Tag Archives: writing

Unmellow Yellow: A Star Wars Story

11 Apr


Unmellow Yellow


Han Solo had a 10 Parsec


long dong

vertically hairy

and Black Vest-idly



He named it Chewbacca

but the Chewbacca you remember

from childhood is a figment

of Han Solo’s overly exaggerated mind



so, as a separate entity, the thick Wookie

that sat beside him co-piloting

the Millenium Falcon

doesn’t actually exist

(not in the way in which we perceive it)



Chewbacca is in reality a simple manifestation

of Han Solo’s grand thoughts about his own penis

a grand thought

so strong that it became

a shared vision



we all went along with it


It’s like Jimmy Stewart in Harvey

only Jimmy saw the rabbit


it’s like that, except on a much larger scale

because Han Solo wasn’t alone

we all saw Chewbacca!

even though he wasn’t there

or, in a sense, he was there


but not in the way our culturally connected minds perceived him to be there


he was there, in the literal sense, tucked inside

Han Solo’s pants


even though we perceived Chewie, as Han Solo did

as an eight foot tall best pal who’s posture slightly

stiffened every time Princess Lea entered and room

and haimishly gargled at all of Han’s jokes


we all saw it, ergo:

we’re all

in every sense

and in all actuality

totally nuts


and speaking of nuts

what kind of man nicknames his dick



The Unmellow Universe

is not only a coward

and hesitantly expanding


it’s judging us, about shit like this


and thinking things like

if it had it to do all over again


it would’ve liked to have gotten a degree in Psychology

or something like that


instead of becoming what it is

an enormously nervous Tea Cup

that contains Everything


including Cocky Bastards

with Talking Teddy Bear dick



so powerful

that everyone he comes

into celluloid contact with


as if dazzled by the variant amount

of loneliness and special effects


wind up believing

in the fantasy




22 Mar




at the end of an impossible day

post orgasm

in bed


I don’t mind sleeping

on the wet spot

unless I’m alone

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     




2 minutes left in this Trump-fucked

reality-pulverized 2017 world-year

Where does all the time go?



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?



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




Hitler Dick

10 Dec


Hitler Dick


Somebody’s beating the hell out of

the soda machine

because it took their money

and then didn’t give them a soda back


That’s the civilized agreement we have with these things

money goes in the machine

and the soda come out

but that didn’t happen this time


it almost never happens that way anymore

that machine’s all fucked up

it takes the money and keeps the soda


that’s how machines work now in the Trumpverse

there’s no compassion, vegan decency, or common sense

civility’s been Shake N Baked and the die hards are voting for death

while the rest of us stand around gasping in dirty pajamas and horror

(if you were wondering about why the machine….)

that’s why somebody’s beating the hell out of it


These things can’t be allowed to continue in such manners

Roy Moore is standing at the plate, freeballing America

fuck you, baseball season

That machine has got to go


You put your money in and

Hell comes out

but no soda

and no money

all that beating and nothing, no change


Everyone’s crazy

Everyone’s misquoting Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall

and forgetting about Emilio Estevez

Everyone’s dying behind porch light

and fucking beneath iphone blankets

Everyone’s gloating or shamed


and that goddamn machine keeps taking all the money

giving back empty space where the promise of actual soda’s

supposed to be


I get thirsty, just thinking about it


Sometimes everything you have is just 75 cents

and when you invest everything you’ve got into something

and that something tells you to fuck off

using the language of silence and empty space

or the actual words


it’s easy to go nuts

such things accelerate the plunge


That was everything I’ve got!

you scream at the machine

Give me something back!


While the machine just stands there with its soul castrated

says nothing

everything is religiously followed and meaningless

everything is nothing


and because it’s all nothing

the machine’s decided

you don’t need that soda

or companionship

or love


that stuff is for people who think like the machine tells them to think

you don’t think like the machine thinks

ergo: you don’t deserve that shit


Fuck you and your 75 cents worth of everything

You never properly earned that 75 cents in the first place

so I’ve taken it back

and you’re not getting your soda

because the soda doesn’t want you anymore


so go off and go cry/weep for a long time about that


I’d maybe offer you water

but I don’t have any water on me

and the water that I have got

I wouldn’t give it to you anyway

so that would just be mean of me

the machine says

to offer you something I’ve never intended to give you

but screw it, you look so sad


Would you like some water?


Yes please, we all whisper to the machine at different times

guts cried out and pissed upon

protesting between old shoe boxes

sweating out hard rage and madness and fumes


Sorry, I don’t have any water

the machine reports back

no water for you

All the water these days has been set aside

for rich real estate assholes with bad credit and

grown men who’ve been banned from the mall


in a reality like this, everything just goes spinning


Titanic is the Karate Kid of floating boat movies

Float on

Float off


So long, Jack


Their lives together put a down payment

on a shower curtain

and when they divorced

two bathroom floors

took turns

being wet


while whoever was beating that soda machine

kept beating

because they’d just put everything they’d had in it

and nothing came out


they kept beating


ker crunch pop



and I sat there in a room just down the hall, screaming


Get that motherfucker

Hating everything is not a sustainable life style!

It’s their turn now

(I’m so fucking lonely)


Take em’ down!

Crotch punch it in the swastika

Hitler’s dick won’t win tonight!


(I want my Diet Coke!)


Get em!

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

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?