Monthly Archives: September 2012

Day 14

You know what? Fuck it. My family

isn’t gonna change, so why should I?

I’m almost two weeks sober and

they still treat me like I’m boozing

into a blackout every night. Well,

if they’re gonna think that anyway,

I might as well earn it.

 

Jesus fucking Christ,

that’s good. The bite, the burn,

the sharp carbonation when I

wash the Jack down with a bottle

of Sam Adams. I will say,

one advantage of this twelve-day break

is all the money I saved not buying

the cheap shit. This isn’t top shelf,

but it’s better than before. Much better.

 

If I don’t finish this tonight—fuck,

who am I kidding, of course this

will be done tonight, but, well,

just in case—I’ll hafta find a place

to hide it. Even when I trash it,

I wouldn’t put my uncle above

digging through my recycling

for proof that, yup, I’m as

worthless as they all thought.

Fucking paranoid asswipe.

That’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight,

this bender is mine, and I’m not sharing.

The Nominee

The low grumble of voices shared greetings and platitudes. Hands with no callouses or hangnails clasped, and occasional forearm grip breaking the rhythm of mechanical pumps. Everyone asked about kids or the business; no one listened to the answer. Something heavy and wooden was banged, calling for everyone to take a seat.

Once everyone was settled around the large round table, all the men present placed their hands on the traditional green felt. A layer of hazy smoke hovered around the ceiling, though no one had lit up inside for years thanks to burdensome regulations. The room was quiet.

From the shadows, a man called out: “Go.”

The hands jumped off the table, snapping to each face like a catapult. Within a second, each man sat with index finger against his nose in a pick-not-scratch, position. “Not it,” they shouted as one.

Replay technology had eliminated do-overs and tie-breakers. Looking up at the screen, they watched the super slo-mo, seeing who had moved slowest. Once identified, the man with the graying temples slouched. He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket with a wince, waved at his compatriots, and went to be measured for the kevlar and talking points. Too slow, he thought to himself. Just too slow this time.

House of Blues

Standing on West Sunset, across from it, regarding it

like an old rival. That buildings have power

is no supposition. I think of
Frau Berliner Mauer, in love with the Berlin Wall. What

is the opposite of objektophilie? How

to explain resentment for structures?

Salem Reboot

I’ve been call’d
‘Just a cell phone’
‘Pocket PC’ and more
Hoarded by Craigslist’ers
And stolen from the store

As a robot
I’ve been display’d
As a robot
I’ve been betray’d

I’ve been prototype’d
In Beta stage
Scathed upon the critic’s page
Remodeled after market rage
Made overseas for lower wage

As  a robot
I’ve been debut’d
As a robot
I’ve been unscrew’d

I’ve got new operating systems
Ice Cream Android OS
My Windows see the Galaxy
But you only love me
For my chess

As a robot
You get retooled
As a robot
You get Bejeweled

They’ve plugged me in to sockets
Electrons charged my brain
They’ve fed me bits and bytes
And ram to stop the strain

As a robot
I’ve been restyled
As a robot
I’ve been witch-trial’d

I’ve been
Fully water tested
Weighed against a duck
Tied to stakes and roasted
But no one has such luck

If I could guess
Instead of algorithms
I would say
Don’t beat ’em
Just go with ’em

As

A

Robot.

Auto Bahn

Dude ked, come on down to the Auto Bahn,
we got some stupid good deals fah ya heah.
There’s like, I don’t know, a wicked lotta
cahs heah, I’m sure you can affohd something.
And ya know, we ain’t got no rum fah em
all cus them new cahs is coming out soon,
which is fucking retahded, cus they knows
that we ain’t got rid of these damn cahs yet.

Wait, stop. Cut! Can I call cut? I’m allowed
to call cut, right? I just don’t know what my
motivation is here. So I’m just an
asshole? Isn’t that a stereotype?
Fuck that, I quit. This accent is fucking
Chris Bridges. Who talks like that, anyway?

The First-And-A-Half Baseman

I’ve made some difficult choices in my life. I’m sure we all have. But I’ve stood by my choices, and believed in my convictions, believed they’ve shaped into the man I am today. You can judge me all you want, but I know that in the end, I made the right decisions. I lived my life the right way. The only right way. And I think it’s important to put these down, and stand up as the voice for all the young men who were faced with the same decisions I was. These young men need someone to tell them, “Yes, it’s okay. It’s important.

“It’s the only way.”

Some people choose to wait, while others leap headfirst into it. But no man should regret his determination to experience, to explore his life. I truly believe that every man should experience the all-consuming thrill, the tremors and nerves of inappropriately trying to cop out at the wrong — no, at the right time. No one should live a life devoid of fumbling fingertips nervously tracing the babysoft curves of her belly, the tentative indecision that rifles through your nerves as your hand creeps up the bottom of her shirt — or wait, but maybe —  no, I shouldn’t — okay yeah I’m doing it — wait does she want — yeah yeah okay I should definitely go for it. The way that hesitant hand hums along her underdeveloped hips, and that momentary albeit momentous devastation which is immediately followed by elated titillation when she starts to swat your grabby little appendage away but suddenly changes gear and lets it happen. And you breathe a sigh of comfort as you realize that she’s just as sheepish and scared as you are. But now the decision has been made together. The threshold has been crossed, and there’s no turning back.

So you slide your sneaky palm up across her ribs, groping for her vibrant mounds, a fleshy, fatty feast for your fingers — and then you feel the padded lace and sturdy underwire of her brassiere, which I mean, kind of counts, right? And your sweating, shaking digits search sensuously for the clasp around the backside, discovering instead some complicated conundrum, a well-guarded barrier for which you hold no key. But that’s not enough to defeat you, and so you slowly pull your hands back around the front and press against the padding of her undergarment, filling yourself with a false confidence that this is indeed the Holy Grail of manhood, this guarded bossom, and you caress them with uncertainty but still with dedication. You latch onto bra like a handhold on a rock wall and squeeze as if lifting yourself up, climbing towards the greatest heights of adolescent ecstasy, using your vast upper arm strength to push yourself higher than any man has ever know before you, besides that kid in your gym class who says he lost his V-Card in a threesome with three pornstars.

Soon enough you will realize that the harder you squeeze, the closer you will get to heaven.

This is basically just my response to this asshole.

Fifteen Hours Later

Sorry this haiku

is late. I was busy with

a weird thing called “sleep.”