Tag Archives: death

First Night Without Jack

2 Jul

 

First Night Without Jack

 

Drought, with running water

Everything right

About this world was

Tethered inside you

How am I supposed to not be morbid now?

 

It looks like I picked the wrong day to stop missing things

So long, my generous-guru friend

 

Adios, Bird King

 

Death is a real dick, at all times

It gets hung up on its own girth and doesn’t

Connect its acts with what it’s doing

Kick it in the nuts for me, brother, sing us one more tune

 

for Jack Collom

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A Year Without Prince: Part 1

28 Apr

A Year Without Prince: Part 1

 

A year?

Sexy-seriously?

(stomp down on that delay pedal)

 

How has it already been a year?

(year year year)

 

Where the fuck

has everything gone?

(oh, right)

(you keep it in there)

(as long as the water’s warm enough/that’s hot)

 

Thirsty?

 

Our whole world’s been swallowed by ego

like it was sloppy joe sauce

or left over wine

 

(what’s this button do?)

(It’s either wired to take down the EPA

or inform the staff that President Parched Asshole

wants another Coke)

 

Things that have pride besides doves:

 

Fascists, fast cars, furiously bald actors,

Bon Jovi, bulldozers, heavy sleepers,

trampolines, outrageous synth solos,

 

winery-s and sandpaper

politicians and the occasional parade

stiff dinner rolls

and hard doom

 

(fast guitar solo)

(outsourced belly dance moment)

(We should continue this conversation over thongs)

 

How many days are there in a year again?!

(primordial scream)

I don’t know

52 seconds and our pants are still on?

(proud keyboard fart)

 

(Easy baby, that thing’s my weiner

not an ice pick)

(whisper) (Better like that

or not better like that?)

 

Things that are never satisfied

besides Prince’s mom:

 

Vampires and jazz licks

truth’s vibrator and pure love

John Mayer’s girlfriends

and overly planned picnics

natural disasters

and tone deaf billionaires

in a park

 

Wake up wide eyes!

(got ta got ta got ta)

 

Harry Styles is a pubic hair trend

not a pop star!

 

Lake Minnetonka isn’t a lake

it’s a goddamn state of mind!

 

Legend has it there was this one night

when Prince danced so hard

the universe cried dead light

and Prince pissed mozzarella and black olives

until the lady he’d hung his heart on screamed

 

Great!

Thanks!

Now I want Pizza!

 

and Prince was like, “Troy, I don’t serve ribs”

and Troy said “I’m not Troy, darling. I’m Prompelunia

and I said pizza big shot, not ribs”

 

And Prince was all, “Sorry. I thought

you were kinda quoting one of my albums. Shit, yeah

(bang down hard on the sus2 chord)

We should get pizza

 

So they did

A Year Without Prince: Prologue

20 Apr

 

A Year Without Prince

(this thing in 4 parts, prefaced by brief rambling

followed by a quick prologue and then…….zoom!)

 

Wendy?

Yes Lisa?

I’m not Lisa. I’m Dennis

Oh, sorry Dennis. I’m not Wendy anyway. I’m also Dennis too.

Huh.

(Purple silence. Followed by dialogue)

That doesn’t mean we can’t still wear ripped t-shirts together and save the world.

Cool.

 

Prologue:

 

vagina katana

half price cheeseburgers

dogs barking like abandoned flare guns

smoking outside another long-day-embedded-

shitty-kung-fu ashtray-sky

sort of night

 

 

 

(to be continued!)

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

 

Nickel,

 

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

 

Digging A Grave For My Cat

23 Feb

nickle

 

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

always

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

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

Dear Pants

29 Apr

purple rain

 

Dear Pants,

 

I’m sorry I haven’t washed you lately. You smell sorta upset about it, but I swear I can fix this. There’s plenty of detergent just flopping around in the basement. It’s just, I’ve been busy lately. Ok, not busy really. Despondent perhaps. If only because I’m afraid I’m going to misspell depressed.

And I know there are a couple of pairs of perfectly clean pants downstairs beside the washing machine but it’s just, I haven’t felt like going downstairs. So I’ve been wearing you all week and it isn’t necessary to start nagging me about the underwear again because I know I should start wearing underwear again. I’ll totally start wearing underwear again. I even bought a new pair of silk boxers last week. They were on sale for $4. So maybe they aren’t actually made out of silk.

Forgive me, I’m unsophisticated. Anything that feels slippery I tend to write off as being bullshit or silk. They’re sitting there in the closet next to the front door but I’ve just been sorta too sad to deal with that closet lately. And besides that mornings can be the hardest–if you don’t count late mornings, mid afternoons, all goddamn evening, and the middle of the nights (darlin’ don’t even get me started about those middle of the nights)—and when you throw wearing underwear into the mix it just feels like I’m putting my pants on twice, which feels: exhausting. So I haven’t been wearing underwear. Ok? Sue me. Or please don’t. Because I don’t feel like being the guy who doesn’t wear any underwear in court………

But at least I bought some. (underwear).

Right?

Yes

Baby steps?

Fuck you.

I mean, I apologize.

I’ll do laundry soon. I promise. Just let me check my……….

Ahhhhhh!

We’re so alone.

But we knew that so what else is going on?

It’s snowing outside like a souvenir globe right now.

The TV is suggesting vigilance

This past week is suggesting the world

isn’t the world anymore

 

it’s something else

because Prince is dead

 

and in the space of this absence

things are appearing regularly

in their original form of unraveled

to the point where on my way home

earlier this evening I watched a dove

pick a fight with a Corvette

 

everyone’s fucking like angry guitar solos

Except me.

because I’m all alone

so I jerked off like I was playing

something really complicated

on trombone

 

and when I’m done doing that

I take my pants the rest of the way off

because they’re dirty

 

I mean you’re dirty

I mean everything’s dirty

He means “That ain’t Lake Minnetonka”

I mean that’s right

 

nothing’s gonna get washed tonight

because I’m watching

Purple Rain

on manual repeat

instead