Tag Archives: Rob Geisen

Aquariums, NY

22 Jul


(from my book: The Aftermath, etc. by Get in the car, Helen–published by Nate Jordon/Monkey Puzzle Press)

Aquariums, NY

Between the orgy
of yellow sunlight      and      brown coffins
bugs beat the living shit
out of each other
and then spend the next seventy minutes
buzzing around their own
beaten out shit
like bugs do
testily oblivious
listening to track 4 of Chinese Democracy
       over and over again
yapping about
how the world is neither
        round nor flat
it’s pile-of-shit shaped
while at the same time
sitting at a small table
off to the side
our daily tombstones
drink Bloody Marys
              and talk about
the last time they were all together
            and went spelunking
            and fought about history
            and made love all night long
                      like an angry Bob Barker
                      dressed up in a cowboy
                                shellacked thong
They talk about
all of these things
and smoke cigarettes
until the bill comes
an event which causes
everything to go uncomfortably quiet
            like a dirty fish tank
            beating off to
            an old postcard of the sea
forcing the sentimental pile of shit
around which all the bugs have been spinning
to mumble something about
the stubby miracle of hope
as it exists in the age
of dead romance
and being that the tombstones
are such cheap unshakable bastards
and constant acquaintances
the waitress should stop waiting
for death to do the right thing
or be chivalrous
and just put all their drinks
on shit’s tab instead
which she does, almost begrudgingly
as the fish tank
beats off
to the sea


Love is: a Chalk Outline

14 Jul


(note: written for the monthly fiction reading series The F Bomb/every 2nd Wed of the month at the Mercury Cafe/Denver CO)               

This Story Has Been Formatted To Fit Your Screen
and Edited To Run In the Time Allotted
“Late night watching TV, used to be you here beside me.”
–Chris Martin to Gweneth Paltrow
            Love is a Chalk Outline regaining consciousness 40 minutes after the crime scene party’s over, stumbling down the hallway like a partially erased tether ball, unable to recall what he’d done with his pants.
            (Commercial Interruption #1: 3 women, post-menopausal, dancing without worry because they’re wearing Gerbers brand extra-super absorbent adult diapers. Available in pink, blue, and new ‘nothing-to-see-here-because-they’re-always-this-color’ yellow. Only 28.50 plus shipping and handling. Incontinent? Gerbers’ got you covered. End Commercial)
            The Chalk Outline was unable to find his pants, but that was the least of his problems. Apparently the smart ass who’d traced him had a sense of humor. Or perhaps it’d been a simple matter of incompetence or evil intent. Either way, whoever’d been in charge of tracing the Chalk Outline had neglected to trace the very reason for wearing pants in the first place. For: we live in a world in which it is illegal to expose one’s weiner in public. This law no longer applied to the Chalk Outline. He’d been traced without a dick.
            (Commercial Interruption #2: Lysol does not eliminate odors. It just makes everything in the room smell like Lysol. Lysol is an odor. In order to do what its own label purports it can do it would have to eliminate itself. Avoid the madness. Stop shitting in the Employee Only restroom at work! Message brought to you by Scented Candles and Americans Organized Towards The Reelection Again Maybe Someday of Eric Cantor. End Commercial)
            Having been reawakened to walk the Earth without his penis, the Chalk Outline felt betrayed and being that his 3 favorite movies were Braveheart, Rob Roy, and The Crow, he set out on the arduous journey of seeking revenge against the thing which had traced him.
            “I will end you like the Internet has ended the noble history of  reading spine bounded books in print!” the Outline screamed at the sky while pretending that it was raining and also the middle of the night.
            The Chalk Outline’s thinly veiled metaphor for god did not answer. But that was ok. The Outline had been chalked recently.  The son of a bitch who’d done the chalking couldn’t have gone far.
            (Story interrupted by 20 minutes of local news emergency weather coverage. Thunderstorm Watch until 2 a.m. The weatherman, though fully aware it’s only a limited amount of water, has chosen to report upon such things as if anyone caught outside with or without a raincoat has been pre-selected to die a nasty death. Please ride out the storm whilst cowering in the proper amount of fear. If your family owns a gun, I suggest you load it. Channel 9 News Team. 9 Cares. We now return you to this story, already in progress.)
            The Chalk Outline stood upon the veranda covered in blood. He’d gone into the battle well aware that taking out his own creator would not be easy. Especially without a penis. (note: the previous sentence is in no way sexist. The phrase ‘dick move’, often applied to someone who’s being an asshole, can also be defined as a real self-defense tactic invented by The Chalk Outline before he’d been murdered and brought back to life as a chalk outline. The move being invented shortly after the Outline flunked out of Karate School and when used correctly rendered one’s opponents bruised, sexually distant or confused. )
            Anyway, the battle’d been  harsher than the Outline’d predicted, mostly due to the fact that his opponent turned out to be plural. Opponents. Sort of. The man/men who had traced him at the original crime scene were Siamese Twins.
            The Outline had no idea what he was expecting, but he hadn’t been expecting that.
            (Commercial Interruption #3: A trailer for a new movie in which Hollywood remakes the story of The Three Little Pigs. In this hip, super modernized version the pigs are the ones trotting around blowing down all the houses and it’s the misunderstood wolf who stands inside, haunted by bricks and past mistakes made out of straw,  waiting for the walls to fall. Directed by that guy who had the balls to bang Kristen Stewart behind Rob Pattinson’s back after having cast his own real life wife as Kristen Stewart’s mom. End Commercial)
            The Chalk Outline thought about outlining the body of the Siamese Twins he’d just defeated but then thought better of it. The Twin’s outline might pop back to life like his own outline had done, and then they’d probably just start fighting again, and the Chalk Outline was done with that.
            He went to the dead Siamese Twin’s refrigerator and ate some leftover shrimp instead.
            (Story interrupted by the 9 News Weather Team again. Thunderstorm Watch has been escalated to a Warning in the following counties: Broomfield. Please prepare for the apocalypse accordingly. We now return to…wait shit. No. That story’s over. We now return you to the Channel 9 movie of the week, The Poseidon Adventure starring Steve Guttenberg, C. Thomas Howell, The original Robocop, Doug ‘Coughlin’s Law’ Coughlin from Cocktails, Jane (aka The Hero of Canton) and Rutger Hauer, already in progress….)

The Night I Discovered That I’m Not as Cool as Han Solo

10 Jul


(originally published in The Incredible Shrinking Story, A Collection of Flash Fiction, Volume Four)

The Night I Discovered That I’m Not as Cool as Han Solo

            We all know that scene. The one from The Empire Strikes Back, on Cloud City—after the gang’s been betrayed by Billy Dee Williams. Han Solo’s stripped of his black Han Solo vest, and while standing there in front of everybody in a nice white shirt and brand new handcuffs–seconds away from being frozen in carbonite and shipped off to Jabba The Hut–Princess Leia lays it all out there and tells Han ‘I love you’.

            And like Keith Richards or something, Han Solo says ‘I know’. All cool and shit. It’s one of my fondest memories from childhood. I’d always aspired to handle myself like that, if circumstances ever presented themselves. Which they did. Sort of. In the form of Helen.

            We shared a very similar moment together. Only instead of saying ‘I love you’ she told me she was leaving. And instead of me taking it like a multi-galactic Rock Star, I broke down sobbing, mumbling in the midst of this breakdown something that sort of sounded like ‘Please Don’t Go!’.

            It wasn’t a pretty site. As the fog kicked in and I felt myself being slowly lowered further and further down into the carbonite pit, I became even more desperate at the thought of never seeing Helen again. I started screaming stuff like:

            “Are you sure you want to end this? I mean, I can do better! This is crazy! Will you at least read to me, while I’m frozen? That would be nice.

            And while you’re thinking it over can you get me a sweater or something?! It’s cold in here! That’d be great darlin’. I need you!

            Helen nixed the idea with a silent head shrug that meant ‘No’. I continued haggling desperately like a pre-frost bite riddled buffoon.

            “Do me a favor!” I scream as the pit slowly overtakes me and I can no longer feel my own genitals. “Don’t fuck Lando! Can you at least promise me that? I mean, he’s a friend of mine! It’s the least you could do, in honor of my love for you! Keep your stuff away from his dick!”

            I hear Helen say she can’t promise anything. It’s an embarrassing scene. The last thing I hear is Boba Fett making fun of me and Chewbacca gargling something about how he’s lost all respect for me and refuses to be my sidekick anymore. Insists on hanging out with someone more ‘manly’. He’s currently on tour working as Justin Bieber’s sidekick instead.

            And just like that, it’s over. Or maybe it begins again. My life inside this pit.

            While frozen in carbonite waiting for my love to not rescue me, I find a strip mall bar and order several drinks. While waiting for them to arrive I flip off Storm Troopers and stare at the coked out alien who has a face that looks like something that fell out of an elephant’s vagina nine months after Jack Nicholson fucked it. His nose hanging loosely like a Skeet Ulrich sized dick.

            I sip my drinks quickly, trying to forget where it is I really am. Frozen in carbonite. Vest-less. Publicly rejected and doomed.

            Over the course of one long goddamned scene I’ve managed to get dumped by the only girl I’ve ever loved. I’ve lost my sidekick to an un-pube’d pop star, not to mention the respect of the entire Bounty Hunter community. My girl’s probably blowing the only black friend I’ve got in this entire galaxy, and because I’ve seen how these sort of movies end, when I finally do get out of this carbonite outhouse, I’ll have to spend the next several years attempting to get over her, which in this nightmare manifests itself in the form of being trapped in the Redwood Forest over the course of a ridiculously disappointing sequel battling armies of Gary Colman sized Teddy Bears while the dude who’s fucking Helen steals my ship and blows up a SECOND Death Star!

            I ask you, where’s the honor in that? How is this fair?

            And then I realize I’m being an idiot for even asking the question.

            Belief in fairness leads to trusting. Trusting leads to leaving your goddamn apartment. Leaving your apartment leads to meeting the woman of your dreams. Meeting her leads to having drinks together. Drinking together leads to huge boner sex. Huge boner sex leads to a scary couple of days waiting to find out if you maybe have Herpes (after the fact, she mentions that she might have herpes). Maybe having herpes leads to not having herpes (hooray!). Not having herpes leads to love.

            And we all know where it goes from here. Love leads to suspicion (why the fuck does she have to smell like Colt 45 all the time?). Suspicion leads to Betrayal (because she was already secretly having butt sex with Billy Dee Williams, that’s why!). And as we’ve already covered, Billy De leads to public humiliation and getting frozen in carbonite. Which leads to drinking alone with all the other aliens in this bar. Which eventually has led to me accepting free shots from an Irish dude who talks like Yoda and insists everything’s going to be fine.

            Which leads to, I don’t know. I don’t care if Yoda can levitate an entire bowl of cashews without spilling any nuts. Yoda not spilling his nuts all over everything fails to convince me that I’ll get over her soon and things will be ok.

            It’s at this point that Yoda gives up on his pep talk and starts showing me tiny holographic images of AT-AT’s having sex.

            Photos of AT-AT’s going at it robot doggie style leads to me paying my tab, as my brittle nerves jump to light speed.

            I miss you, Helen. I’m sorry. I’m not as cool as Han Solo.

            I’m still frozen without you. It’s all this goddamn carbonite, damn it.         

            I don’t know how to let you go.

The Night I Discovered That I Might Be Cooler Than Han Solo

9 Jul

(for Nick Morris and Nancy S.)

The Night I Discovered That I Might Be Cooler Than Han Solo

We all know the scene. The story splashed over the internet that Harrison Ford, a few days after pulling on the old Han Solo vest, halfway through his famous catch phrase, had managed to break his goddamn leg while filming a new scene on the Millennium Falcon. “I’ve got a bad feeling about…..shit!” a friend close to the source of the space ship door which brought down the damage is reported to have overheard the elderly space smuggler groan. 

Breaking your leg while walking through a door on your own ship, a ship that’s been attached to your unique legacy almost like the wearing of one white glove helped distinguish Michael Jackson from the 80’s pop crowd, as in the way Madonna found fame by being the slut who sang about virgins, I mean, breaking your leg like that is the opposite of far far away coolness. What the Jabba just happened here? Han Solo used to be better than that.

It’d be like, if they made another Trek movie with what’s left of the original cast and Shatner showed up on the Enterprise bridge with his toupee glued to his belly and his girdle flopped over the top of his head. It’s the other way around, mate! You don’t want to do that. That’s the sort of shit that can fuck with one’s legacy. Breaking your leg on your own spaceship is the same goddamn thing.

What the fuck happened to Han Solo?! Han Solo should be able to walk around his own ship without breaking his leg, I mean that’s almost the goddamn definition of being Han Solo. You can almost hear 1970’s George Lucas at the audition table “Can you walk around ships and stuff without breaking anything? Are you racist against Wookies? Can you look bored under pressure? Yeah? You’re hired.”

We all get older. I get that. It’s ok for mortal men to break their legs against the closest thing they’ve got to their own spaceship. That shit happens. But it’s not ok to do this if you’re Han Solo. It’s like eating Viagra, there’s no shame in an aging man needing a little help with his willy. Time can be a real turn off and eating anti-limp pills is what regular guys tend to do. What you don’t want to see is Han Solo standing in line at the pharmacy with a bunch of other hung over dudes from the cantina waiting to refill his own E.D. prescription. Because Han Solo isn’t ‘regular guys’. He’s fucking Han Solo.

Han Solo’s dick shouldn’t need a life jacket to stay afloat. Han Solo’s dick should be self-stiffening. When I was a kid, I was pretty sure that Han Solo walked around the movies with a hard on crammed into his pants at all times. Not even the unlimited power of a Sith Lord could defeat a rebel erection like that.

I mean: shit. Maybe Salinger did it right. Do your thing as well as anyone’s ever done such a thing and then spend the rest of the days shunning the general public from behind the door of a really nice house. If Solo’d done this, we wouldn’t find ourselves forced into dealing with our own goddamn mortalities and the realities of this broken leg shit.

1980’s Han Solo as the smart ass who gets the girl is a pop culture god. 2014 Han Solo breaking his leg on his own ship makes you look at things differently. It’s something like this that causes one to re-evaluate every cool thing Han Solo’s ever done. Sure he got the girl at the end of the trilogy, but how cool is it really when the dude you’re competing with for the affection of said girl is her own brother? Or consider Han’s big moment with Leah at the carbonite pit. 

“I love you.” “I know.” Stop! That ‘I know’ shit was epic back when Han Solo was really Han Solo. But now I’m not so sure. She opens up and says she loves him and what’s he do? He uses her love to crack jokes, like a dick. Maybe love shouldn’t be used in such ways. (note: at this point cue stereo to play track 2 of the Invasion Of Your Privacy album by Ratt)

Never use love as a trampoline upon which to bounce smirky one-liners to the detriment of gravity and its romantic affections for the ground .

Never use love on grape fruit juice stains. It’ll just cause the juice stains to dig in deeper and once that happens you’ll never get that shit out.

Love should never be used for lots of things. It will not cure diarrhea, hypothermia, or your fucked up back. It can’t make corporations people. It can’t make Sarah Palin well informed. Nor can it make female related health care issues go away.

Never use love to cure insomnia. That’s like using spaghetti to cure pizza.

Never use love to fuck strangers. For fuck’s sake, are we not civilized? Introduce yourself to the fine lady first. That way you’re not strangers. Like Han Solo’s maybe no longer Han Solo.


Well at least we’ve still got Obi Wan Kenobi. Now there’s a dude who aged gracefully. Bad ass to the end (or to be more specific: bad ass, long Salinger-esk self-isolation period, bad ass to the end). I’m gonna try to be more like him maybe.

Do you hear that Helen?! In this big lightsaber duel with your absence, your love for me’s death will not kill me. It will only make me more powerful than you could ever imagine!

And like Obi Wan, Helen, I can sense things, like now, a disturbance in the force, as if another man is currently fucking you in your Alderan.

But(t): Alderan was a peaceful planet!

Not anymore, Helen. You fucking Death Star. You goddamn space opera.

Why the hell would you let another guy land there? I mean, the place is destroyed now.

Did you even stop to think about what a thing like this might do to Jimmy Smits?


Love Is: Sea Monkeys

8 Jul


Love is Sea Monkeys
brought to life by 
your spliced attention span

and left to swim in their own feces
because you skipped steps,
refused to purify the water,

and dissapeared the minute
things started resembling real life
instead of the impossibly cute
               cartoon characters

on the front of the goddamn

Love Is

2 Jul


Love is

Love is the flag that I was waving
until your country showed up
and burned my country to the ground


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.