Tag Archives: writing


9 Jun


aka Where were they supposed to go after this?


Their love

was like a sink

  1. another color named by robots
  2. something assholes threw unfinished plates of spaghetti in

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

3 Jun

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



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

1 Jun

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

  1. Because now it makes you funny


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.)






Mountain Dew: Dew.S.A.

14 May



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.

Everything Is Fucking Something

5 May


Everything is fucking something


Where’d you learn to fight?

From watching Good Will Hunting?

It shows

A Year Without Prince: Prologue

20 Apr


A Year Without Prince

(this thing in 4 parts, prefaced by brief rambling

followed by a quick prologue and then…….zoom!)



Yes Lisa?

I’m not Lisa. I’m Dennis

Oh, sorry Dennis. I’m not Wendy anyway. I’m also Dennis too.


(Purple silence. Followed by dialogue)

That doesn’t mean we can’t still wear ripped t-shirts together and save the world.





vagina katana

half price cheeseburgers

dogs barking like abandoned flare guns

smoking outside another long-day-embedded-

shitty-kung-fu ashtray-sky

sort of night




(to be continued!)

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