Tag Archives: love

dear cracker that I left underneath the futon mattress until the ants got you

26 Mar

 

dear cracker that I left underneath the futon mattress until the ants got you

 

what can I say if not: sorry about that

it happened

love is not often survived by the brittle

in your own cheesy way that was obvious

because you wore your cheesiness

on your outsides

but it was more than that

wasn’t it

 

I get that

 

between the cheesy exterior you had

a thin peanut butter lust for her

that could slice through time machines

and nightmares about zombified blankets

you miss her

don’t you

no, don’t worry

 

I get that

 

I mean

I miss her too

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On Monday You Feel Like A Naked Burt Reynolds

25 Mar

 

On Monday You Feel Like A Naked Burt Reynolds

 

On Monday you feel

like a naked

Burt Reynolds

like a 70’s magazine

fold out

excessively mustached & hairy

 

Tuesday’s still hairy

but methodically lacking in that sweaty mustache feel

propelled by desperation the missing’s worn inside out

and doesn’t fit right to the point where your toe nails feel naked

and the sun sets like a dirty magazine

when you learn she’s recently dating some jerk-off name Burt

 

Wednesday becomes Hate Burt

Day, puppet-name-posing-as-a-human-name-hairy

makes-a-living-editing-her-favorite-magazine-

big-foot-swifty bastard, you don’t feel

well go home from work early sit on the couch semi-naked

while drinking bourbon and watching reruns of Lost you pass out

 

Thursday you spend paddling without

a rowboat trailing behind the wake of the S.S Burt

which based on these cruel winds has totally seen her naked

by now, before midnight you watch a couple Ray Harry-

hausen movies and while listening to That’s The Way I Feel

by the Johnny Burnette Trio you send a snotty email to that fucker’s magazine

 

Friday morning she instructs you over the phone

to leave the magazine out of this

says she understands how you feel

and all that but Burt

has a hairy

temper and if you contact him at work again he’ll beat you naked

 

Saturday’s spent trying to figure out what ‘beat naked’

exactly means, you smoke cigarettes next to the corner magazine

stand cursing the sunlight because it makes your knuckles look hairy

and try to scrape the facts out

of your skull, that on the phone she’d called Burt

her boyfriend, dead pigeons scream: you know how they feel

 

Sunday you wake up naked and out

of your mind vowing fuck magazines! fuck Burt!

fuck Harry Houdini! I’ll escape this! (I’m over it), fuck the way I feel

Chivalry

22 Mar

 

Chivalry

 

at the end of an impossible day

post orgasm

in bed

 

I don’t mind sleeping

on the wet spot

unless I’m alone

One Year Without Nickel

9 Feb

 

One Year Without Nickel

 

Nickel!

 

Gosh, I fucking miss you

with me: sitting inside at this dining room table desk

writing this thing I wish didn’t need writing, and

you: in the backyard behind me

covered in all the love I’ll always have for you

and random snake shit

and the neighbor’s dog barks

and dirt

 

This world’s gone extra nutty without you

In the past year since you were forced out of here

by the cyclones of redacted reality

and the mortal biology of cruel blueprints

and the fact that life was designed

to hurt

 

Nickel,

 

Since you’ve been gone (copywrite: Kelly Clarkson)

 

the icecaps have intensified their melting

and compassion has been thrown overboard

by the denial of facts

and while in this current concussed state

has forgotten how to swim

 

Trump’s played this country

like a spoiled brat shitting in his own toy box

 

None of us are winning here:

 

Nazi pedophiles openly run for office

on the Republican ticket

 

Democrats continue to fumble

under the incompetence of their own Pelosis

 

and that wasted Justice League movie; holy bat shit,

it was fucking terrible!

 

Superman’s mustache is 2017’s CGI deep stated metaphor

for the fact that this world’s default move seemed to specialize

in letting everything down

 

What’s up with that, America?

 

I’m sick of your Tom Bradys and toothpaste

 

America,

 

my cat is still dead

and nobody seems to be digging

that post Super Bowl Cloverfield movie

like I do

 

America,

You’ve got a Congress lodged in your asshole

shaped like an Ancient Aliens pyramid

(Can you feel that?!)

 

(Is the answer: Yes? Then do something!)

 

Stop arguing about who’s going to grab the salad tongs

and get it out of there, you’ve got a serious infection going on

it’s puffy and looks like Trump’s legion of political ass goons

 

There is no Paul Ryan, only Zuul

 

America,

 

No, fuck that

 

Nickel,

 

It was exactly one year ago today

when I woke up in the saddest part of an early morning

and found you unbearably stiff

eyes gloomed wide at the foot of the bed

 

and I knew you were gone

your death having fused with that night’s dreams

 

I still tried like hell to refuse to believe it

but let’s not go into to that again right now

It’s too sad

and I’ve already all the time since then relived it

 

It’s a bad anniversary tonight and

I miss you, goofball

 

I walked out into the backyard where you’ve been buried

and it was dark

and the neighbor’s dogs wouldn’t stop barking

and I can’t take it out there

so I walked back inside

 

Where Superman’s mustache

cackles and eats everyone’s dinner

 

What are we supposed to do?

 

Hell if I know

All I know is that you made everything

less horrible

 

You made everything better

 

Damn it

 

 

Nickel,

 

I love you, kiddo

you got me through so much

you got me through damn near all of it

Thanks for that, etc.

I miss you

 

you reverse Hitler mustached nut-ball, you

 

My Foot Fell Asleep And It’s Having Those Dreams

11 Jan

 

My Foot Fell Asleep And It’s Having Those Dreams

 

my foot fell asleep

and it’s having those dreams again, where

 

we alphabetized all our typos

and did sex stuff in front of them

 

until the correct spellings came out

It’s A Trap

10 Jan

 

It’s A Trap

for Admiral Ackbar and the death of 2017     

 

Huh,

 

2 minutes left in this Trump-fucked

reality-pulverized 2017 world-year

Where does all the time go?

 

Tijuana?

Trump Tower?

Chuck-ee Cheese?

 

Our lives are being lived on the other side of the screen

of this new TV world

ruled over by the baby

Of The Apprentice, created after one long-short night

of force sexing itself on The West Wing

 

This political baby raised on the Twilight Zone episode

where that shitty red headed kid banished everyone

into the black and white corn field

who didn’t consistently stroke his dinosaur movie ego

and applaud when he mutilated all the gophers

in the front yard and I’m not sure what……..

what the fuck

 

what’s that over there? a space ogre struggling numbly

to open an already almost opened can of space Spam and peas?

 

No!

Or maybe it was, but

right now it looks a dumpster full of abandoned pizza rolls

filibustering an existential` loaf of bread

 

I’ve been,,,,,,,,interlinked with the,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,apostrophe,,,,,,,,,,,

and the meat curtains of a corporate owned democracy,,,,,,,,,,,interlinked

with,,,,,,,,.bobble head hearts,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,mystery boxes,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

 

leaking showers,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,and lost vests

it’s throat parching and ridiculous,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

it’s depressing,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

( hashtag: 2049 Deckard for president),,,,,,,,,(change the ta78pe)

 

What does everybody think of that last Star Wars movie?

 

I thought it was kinda terrible, or ok

Not as terrible as the genocide of modern compassion

and Trumps tax plan

but in this shite year of just shooting for not-disappointed

I was disappointed

 

That last Star Wars movie

just let me down

when I was already let down

 

and in the middle of all that letting down

with reindeer farting on the wrong rooftops

and Paul Ryan jerking off to new snuff films

depicting the death of all the human service type programs that’ve been set up

to help people…..a hooded jackass in spandex

throat fucking our safety nets……the ragged death

of a salt water leaf left in the sun in the middle of

fuck, I don’t know

(pick a goddamn month, already)

I’m gonna say: June

 

in the middle of all of this and everything else

and the truth that this movie needs Tan Tans

That fucking Star Wars movie,

 

(everything else that I disagreed with/

long list mercifully deleted)

They killed Admiral Ackbar!

Spoiler alert!

and the heart’s burglar alarms wept,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

in zero gravity, no less,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

because they just fucking killed him

My favorite Calamari!

Just, gone!

 

Which I’d like to state, for the record:

I’m opposed to

(or I’m opposed too)

 

I’m a huge fan of everything that I love

not leaving me

so when they just sucked him out into space

I wasn’t a big fan of that

 

(I’ve watched the things that I’ve loved

sucked out into space before

we all have

insert understatement here: it isn’t fun)

 

I have a hard time letting love in now and

They killed my favorite fucking space fish,

Space flushed him into the nipply death cold of space

and now

He’s space-fish dead!

Which I’ve heard is a really bad way

to be dead

 

Which sobers up the question: Why?

 

What the hell is anything thinking?!

We all deserve better that this?!

So of course, this is what we get

Admiral Ackbar is gone

 

And everybody’s acting like they don’t give a shit

Nobody’s acting like they care

And I’m fucking done with all this not caring!

 

Why can’t it all just be,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,I had another dream last night

that I kinda fell in love at a gang bang,,,,,,,,,,,,

it was,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,unbearable

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,I’ve long ago written about that shit already happening

because it was funny, but what if,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,fuck it,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,flip the tape again

 

Another year is over again

Buried in the back yard

next to my every day missed cat

 

flip the tape again

 

“It’s a trap!”

So be it

“At least we’ve got friends”

 

I want to fall in love again

 

 

 

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