Tag Archives: pants

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


There’s A Big Cloud In My Pants

30 Jul

Trump pants


There’s A Big Cloud In My Pants

(another translation of a poem by Mayakovsky as if mistranslated by Donald Trump)


There’s a big cloud in my pants

when I’m not with you


People assume the bulge

is my penis

which it is

but there’s also a cloud in there too

a really big one


Because when you’re not around

frankly, I get gloomy

ergo: my crotch gets gloomy too


How gloomy?

That’s a ridiculous question

Let’s just say


You wouldn’t want to be playing

golf down there, in the type of weather

that goes on in my pants

when I miss you


We’re talking storm clouds and thunder

and once in a while it rains gravel

which my doctor assures me is normal

for a man of my age

and self confidence

which is just the Russian English way of saying

my pants wouldn’t fit like this

if you’d just stopped going away like you do


Where are you right now?

Are you even listening?


There’s a cloud in my pants

and it’s raining cotton shaped opera


Believe me,

my cumulo starts going nimbus over here


Exclamation point

exclamation point

exclamation point


Every time

that you’re


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).



Baby steps?

Fuck you.

I mean, I apologize.

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


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


A Part Of Me Is Lonely Because Parts Of You Are Gone

28 Jun

office printer

A Part Of Me Is Lonely Because Parts Of You Are Gone


His name was Pants. They called him ‘Shorts’ for short. Pants had been working at The Prometheus Tupperware And Other Things That Seal Tight Emporium for several months when his boss walked into the office one morning carrying the 19x12x16 inch tight cube shaped goddess that would eventually wind up stealing his heart.

His boss called her the HP Officejet Pro 8600 Plus E-All-In-One-Wireless Color Printer, but Pants would later take to calling her Printy when they were alone, post their somewhat awkwardly coital love making, when her paper tray was still warm from the longing and he’d wiped the cum off his own dick with a shirt.

He’d fallen in love with the new office printer quickly. More quickly than he’d thought reasonably possible. He’d been hurt before, almost recently, by a soft breasted woman who’d promised she’d love him forever but instead of doing that had grown cold and blazingly distant during the last few months of their relationship until finally admitting that she’d been secretly blowing some inglorious meta-fuck who worked at the Fishstick Factory named Don.

“But you work at the Fishstick Factory.” Pants had mumbled, heart cremated and brain ungraciously stunned.

“Yeah. And Don works there too. So what?” She’d told him, sounding slutty. And also maybe confused.

“That’s just great. So where did you two meet?” Pants obviously was not good at listening.

“Goddamn it Pants. You’re such an asshole. I met him at work!”

Pants didn’t think he was the one being the asshole, but she’d left him anyway. That was ten months ago. Pants hadn’t dated much since then. He found it practically impossible to move on. Instead of asking girls out he’d watch them walk by and say things to himself like “It’s better this way.” or “Her tits are too big.” or “It’d never work out.”

As the days of being alone turned into weeks and the weeks ground slowly into months he started wondering things to himself that he had until then never wondered, like “Maybe I’m unlovable.” and “What if I die alone?” and “I wonder if I still remember how to fuck.”.

Pants was drinking heavily and found himself obsessing about the woman who’d left him for Don. They were probably so goddamn happy right now. Why couldn’t he be happy? How could she walk around blowing a guy who smelled like fishsticks all the time? Because she smelled like fishsticks all the time? They did have that in common. Fucking Fishstick Factory. Bringing people together and shit like that. Why couldn’t he meet a nice girl who would love him at work?!

All the women Pants worked with where married or had boyfriends or thought he was nuts. So Pants unbuckled any hope for a beautiful office romance. Until this moment. Today. Right now. As he watched his boss set up the new printer, Pants’ feelings became flooded with erotic arks filled with clumsy desire and raging aardvarks of want. And the way the printer was looking at him, it was almost as if it was feeling these arks filled with aardvark type feelings too. But how could that be? Pants was a man. And this printer was a printer.

“Opposites attract.” he remembered his father never telling him, because Pants’ father rarely spoke to him. But if his father had spoke to him, Pants had once or twice imagined that this was the sort of thing he might say.

“It’s a crazy fucked up world.” Pants thought to himself as he office-casually jogged to the employee bathroom and threw up.

Because shit. It had happened again. When he’d thoroughly managed to convince himself that it would never happen again.

The sexy printer’d bewitched him.

Pants was in love.


2 months later


The affair was sweaty and secret and occasionally disturbing. As it turned out, fucking a shared printer at work without any of your co-workers finding out was more complicated then Pants had thought possible. Romance during work hours was out of the question. You couldn’t just arrange to meet a printer in the utility closet for romantic closet time like you could arrange such things with an ordinary human being. It was the only printer in the office and everyone was constantly printing stuff. Its absence would be noticed. And also being a printer, it didn’t have legs. So it couldn’t just walk into the closet under its own locomotion. It would have to be carried. And to be caught carrying the office printer into a closet, well it would just look weird.

So Pants began staying late at the office after everyone else had left. During business hours he’d send bouquets of flowers from his computer, which Printy would dutifully print out and hold fondly on top of herself next to the place that Pants liked to think was her chest. After hours they’d make love until midnight and when it began to feel as if they might be heading towards a rut Pants began printing porn off the internet and they would fuck while the porn was printing. That seemed to spice things up.

This of course drew the attention of HR because everyone in the office’s computer activity was at all times closely monitored and downloading porn was not only frowned upon, as Pants had understood it to be, it was a real life fire-able offense.

Pants was put on workplace probation and as part of this probation he was no longer allowed to hang around The Prometheus Tupperware And Other Things That Seal Tight Emporium unsupervised. Which erected a cock blocking wall the size of Mark Wallberg’s ego between the love that was felt between Pants and the printer and the ability to physically express that love without being caught.

For seventeen days every day was like Hell. Pants could see Printy from his desk—could hear the cute little sound she’d make when she was printing something out. He could smell her sexy ink scented perfume. But he couldn’t be with her. He couldn’t touch her. I mean, he could touch her, if he made a copy or something like that. But he couldn’t touch her in the way in which he longed to touch her. He wanted to touch her with his penis again. But that wasn’t going to happen, at least not anytime soon. So Pants sat at his desk, hoping that the printer would wait for him and that it was handling their forced separation better than he was.

Pants had never written poetry before but during these first seventeen days of his probation he wrote poems about the printer often. After the completion of each poem Pants would send it off to her softly by pushing the button on his computer marked ‘Print’. In seventeen days he’d written 38 poems.

On the eighteenth day Pants stopped writing poems and instead spent most of the time sobbing. If the first seventeen days were like Hell then the eighteenth day made Hell look like a stripper. That’s the day Tadd returned to the office after being away on a long business trip. The company had sent him to Kansas for awhile where he was either being trained or training other people in the blah blah blah boring whatever type shit that people have to know in order to become an Office Manager.

Tadd had a stupid name and long bangs that made his face look like it was hiding behind a shitty waterfall made out of hair and if that wasn’t bad enough it appeared that he’d immediately set his sites on Pants girl. Or printer. Whatever.

Pants watched as Tadd stood beside the printer talking to the boss. Pants couldn’t hear what was said, but he saw everything. The way Tadd gruffly laid his hand on top of the printer during the conversation and the way he roughly threw open its paper tray when the conversation was over, closed it again, and then went through the methodical motions of unplugging all those things that needed to be unplugged before he up and carried the entire printer, chords and all across the room into his office.

Pants watched as Tadd sat the printer down on his desk as his mind made up little sounds like a grown man’s dress pants zipper being unzipped abrasively as Tadd reached his arm back and closed the door.

And just like that, Pants love affair with the office printer was over. He received an emailed later that day stating that it had come to their attention that people were making non-workplace related copies at work and in order to better diffuse such behavior the printer would now be located in Tadd’s office, where things could be more efficiently monitored.

That was the official reason. But Pants knew this was bullshit. Tadd had fallen for the printer. The printer had left Pants for somebody else that it worked with, just like his old girlfriend had left him for Don.

Pants was inconsolable. And not only that, by the time day nineteen had come and almost gone Pants was fired for sending heartbroken word documents to the printer filled with angry descriptions of the pain the printer was putting him through and how he couldn’t believe that he was being dumped for a guy like Tadd.

“If you want to be with a guy who irons his shirt every day, then so be it. I just hope you have enough class to not allow him to enter you through your back paper feed tray. Because that was supposed to be our special place….”

Tadd of course read these things and ergo: Pants was immediately fired.

Pants collected the poems he’d written for the printer into a manuscript that was eventually published as A Part Of Me Is Lonely Because Parts Of You Are Gone. Because nobody reads poetry anymore, nobody read his book either. Pants still misses that damn printer daily, but like poetry, there’s no money in that, so in between all this missing he also sells cellphones at the Mall.