First Night Without Jack
Drought, with running water
Everything right
About this world was
Tethered inside you
How am I supposed to not be morbid now?
It looks like I picked the wrong day to stop missing things
So long, my generous-guru friend
Adios, Bird King
Death is a real dick, at all times
It gets hung up on its own girth and doesn’t
Connect its acts with what it’s doing
Kick it in the nuts for me, brother, sing us one more tune
for Jack Collom
Get out of the car, Donald: Covfefe
The old man spit almonds at the liquor store clerk for coming
around to the other side of the counter in order to feed
the thin Doberman a health food store treat
(Sprouts was right next door)
“He shouldn’t have that!” the old man said, spit “I don’t mean to yell, but last night
he had hideous diarrhea. (Hideous) (I was standing behind him. Great word choice.
I was impressed)
I’ve scrubbed so much shit out of my living room carpet
that the pain in my wrists is the only thing I’ve got left,
as far as proof that I’m alive.”
The old man thought about death a lot and looked hollow
The dog’s asshole was sensitive and he looked dehydrated and sad
The liquor store clerk said she was sorry, she should’ve first asked
Covfefe stepped around me like a John Wick fight scene
his eyes grinning like the wrong kind of condiments
“Hey mister,” Covfefe said, “I’ll give you 47 hundred dollars for the dog.
But only if this place sells beef jerky. Do you sell beef jerky?”
The lady who worked there said that they did.
“Sold. The dog, and all the beef jerky. I pay you for the dog
and her for the beef jerky. 47 hundred. Do we have a deal?”
The old man quivered, fully aware that he was only 3 or 4 more dog shits
away from ending his own life. He didn’t want to die that way.
On top a shit stained carpet. Dog. Shit. Stained.
Fuck that, the old man said in his head.
They had a deal.
On the ride home I asked Covfefe why he’d bought the dog
“Why do you think?!” Donald said, because he was sitting in the back seat
like he’s always sitting in the back seat. That’s what he does now.
He lives in the back seat. He pays people large bucks to provide him with
an unlimited amount of shit he orders from the Info Wars website and Kentucky Fried Chicken.
He won’t get out of the car.
He runs everything from back there
He’s the real thing #prick
so why would he?
“He bought the dog because they had beef jerky and the dog has diarrhea and we’re taking it
back to your place. Covfefe! Keep the dog away from my chicken! Can you comprehend what
I’m doing to you right now? I’d fucking think so.
aka Win/Win/Win.”
I tried to ignore Donald but it’s impossible.
He’s a big dickish mess.
And I told him that
“The only thing I regret,” Donald said “is that I never played golf
with Evel Knievel.”
and for the first time, I believed him
and I drove home
embalmed with that and all these memories
we’ll never see again
All these times that are now dead for us
Shit
The times that are dead
Covfefe
As the ashtrays pop like a steady invasion of phone-cams
and cream cheese
We all scream into the same bucket of water
We can all feel our own tanks slowly chipping away, under fire
Until the only thing left are the treds………….
Are you watching Fury again?. Covfefe asked the question like a statement
because I was always watching Fury again these days
I was always praising Brad Pitt’s performance
as a broken souled tank driver or sketching Hitler mustaches
just below the crotches of shitty modern day billionaires
or reading about Winston Churchill out loud
Since the election of this new goddamn reality show president
I’d become significantly obsessed with masturbation and not sleeping well
and learning lots of things about World War 2
Leave me alone, Covfefe. I said
Which made Covfefe laugh
Which was horrible, because a Covfefe laugh
sounds like the cross between Tom Cruise farting during a meter reading
and Ricardo Montalban waking from death screaming
because he’s spent the past chunk of years
dreaming about how he accidentally killed Tattoo
Leader gets two scoops of ice cream
when everyone else in the room gets only one
Covfefe gloated
One scoop because America is so gullible
and one scoop because it’s arrogant about its ignorance
and still pretty fucking racist
so: shit
That makes 2.
One + One……..I mean, I don’t know
where you learned math but where I learned math
we always said the pledge of allegiance before pooping
and didn’t eat our bologna sandwiches like afraid-of-mayonnaise pussies
I can tell you, with complete straight bullshit honesty,
that where I come from one + one: makes two
Covfefe! I found myself screaming voluntarily, Knock it off
Your shitty math hole
can’t tell algebra and a shark’s asshole
apart, how the fuck do you expect…….
Covfefe’s response was immediate
and misdirected
Love is for people.
I think my sister really likes you
Knock it off
Sink
aka Where were they supposed to go after this?
Their love
was like a sink
or crusted bowls of overtly-andante sadness
burnt toast
and jacked up forks
Their love was a graffiti torn sink
built to hold history and spoons,
a partially consumed sponge
and to once in a while, occasionally, piss in
when it’s late and the world’s too heavy to walk on
and the bathroom is all the way up the stairs
don’t judge me!
there is a beach in my pocket
where time drinks alone
and the bladder gets circled by sharks
so I sink
because up the stairs is a long way to travel
when you’re this alone
and the moon insists on poking
and you’ve really gotta pee
Bank Butt
Hey, Bank Butt
Is that where you keep your cautiously-horded investments these days?
Because I’m in need of some saving
and I wouldn’t have thought of keeping it there
I’d like to apply for a debit card
What exactly would be the process………….Wait!
I mean, if I ain’t thought of something like that already
(ergo: stashing such things in the butt)
What other things have I forgot to think about?
(insert alternate curse-type word for ‘shit and/or fuck: there)
What if sharks love Rice Crispy Treats more than people?
My penis is not bigger than that cake pan, damn it
How long has it been again exactly, that I’ve been this
alone?
Bank Butts,
A new term made to represent a robot’s interpretation of color
but (not butt)
what are robots supposed to know about finance and anaL?
Finance: Shit, most likely a bunch, actually
(Historical Note: as soon as the robots learn greed
like the robots have already learned greed: we’re fucked)
Anal: either,
Pretty much everything there is to be known about all of it
(I miss you)
or …………. nothing at all
This New Internet Troll Who Keeps Threatening To Kill Me Is Kind Of A Prick
I suppose I should be flattered, maybe
or disappointed in humanity
or equally outraged
or sitting in a quiet bar somewhere listening to Steve Perry
and re-reading Dune
but I’ve got my very own literary Internet Troll stalker now
He’s read a bunch of my books
and in his initial internet introduction there was the implication
that he liked them, that they’d made a connection
and he even apologized for intruding but he was wondering if I could share
a little insight into a few of the broken hearted ones
that I’ve put out there over the years
and his tone was gentle, almost tender
like how I imagine a self-involved prick would speak to a stern cop
writing him a ticket for making love to an Arbys roast beef sandwich in public
or the way John Hinkley Jr. tried to come across
when he was writing Jodie Foster about how great it must be,
just being Jodie Foster
and even more so when it rains
but I’m not Jodie Foster
ass hole (learn how to separate words you stunted prick)
so when he started ranting like a fist full of stolen lunch money
bunkered down in the 39 year old sweaty pocket
of a spoiled 8 year old
about a particular person who I will always care for
and wish only the best things that are still possible to obtain
in this bullshit Trump inspired hate filled version of new America
I skipped straight to the end
because I’ve got better things to do
(finish reading this importantly great book about tyranny,
and I’ve got a novel to finish, and also on the TV right now
they’re playing back to back episodes of The Incredible Hulk)
then trudge through an unsolicited manifesto like that
and I replied like they replied in the 1930’s
honestly, respectfully, while snorting something they used to call Rum
I replied with a simple response, super-simply
“Fuck off, Carl.”
while also maybe thinking, whoever said it was always nice meeting a fan
had a warped definition of ‘nice’ while also part-way figuring
that was that
which it wasn’t, my brand new stalker who’s favorite hobbies
seem to be tough guy talking on the internet, sloppily referencing
long sections from the Mad Max movies, and reiterating the cliché-fact
that he’s secret named himself after a 1970’s Charlie Bronson vigilante
who’s superpower is squinting like he hasn’t taken a bowl movement
since the 1960’s and shooting stunt guys in the head
(Ha! not so long story (it’s only been a week now maybe) short
Mister Smoochbritches has spent his recent days doing that thing that he does,
sticking his dick in and out of an old Easy Bake Oven while screaming “Oh Bethany!”
and threatening to kill me
Well, Sir!
(if that is your dick’s real name)
I am no stunt double
There is only one of me
And you’re gonna have a hard time sneaking up on me
while I’m at work at Chuck E. Cheese
when I don’t actually work at Chuck E. Cheese!
That’s just false info I’ve floated out into internetspace
because 1. I love Chuck E. Cheese
and also 2. I thought it was funny
and now that that’s where you’ve promised I’ll meet my own doom
Funny little man
with his multi-paragraph stutter
(Historical note: You don’t need to send every draft version threat
about how you’re going to kill me. Just send the one you like best.)
MTN Dew: DEW.S.A
Part 1
I left the house today because I needed pajama shorts, tortilla chips, and a box of purple hair dye. While I was at the store I found a discount rack t-shirt for $2 with a picture of two sentient sausages hugging on it. They were smiling and had arms and legs and happy sausage mouths. They looked like they were in love, so I bought that too.
While walking towards the robot assimilated check out booths I was almost feeling pretty good about stuff for a change. Those sausages had given me optimism. Sausages are pretty gross when you stop to think about it. Sausages are blatant tubes of meat. Just like a human being. Human beings are tube shaped meat too, but a human being’s meaty-ness is a little more subtle. There are differences. When you meet somebody new you generally don’t want to put a bunch of mustard on them and when you meet a new sausage your first instinct isn’t ‘I wonder if it wants to go to the movies with me.’. You don’t feel like asking it out on a date.
Right? These things are different, and also similar. (Shit, now I want to put mustard on you) Point being: If sausages can find love, then maybe there’s hope for all the rest of us. Maybe I’ll find love again too.
So I was almost feeling pretty good and then I stumbled past a new soda display and all that recently found optimism hit the ground and splashed out. A new flavor had been unleashed into the world, like liquid rabies or a brand new sex disease that makes your dick hurt. The kind of flavor marketed towards modern day fact-haters. A flavor designed for the gullible electorate who say things like “He’s a business man! We need somebody who’s gonna run this country like a business man!” and who defend the Confederate Flag like it was a 4 minute old puppy. The sort of flavor that knows all the words to Kid Rock songs. The kind of flavor specifically engineered for people who think science is for jerks.
And just like that, I was in a bad mood again. Sausage love is just a dream. Fuck. The modern world is made up of last straws. Soulless corporations run everything. That war has been lost. We’re living in occupied territory. “John Doe has the upper hand now!”. Why do I care what the everyday collaborators are drinking? If they want to drink their Freedom Juice and pretend the grass is still green, so be it. “Hi Ho”, as Vonnegut used to say. I abandoned the brand new soda display, paid the robot for my shit, and drove super-fast back to the house.
Part 2
Mountain Dew S A is the perfect drink for the new Trump era. Take a big sip. You can taste America dying in your mouth.
It’s literally 3 flavors in one! The Human Centipede of modern beverages! The recipe is basically this:
Step 1 Bloat an already bloated Donald Trump full of high-fructose corn syrup, brominated vegetable oil, and generic flame retardant. Simmer while the crooked bastard tweets for 20 minutes.
Step 2: Trump shits in Sean Spicer’s mouth, throw in a bunch of cinnamon, and then get Spicer to shit in Kellyanne Conway’s mouth. Conway shits in a test tube shaped like a medium sized bucket. Replicate the results on a massive scale, carbonate the hell out of it, bottle, and serve.
Fun Fact: If you run out of gas because you were busy denying climate change and forgot to swing by the local Gulp and Go, just drink a couple of MTN Dew S.A.s, wait 5 minutes, and then piss in the gas tank of your bullshit monster truck. MTN Dew S.A double-jobs it as automotive fuel.
Fun Fact 2: If you drink 4 bottles of Mountain Dew S A in a row your urine will smell like your insides have diverged themselves of empathetic freedoms and basic human rights. Your toilet will hold it against you.
Coming Soon: Diet Pledge of Allegiance and Jazzberry Bible Dew.
