hell of a shot

Casablanca 2: Trump-World Boogaloo

2 Oct


Casablanca 2: Trump-World Boogaloo



The moon’s going out tonight

and can’t decide between a bulletproof vest

or a straight jacket and tights


(She had the attention span of a corn chip

and my heart is guacamole)



All I’ve got left is a green Batman t-shirt

and a busted piano that only plays one song

While you’re over there with your new fella


Decked out in your sexy bomb shelter

Almost-nakedly debating between oblivion, Phil Collins

singing about mushroom clouds and The Cure


Romance is at war with all the things that happen in the real world

Rewound into the 1940’s

Love’s plane keeps getting shot down by brand new Nazis

Kurt Vonnegut said everything: “So it goes”



Casablanc-all this confusion that comes from all our lives

lived inside the in-between

(When you drove away I crumbled

against the door

like a slain cookie smashed by the very plate

that had sworn it its love)


Casablanc-all that gets lost between the non-existing

And the injustice that thrives in its binding


Casablanc-the penultimate dick joke,

that had nothing to do with cookies

but shit, you’ll have to trust me

It’s a dick joke, so it’s funny


Casablanc-us all

Greek Salad vs. Lou Ferrigno

29 Sep


Greek Salad vs Lou Ferrigno


she ordered a greek salad

w/ italian dressing

interdicting the specific flavor intensions

of the dead bastard who invented

greek salads


she never wanted a sandwich

or a hotdog, which also might be considered a sandwich

or whatever the hell  other meal type options are out there

competing against the decisions for salad


she never wanted world wars

or Poco Harem records

or to hurt me, or to be the person

who fucks somebody else’s shadow

into the sun


she just wanted a whole lot of distance

to get away, somewhere

where she could be swallowed by vineyards


she wanted out




my penis is like lou ferrigno

neither one of them can hear


If You Stare At My Nose Long Enough It Looks Like A Penis

4 Sep


If You Stare At My Nose Long Enough It Looks Like A Penis


I only just noticed this yesterday


Between Trump vs. North Korea and a bad dream

Involving all the women who’ve left me vs. all the women

I’ve let down and I’ve been living with my nose now

For a really long time, still

I remember it looking other ways, but

Holy Dick Flakes, Batman!

I have no stuffed box memory of it ever

Remotely looking like this


And for the past 10 years of so I’ve been paying attention

Because Richard Brautigan wrote a poem about it

And it’s a good one

About his nose and how it was growing older

And I was a young lad at the time, suddenly horrified

By something that had not occurred to me

When I thought all the horrible things about everything

had already occurred to me, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh


Youth is an endless procession of discovering

One brand new horrible thing you’ve never thought about

after another, day after day

Until the day’s become years and

The years become Grape Tic Tacs

And untouched jars of Chicken Tonight

And the Chicken Tonight becomes oblivion


So every year I get older, if I remember

I’ll occasionally check to see if that face part is getting older

Faster than the rest of the things

I’ve been on the lookout for the Brautification of my nose

For a reasonably measured amount of time


And before tonight, things had been fine as far as that area goes

But tonight things have changed again

And not in the way poetically expected

It doesn’t look older, it’s just………….


Tonight my nose looks like a penis


Fuck it

“So it goes” as KV used to say

But things weren’t always like this


My nose didn’t always look like a penis


At one point it looked like my favorite Foghorn Leghorn cartoon

At one point it looked like King Kong attempting to protect Fay Wray

And at one point, as I got older

It looked like the Bat Symbol

And every time it went down on her Gotham City

It was beautiful, and

Love would save the day


It’s been a long time now

Between tonight where my nose looks like a penis

And those past times when it last donned the cowl


It’d be too easy to blame Ben Affleck for this

So we won’t blame him, or will we?!

It doesn’t matter


Tonight, if you stare at my nose long enough

it looks like a penis

So be it


Though I still may or may not boycott the new Justice League movie

I still think of you often

every time I sneeze