Tag Archives: haunted houses

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?


I Shaved My Balls For You

31 Aug

spike buffy

I Shaved My Balls For You


I shaved

my balls for you


I don’t know why

because you were already

gone, but I shaved my balls


Not with a razor

but with the nervous terror

that comes with all these years

of whatever this is

and loss


I shaved my balls

so smooth

you could build a haunted house on them

if you wanted to


but upon doing so

the house would just:

slip off


and while clinging to gravity


into a pile of balls-touched timber

and homeless ghosts


So please don’t build a house on my nuts, darlin’

because I just shaved them

and they’re too goddamn sensitive

and slippery

and why would you want to do something

like that anyway?


If you build a house on my nuts

you’d have to live there

and you don’t want to live there


You want to live elsewhere,

where everyone sweats ice tea

and wears underpants

and lives in cute houses not built

beneath their ex-person-they-used -to

love’s dicks


Which seems weird (to me)

[slight pause] that you live there, but

that’s where you live so:


ok [while looking left, to move on]


I don’t live there though, obviously

I live over here,

with great white shark ice sculptures

and a front row view of the vacant

lot that is my nuts


maybe I should plant flowers there

and watch them die because nobody waters them

like Sinead O’Conner does in that Prince song or

Taylor Swift sings about in that one song of hers

where she borrows a line about flowers from Prince



that reminds me, tonight:

Prince is dead!

Gene Wilder just died!


and I shaved my balls for you!

for some melodramatic/goddamn reason




and when it was over

and all the tiny hairs had been vanquished

to the solitary confinement

of the bathroom floor, for a couple of seconds


I thought about calling you, but didn’t

because: fuck phones

ergo: instead of doing that


I figured it was time to start

re-watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer again

and walked off towards the sunset living room


as the neighbor’s heavy dogs


their Donald Trump guts out


and the lamp beside my futon burst

into tears

that looked like

pummeled light