Monthly Archives: March 2011


ya fun
fun ball bounce
round hole square peg
bright color finger paint toy
store candy store more more fun
fun theme park jungle gym arcade stay
up late baseball cards bike rides summer sky
manhunt fireflies freeze tag sleepovers all night fun fun

fun fun

girls fun
fun first date
hold hands first kiss
tell your friends first base
first car girlfriend curfew senior prom
love yea yea vote porn sex cigarettes
move on still young college girl fun fun

yeah yeah
fun fun cue ball
side pocket scratch scratch get that
checked don’t look back late night every night
morning after always wonder you missed all this fun fun

69 Love Songs

I awoke to the pungent smell of sweat, come, and Febreze. It reminded me of freshly chopped sweet onions, and it burned my weary eyes all the same. In the distance, I could hear the reverberated decay of stubby, clumsy fingers sliding heavily against nickel-wound strings. I glanced the room, but it wasn’t until I saw the posters on the wall that I fully remembered what happened the night before: Fight Club, Pulp Fiction, Animal House, all the classic male masturbation fantasies. And I’d fallen for the same old shit again.

I grabbed an oversized Boston University hoodie from his pile of clothes nearby, and after I was (mostly) certain it was cleaned, I pulled it on over my head. I was never one for cuddling with strangers that I had just met at the bar, but I wasn’t comfortable leaving the room in nothing but last night’s wrinkled clothes. I squeezed into my jeans and left to find the bathroom.

“I’m sorry; did I wake you up?” he asked, before I’d even step completely of the bedroom doorway. He was sitting on a worn out grey-brown couch, strumming an acoustic guitar.

“Oh, no. No, not at all,” I said, not entirely confident in my ability to lie this early in the morning.

“That’s good. I was just working on a song I’ve been writing. But I figured I should let you sleep.” Then, a carefully calculated pause, as if the idea had just suddenly come. “Hey — would you want to hear it?”

I had the feeling that even if I said “no,” he would have played it anyway, but I didn’t want to be rude.

And when you said that things were different,” he sang, “I thought that we could stay the same / but even on the darkest mornings / you know the stars still light up your name…

I immediately wished that I had been rude. But still he kept singing:

But baby, it’s a brand new world / I hope you’ll make it for me / Baby, won’t you give it a whirl? / Just let your heart go free / and stay with me…

I suddenly regretted hooking up with about 85% of the guys I met in college. Still, here I was at 27, and somehow in my inebriation, I had fallen for the same old crap. Sure — in my sobriety, if you can call the morning that, I could see it for what it was. But apparently I regressed 7 years last night.

“Hey, I should actually get going…” I interrupted, as politely as I could. “I’ve got this, umm —”

“Oh, well — can you at least stay for breakfast? It’s just about done. Do you like bacon?”

Suddenly, the morning after didn’t seem so bad.

Roud 1173

a toast of jameson at the grave
plastic cups a quarter full of
brilliantine amber all around me
as we sing the wild rover and
for the briefest of seconds I forget
that I’m supposed to refuse the cup

we usher our dead through
with tears and poitín
and my hand grasps at air
as I stare at blanched ground
thinking I’ve betrayed my own

an old man next to me
elbows my arm
and whispers

sometimes it’s better NOT to drink

and he hoists his empty hand
to the sky – sláinte – and beams

Speaking in tongues

An old, old poem reproduced here to avoid skipping a week. Oh, how I miss old, poetic, angsty me.

It isn’t fair to use phrases such as
“all the men I’ve loved,”
but I use them anyway.
I assume things about their women – both
past and present tense. I am
ruthless and discriminating,
I crawl in tall grass and exhale,
rumbling and guttural.
I lie in this leftover queen-sized bed,
head down, eyes closed,
and blame each of them
by name.


I wasted eleven and a half weeks
digging fortifications around Bill
the Stratovolcano, but found I still
could not defend his smoothly crafted peaks

from cultural bores pouring down the hills,
hordes ignoring nature in his shadow.
A slowly constructed vertical ode,
Bill is rock’s poem, but miners can drill

more than dirt and ore. Captain of the snow-
masted skyships, Bill commands a grand view
of the broader cosmic ocean, but few
pirating here would notice. They feign no

divine justice, experience or clout;
sentences are delivered by readout.

Creation Myth

In the beginning there was a Story
And the Story was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the Tradition of the Story moved upon the face of the waters.
And the Story said, Let there be God: and there was God. And the Story made God in its image.
And the Story saw God, that God was both wrathful and loving: and the Story divided the good from the evil.
And the Story called the good and evil into conflict, and the light against the dark.
And the Story set this in motion through Time
with only God to guide its words.

A Memo From Charles Bucket, CEO

To staff, board members and shareholders of Wonka
Industries, LLC: I need not tell you that the chocolate
business is a rewarding one. From the Oompa Loompa
team of chemists and confectioners to the factory
adminstrative staff, we’re one sweet family. “Charlie,”
I tell myself, “why the heck would you ever retire

from the greatest job on earth?” But yet retirement
has been on my mind of late. As you know, Wonka
himself handed the reins to a boy. That boy, Charlie
Bucket, would grow this company from its chocolate
entrepreneurial beginnings to the conglomerate factory
system that is the standard of excellence. Oompa Loompas

have played a large part in this growth. Oompa Loompas
pride themselves on their work ethic; they do not retire.
I have marvelled at their productivity. Truly, the factory
cannot overstate its indebtedness to them. Wonka
was built on the backs of these rotund men with chocolate
in their very veins. They often told me: “Mister Charlie –

“you’re the best boss in the world. We love Mister Charlie.”
I chuckled at this. When I took over, these Oompa Loompas
were my very first teachers in this business of chocolate.
So devoted! Working ever endlessly, never ones to retire
come nightfall. I had been warned about this. Wonka
told me, “Bucket, these men owe their lives to the factory.”

Years ago, he rescued these indigents and the factory
has been their home ever since. He said to me, “Charlie,
they’ve got nowhere else to go.” I replied, “Mr. Wonka,
you have my word that I will ensure that the Oompa Loompas’
job security is guaranteed.” But now they want retirement
benefits. They want an ever-growing piece of the chocolate

pie. In these increasingly health-conscious times, chocolate
is challenging. We have cut costs, used soy, slashed factory
budgets and implemented staff-wide furloughs. Retirement?
If I may be irreverently self-referential here: Sorry, Charlie.
The hidden threat of the unionization of the Oompa Loompas
rends the richly embroidered, tightly woven fabric of Wonka.

In short, there is no retirement here. The chocolate will
flow like the blood of Wonka. The legacy of his factory
remains with me, Charlie, not some upstart Oompa Loompas.