Grrrrr...


You make me sick,
liar, cheater, deceiver.
You played your trick,
left me waiting, pacing,
aching with longing,
nauseous with regret,
and the thought
that I'm not good enough for you--
that I'm broken and flawed,
glaring imperfections,
only good for touching
and fucking,
not loving, never loving, no, not that.
Are you capable of telling the truth,
even to yourself?
I've been here waiting, forever,
for you to wake up,
realize how perfect we could be...
and now,
I just feel ill,
bitter and jaded,
at the thought of your lips
and the current your voice sends
racing through my veins.
How could something so real
be so wrong?
How could those hideous scars hide,
so well disguised,
razorblade intent
behind angel's eyes?
Well, rest easy, darling,
never again will you hear my sobbing,
my insistent knocking--
the only thing I feel now when I think of you
is disgust.
Read more!

A response to Glytch's "Fantasy."

I seduced my ex-wife with the following line


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
If in the dream is you
then in the dream I'd rather be Read more!

Fantasy

Smooth, skin on skin,
breast to chest,
sweetest of sins,
eternal quest--
love at first sight,
stay the night,
hope it doesn't fade
at morning's light.

Hold hands tightly,
steal a kiss,
sighing quietly,
a wistful hiss
of breath past lips,
hands on hips,
stare eye to eye,
and come to grips--

is this a dream,
just fantasy,
fool's gold gleam,
this you-and-me?
Then let me doze,
'cause heaven knows
this unreal world
is better than most.
Read more!

So Much to Face

I've lost the ability to censor myself


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

So Much to Face
My first thought of the day
is Christ, I’ve gotta lot to face:
Like how can I possibly go to
that shitty convenience store job
with that stupid incompetent
Fundamentalist boss
runnin’ a business with a bible
and a calculator in his mind
that hasn’t worked in a decade
Mike, the cash is short again by $100,
what are we gonna do about this?
I say to myself, my entire life I’ve worked
for imbeciles who thought they were great men
I say to him, maybe you’re not taking
everything into account like cash back or--
I don’t make mistakes, he said, voice rising
what a fuckin’ child, I think,
don’t make mistakes?
your entire life is a mistake
you fuckin’ hypocrite,
you tell me to lie to people
to enrich your sad existence,
you smile the evil smile of the saved
because once upon a time
you said yes to a 3rd rate fairy tale
you’re morally against smokes and beer
you preach against it all the time
but you gladly take the money
you talk shit about your wife
whom you call stupid, whom you say
you feel sorry for, and your daughter
your own daughter who’s afraid of you,
and practically works for free,
who calls the store and says,
is he gone yet? don’t say anything
she can’t wait for you to die
what did you do to her, daddy?
you talk shit about my friend,
who put up with your shit for a year,
but you forget she’s my friend
because your brain ain’t worth
the single-ply toilet paper we sell.
89 cents a roll motherfucker!
your belief system
is a disease like all
belief systems are diseases.
But I lack the guts to quit,
that’s one of my diseases--
paralyzed by the dread
of yet another job search
there’s no place I wanna work--
I’m too tired, too tired,
so I pray to get fired
or contract a thousand cancers
in my testicles and drop dead
so I don’t have to work again.
Let this decision pass from my hands,
I can’t make it
sometimes poets can’t make it
most do like everyone else,
goin through the absurd motions
till they’re 80
some do for a while then say,
fuck it--
It’s too fucking exhausting
my little poems
and getting drunk with friends
keep me going
So fucking exhausting
I’ll try
I still enjoy people
when I’m happy
I was taught to keep going
for them
keep going no matter what
and that belief is deep,
goddamnit, my parents are still alive
I gotta keep going
and face my typical day,
my disease
During which I’ll face the toilet bowl 12 to 15 times
because my bladder’s been
getting worse since I staggered
into the lie of the drinking=confidence=creativity paradigm
I sit on said toilet 5 times to blooch and sploot out
the latest gas station burrito
while mumbling so much promise
so much promise
I’ll face my friends’ faces
and try to look ok:
I’m not ok
and by the way--
There ain’t no Moses now to lead an exodus
from this shithole!
the birds of midnight do not sing, they moan
I’ll face the morning cough
the latest hernia bulge
no health insurance
my fear of going to a doctor,
my fear of being cold and wet
my fridge full of beer,
a jar of mayonnaise and nothing else
I can’t even feed myself well
so fucking tired
dishes piled in the sink,
clothes thrown in heaps in unclean corners
sometimes in the morning they’re damp
did I piss on them again?
scraps of poems
and credit card slips strewn everywhere,
the shower I don’t have the strength
to turn on, the toothbrush, the dental floss,
memories of better days.
I used to groom myself
everyday
Because once again I didn’t die
in my sleep I have to face
the sad organ music of my life
like Bach when he realized
there is no God
and his wife is a whore
and his sons a waste of cum.
I open my notebook
and face the message I write every night:
hang in there little buddy,
nobody says no to life
are you fuckin’ crazy!
just get another job you fuckin’ baby!
you’ve made it this far
don’t read this in public
they’re gonna think, mike g’s a bummer
you can do it, it’ll pass
you’re a writer, you have friends
who really care,
the crosses you bear
make you beautiful, make
everyone beautiful,
write a happy poem for the dark lord
and your mother before the endtime,
take a shower, change your shirt,
try to add one more poet to your my space page,
go to the doctor,
maybe you have cancer,
have one year to live,
one year to follow the light out of the game
hurray!
till then
go to work--you can do it, it’ll pass,
it always has,
get the goddamn chapbook done
you’re on fire with meaning,
pretend, pretend,
call your mother,
try not to cry when she says,
you sound good, son
sounds like you’re havin’ fun,
get the goddamn chapbook done
chapbook, chapbook,
be a good actor,
smile, smile, drink, drink,
tell others they’re wonderful
they write good, they write good--
they do good things when they’re not suckin’
they do and they make you happy--
stop fantasizing about women havin’ sex with Mastiffs
or blowin’ the dicks of horses,
misogyny is no state to die in
consult your death, it’s coming,
what are you waiting for?
wring your wisdom of all its juice
tell people what you really think,
how great they look when they glow,
that they were the answer to emptiness,
every day
that they shared in bearing your shit-stained crosses,
every day
whether they liked your writing or not,
whether they liked you or not
reread Dennis McBride’s story of how
he felt when he quit his job,
what he did when he quit his job--
by Monday you’ll be manic again,
you’ll think again you’re a god among gods
you’ll sleep through most of Tuesday,
you’ll wake still buzzed and giddy,
think damn, I’ll never make it to the Blue Monk
in this incarnation--
damn, Wednesday morning‘s comin‘,
incarnation’s end if I’m lucky
I‘m ready--
I want to die in a moment of gratefulness
like this moment here,
with all of you,
now.
a crazy smile on my face as my face hits the floor,
my beer glass splintering into a thousand thankyous
then my darling dears, I’ll burst from this cage
of blood and bone, swim to heaven with ammunition
and rage ranging from the free to the iambic,
and if
there be
a god
it won’t
be god
for long Read more!

some thoughts

I gave fear the finger
something shifted
the what-the fuck in me
kicked no-I-can’t
in the nuts
and the maybe
of my biography
became a YES


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
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You Make Me [wait]

You make me
pathetic,
and in as many ways as you set me free,
you chain me down.
I wish that I could wish
that I didn't need you,
but I can't help it,
I'm hopelessly addicted to loving you.

You make me
whole,
except when you disappear,
and I feel the world unravel
at the sound of your fading voice,
at the thought
that I might live in a place
where you don't exist.

You make me
ache,
with everything I can never have.
And like Icarus, I fall
for wanting,
for reaching,
for forgetting
that fire burns us all.

You make me
silent,
but for echoes,
shriveled with the forlorn hope
that you might look away from your reflection
long enough
to notice my ghost
and for an instant smile kindly.
Read more!

Not Your Dirty Girl

I'm so DONE with guys that won't talk to me anymore because I won't sleep with them, so DONE with people saying, "You'll never find a guy that isn't only after sex, because that's just the way guys are," and being OKAY with it!!
I am not a toy!
I am not an object!
I am not your fuck-dolly!
*anger*
No, I won't lick your fucking lollipop.


NOT YOUR DIRTY GIRL

We are not pawns
in a game we can't control.
We are not animals,
slaves to our urges.
We don't have to be
a waste of space.

And I'm so
fucking
sick and tired
of hearing
that there isn't a guy who exists
who doesn't think with his dick.
So sick of statistics,
and the fact that people
are willing to accept
being just another name on a list--

or notch in a bed post,
a conquest.

If I don't jump right in between
your soft, comfy sheets,
and consent to your clammy hands
pawing at me,
shredding my self-respect in the process,
then I'm a frigid bitch.

But if I snuggle and smile and flirt
with an innocent heart,
a promise is heard,
sweet lily thighs are expected
to welcome
the enemy to the table.
And when the gates are opened,
and the men are satisfied,
who's your little slut?

Foe?
Yes.
Because I'm done sacrificing
my dignity
for your ego.
I'm through accepting
that you're led around
by the demon that lives in your testicles.
Learn some self control,
douchebags,
and get over your penises.
Read more!

A Sentence For the Sake of the Words

Gertrude Stein inspired.


What is a sentence. A sentence for the sake of the words. A sentence for the sake of itself. A sentence that when taken out of context is still beautiful.
The knee will lock if it sits in one position for too long.
The shadows on the wall were enough to make church bells cry.
When I looked up I realized that the clouds weren't moving but I was. Vertigo with feet planted firmly on solid ground.
The voice that kept it noisy is gone away and I am lonely lonely without the noise. The clamor.
A hammer.
A stammer. When the letters trip over each other. When the letters trip for lack of coordination. They should practice more often. So we find that letters can stutter and make their uttering a task.
What is a sentence. A sentence is an image that is not necessarily a thought though it comes from the mind. Let us call it thought for the sake of argument. What is argument. Argument is passion. Argument is close to a paragraph though not in the physical sense. What is a paragraph. A paragraph is emotion. A paragraph is what makes a sentence more meaningful. Emotions make thought more meaningful. If an argumentative paragraph follows a sentence it shows conflict. Conflict is a striving.
Some things are more comfortable for having done them before. If you do a thing too often it means less. And forms a habit. An abbot wears a habit. You can wear a habit and have a habit and be in the habit of wearing a habit. Habits are hard to break but habits will tear. I have never worn nor torn a habit.
Waiting.
Waiting is.
Waiting is impatience.
Waiting patiently is virtue.
A virtual picture of the picture of virtue.
Seven virtues. And seven deadly sins. Can you name them. I can name many more than seven sins but virtue was never one of my habits. Virtue is as deadly as sin because death comes to all and all to death come.
On a long enough timeline the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
History repeats itself not in the form of a wheel but a pattern because time is not a loop it is a line. A time-line. A timeline. Time has a timeline. A beginning and an end with no arrows on the ends if you begin at the beginning and end at the end. Alpha and omega.
Alpha and omega. Who would win. Alpha dogs are top. Omega is the last one standing. Would it be a tie.
A tie goes round a neck. Tie it round your neck. The tie is around the neck. A tie-dyed tie tied around a neck. Too loose to be a noose it must be fashion. A regrettable fashion. All fashion is regrettable in time.
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In the Key of E Minor

I've always thought
that all good stories begin with a tune,
and you
are a symphony.

The strings, they rise,
stirring the soul
[as it heats
to a rolling boil]

I like the way you
take my breath away;
I've always enjoyed
asphyxiation.

But after riding the rollercoaster
I get nauseous, and then
disappointed--
the ground is far too steady.

Did you know that
emphasis is everything?
[but I like the way my words
sound in your voice]

Would you sing me a song
about sleeping?
I want to recall
what it feels like to dream.
Read more!

The Sad Romantic

The Sad Romantic
The sad romantic
stretched on the rack
of his own words
tries to make sense of love,
lights a cigarette,
swallows from the bottle,
tries again
tries tomorrow,
supplies more words
increases the pain
till the pain
is the only sense
he knows
and he knows it so well
the sad romantic


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

First Two of 2008

"For the Kids" and "L1fe By Numb3rs"


"For the Kids"

Desensitized to the point of death,
a shock to your system
the only thing that can
bring you back from the brink of sinking
to ever-lower depths
where truth and lies intertwine,
and more is less.2
Take a breath
before the plunge,
make a lunge
for the things you always wanted,
undaunted
by taunts and jeers from your peers
who had no dreams
outside of cheer squad and wrestling team,
and wound up living for the high,
weed, shrooms, acid,
faces flaccid from a massive dose
of passivity
in liquid form, as they conform
to the norm, the expected
image: life's about getting fucked up
and fucking, ducking cops
and being rebels--
how about
responsible adults?
What happened to growing up,
and being respected?
Since when was being a gangster
the cool career choice?
Yes, give voice to your rage--
at what? Your gilded cage?
The fact that you're
a bored consumer whore,
with too much time and too much money?
Honey, you haven't seen the half of it.
Grow the fuck up,
get on with it,
for god's sake, you're twenty-something,
shouldn't you have something
by now?

"L1fe By Numb3rs"

Two dollars for coffee
and four for a ticket
to ride a train
through a tunnel
out of the rain
and the heat is on
for once.
The past adds up
to two cents worth,
even when things
don't add up or make sense.
Read more!

The Persistence of Suffering

Revision and expansion of previous post


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
The Persistence of Suffering

In the wisdom
of bitterness
I’m forced
to admit
that time exists
not as a loop
but as a straight line
first this bad thing,
then that bad thing
happens in sequence
each bad thing
is unique in its badness
never to be repeated
each has its own
beginning, middle, end
but at each end
a new bad thing begins--
in retrospect--always
I may not recognize
the badness for a while
I may mistake
the next mistake
for joy or peace,
for saying yes to life
a common mistake
or saying yes to love
always a mistake
my suffering has
a chronological
quality
as does my joy
which feels old,
older, exhausted,
slow to rise,
ready to go
to sleep deeply
snuffed forever
but suffering
is a persistent worker
who never takes breaks
death better be
what I need it to be
no more me, no more me . . .


Read more!

Sometimes
I realize
that time exists
In the wisdom
of bitterness
my suffering
has
a chronological
quality


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!