M.C. Bausman

revised

2011-08-01T08:50:00.000-07:00

The Reaper

I was sure he was
around the corner,

three weeks were gone
since the bender,

and my brain
was an unfed creature

to be slaughtered.

surely, that fucker was
hiding somewhere,

tucked in the dresser, or
peeking up through

the river
I hovered over.

another new old poem

2011-08-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

The Girls Of Covenant Cove

I cling to the shaved legs of my
babysitter while Jenny renders
me mental in the living room,
her thin frame balanced
between my thumbs,
kingdoms away from open fields
beyond her V-Card.

A circus of toothless bullies
left me noosed
next to a pair of giant scissors
in your Dad's shed.

Before the van sped
away, you caught a peek
of the rip in my trousers,
at the gas station,
a peg skipping across two
lakes at once- they
are on to you.

Something pharmaceutical
fell into you

before you slithered
into a coma,
stranded with chairman of
impotent evenings,

the ghost
in the graveyard

masturbating behind
a dumpster.

revised poem

2011-07-25T09:04:00.000-07:00

My Sister, The Woodchipper

When you were lit
We did bad shit

Before they chased us
Back to the Emporium.

The clouds convulsed
As we puked pink
Through makeshift subdivisions.

She told me to stop staring
And pass her the Hydromorphone.

Later, alone
By the lockers,
I remembered myself two years
Younger, my ear hissing

Against the gameroom entrance,
And you calling through
The scramble of

Infernal engines,
Still young, grazing your
Tongue over gacked gums

While I lay in the trunk
Waiting for you to loosen
The shoelace around my neck.

new (revised) poem

2011-07-19T13:42:00.001-07:00

Elegy For Lorna

September,
you slumped over

the air-conditioner,
under the weather,

your mirror
riddled with hairline

fractures,
a cleft reflection

of your
pierced face,

I tried to scoot you
sideways,

away from the balcony,
cornered in

a labyrinthine factory
of porn and taffy,

all I did
that year was chew candy

and mutilate
my froggish body,

pissing red,
you said you were sorry

before I carried you
to the reaper's lobby,

so squirrelly
on your mother's Campari.

new (revised) poem

2011-07-17T22:29:00.001-07:00

To a Mirror In Grade School

how did you become so talkative?
when I first met you
some Sophomore
urinated all over your chubby face.

since then,
you've lifted
many heavy
weights,
but the unchanged
heart of a poltergeist
still waits for you
at home

Revised older poem

2011-07-17T22:27:00.000-07:00

Memory Of Mary Magdalene

I met you for the first time at Laura's House
after you swallowed every pill in the bag and fell
off the balcony. Someone in the room called you
one crazy mother and they were right.

Outside the Emporium I would wait outside
as you drove by everyday,
leaving my stomach fishy for reasons
only my pecker could answer to.

I heard a rumor
you had your
clit pierced when
you were fifteen.

No one knows how old you are,
but the whole school still wants to fuck you.

You must take great care of your body.

Not like me,
today my diet consisted of six scotches
and half a bag of Animal Crackers,
which I stopped eating
after I thought I heard one of them scream for its life.

What kind of life is it to be trapped in a
bag all of the time? I guess it's no different than my life,
or yours, even. You, more than anyone, should know that
we are all breakable little animals, waiting
to be devoured completely.

Mary, I wish you
would drive past me.

Bludgeon me
while I'm sleeping,
dreaming of your
wild brown hair

Old revised poem

2011-07-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

Justin's Story About Some Lady

so we leave Kevin's
and I'm way too ripped
on something I can't even pronounce
and so is Jason and Jason's driving
and I think maybe he shouldn't be
but we made it to Tracy's
without dying so yeah
on the way there
I saw this woman banging
her head over and over
against a telephone pole
and her face was bleeding
like crazy but
I stayed silent and Jason
kept driving and five minutes
later we were at Tracy's
and I'd forgotten
the woman
and her fucked up face entirely

new (revised) poem

2011-07-11T12:12:00.001-07:00

Jacaranda

sometime later,
I cleared the container,
past Palmetto,
I can't remember,
there were three
of you,
each of you
thinner, trashing
Father's office
in search of
substance, of a
quiet death, or
at least its option,
the next morning,
after Klonopin,
I lost Lorna again
between some
buildings, abandoned
near the Emporium,
I think I threw up
on the grass
when I saw her
thrashed behind
Albertson's,
her red hair haywire,
matted with liquor,
eyes moving
like flying saucers
through the swampy
summer air.

New Poem

2011-06-25T12:10:00.000-07:00

Lorna to the E.R.

The end of the semester arrived
when her head hit the counter,
eyes reeking of pills I gave her.

She came to later
and asked for water,
but I could not hear
her as I was planted

on the shitter, tugging myself
purple to the thought of a
bug-eyed ginger, her lower-
half like a hammer
smashing me into a jizzy batter...

Your voice reached closer, now
a whisper, its timbre softer
than I ever could remember,
my hand raced faster,
fingers forming
a stricter cylinder around my
dweeby member.

Soon some silver arrows
shot promptly to the wall
next to the shower,
from the center they crept down
in the shape of antlers. Your voice
was now lower, sinking with your
body next to the refrigerator.

I sat up at the sound of a knock
but could not answer, too busy
flattening a shaving razor,
waiting for the knocking reaper
to break the door, lift me over
his shoulder and deliver
me back to her.

Old poem- Autobiography Assignment

2011-05-19T13:09:00.000-07:00

White Harbor, '96

We moved north of Palatine
to the state-line, where I
swallowed my first twelve years.

Of this time, I remember drinking
Jolt Cola and fucking my sofa,
thinking mostly of Lisa,
an older girl from Catholic School
who crowned me her Prince after
I let her use my urine for
a drug-test.

I remember Nate's brother Nick
showing me how to do cocaine
in his walk-in closet. I felt
sad and nauseous. I saw him
some years later, strung out
at Church's.

My mother was a substitute teacher,
Father a gun collector.
Sister painted her walls black
and blared Reznor, her savior.
I learned depression from her,
as well as how to swear.
My first love was her friend

Shelly, a mousy diet-pill addict
who would sometimes babysit me,
allowing me to watch TV before
falling asleep on her
non-belly.

Old Poem

2011-05-17T00:41:00.000-07:00

Case Study

Wednesday, at the parkway,
Elizabeth accepted money from

an undercover deputy. Outside
the Estero Public Library,

Mallory purchases
21 tablets as a present

for Colie. All women,
charged with felonies,

remained friendly as
a total of 55 faces

took custody
of the evening

Revised older poem

2011-05-16T18:50:00.001-07:00

Lorna, A minor

We spoke in strangled English
after belted with the garden hoe.
Conceived in cafeterias (hush!),
we were commas tossed through the fleshy O.

Soon the sky was redder than hellish russet,
and Grandpa's pills were gone in a week.
I begged you not to cross it
out, the sentence I sharpied on the back

of your pink and black ledger, where life
found language in shitlists and shades
of private anguish, as if
life was there only to rip you to shreds.

You were born in 1982
to red-eyed equines caked in frost
When you were eight you killed a cockatoo,
my love for you the cost.

new poem

2011-02-28T19:39:00.000-08:00

On Ariel

Katie mentioned you
after school while we were

sitting in her room,
orbed by psychoactive fumes.

She told me I would love you,
and quickly introduced you,

not before urging me to take care
of you, to never lose you. I nodded

off for a second. Katie smacked me,
told me she was fucking serious.

You reeked of cannabis. Katie said
not to move too fast, that you were

stranger than the others.
With Hurricane Ivan on the horizon,

we were stuck inside
for the weekend. You were exhausting,

a lioness
with hellish lashes.

You told me about your father,
what a monster. I stayed

with you for hours, and fell asleep
as the storm killed the neighbors.

new poem

2011-02-13T09:09:00.000-08:00

O.L.H.

Straighten your sweater and pocket those
poppers, it's Wednesday Mass. We move like
baby cows through the unadorned vestibule,
into the church adjacent

to our crotch-scented gymnasium.
Entering, one might wonder if
this place was designed for an angel
whose eternal musk did not smell

unlike a dollar store candle. We dab
our temples with blessed water, purchased
in bulk from Jewel-Osco, while icons rendered
in stained glass stare pervertedly.

Our Lady Of Humility headlocks me
in puberty as I become visibly
erect for no reason. No angel
can soften the lone Episcopalian.

My friend Nathan cleverly drops acid
at the end of the pew. I catch a whiff
of fish sticks as Father Radcliff passes,
his head as stubby as the cock of

Donatello's David. Two rows up,
God appears in the form of Lynette
Schrader's blonde hair. Like an angel,
she sleeps quietly, dreaming her way out.

new poem

2011-02-09T05:43:00.000-08:00

The Sandpiper

She paces outside
The Sandpiper Inn, jaw shifting,
pupils pinned, arms itching under
her black peacoat.

I arrive out the side
of a '94 Ford Tempo,
so thrashed I pass out
in the hallway

of the wrong floor.
4 am: she calls
repeatedly to no answer.
Maybe tomorrow

I'll remember crawling
from a cul-de-sac in Covenant Cove,
covered in urine, repeating
her name. I dream

of my room
at the Sandpiper
littered with empty liters,
cut straws, and Lorna's

crumpled leggings.
I also dream of
things outside my room before
I wake up to her high heel mashing

my genitals.

new poem

2011-02-02T15:00:00.000-08:00

“Osprey”

I woke up belly-down in Osprey, spun-out
and swollen near a Salvation Army.
The sky was bloated with clouds
of automotive injury. In the distance,
a siren cried like a baby, drowning
the ringing in my right ear. I could see
the accident clearly from the vacant lot
where my body lay heavy, surrounded
by soggy garbage. There was blood on
the gravel, and a uniformed man with
a Senator's stature overseeing
the stretchers.

Soon, my thoughts were unlucky
creatures waiting to be slaughtered.
I remembered a night in Wisconsin,
wandering naked through the snow, four
years old, my mother finding me frostbitten
before calling an ambulance. I remembered
my face full of liquid morphine.

new poem

2010-10-01T12:55:00.001-07:00

Year Of The Reaper

Last September, you jumped
the rafters after
leaving Lorna's with a
tongue of cinder, dark sockets, and
pockets full of tranquilizers.

Outside the emporium, I
cleared quarts with Justin until
your memory scissored me
to the floor, where I
commanded you to come back.

Later, I required medication,
and so the days fell
through me while
death built an engine quietly
in my body.

The Almighty, I learned, is
only a perverted vigilante, a
stranger listening through the door,
rallying vultures when he decides
to knock.

new poem

2010-09-14T21:21:00.000-07:00

I Remember (Brainard Tribute)

Mostly, I remember drinking
myself bloody, falling
from the flatbed as you sped
off to another county.

I remember a flock
of tweakers approaching me,
then waking up in the grass
where lost pets drag themselves.

I remember you
through smudgy glasses
and a skull full of vices,
too pinned to leave Palmetto.

Do you remember me
looking younger last year?

I remember nothing.
Last year was a woman
quietly leaving the room
as I passed out.

I remember the first time
I took drugs was when
a deranged orthodontist named
Phyllis fed them to me.

I don't remember
third grade as much as
the doctor says I should,
but I remember

a girl named Sara,
whose anemia made her
bruised legs look like
those of a Dalmatian.

I remember shitting
myself at golf lessons.

new poem

2010-06-16T15:02:00.000-07:00

Thought Brigade

we started off
quietly enough
but outside
there was too
much stuff so
later that evening
we went back inside
where something
strong in a cup
stitched us
up

new poem

2010-06-15T15:33:00.000-07:00

Poem About Sleeping

yesterday
some hours
fell through
me before
night sank
its

(en)
gin
(e)

deep in
my body.

new poem

2010-06-08T17:23:00.001-07:00

Poem

by then,
we’d become strangers
in person, in a flood
of cold light we
fell through the
prism, stoned, in need
of attenti

on. off

the ledge of the
island they found
us drowning before
returning

to lunch. in a two year
total we’d become
visibl

y older, y
ou’d risen to
the median, though

I never saw you

as you were:

fucked up,
puking pills
in your parents' backyard.

2010-06-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

new poem

2010-04-20T13:08:00.001-07:00

Justin's Way Home

my life is
weird, real,
and riddled with too
much time alone,
walking home
through dead palms,
pockets of
contraband, eyes
pinned, I passed
your house then
passed out on
the golf course,
woken by strangers,
my friend's mother,
fuck! well, whatever,
when Annie calls
I'm full of fog,
still crashing,
tracing a wild dosage,
some lost hours
delivered me to
Kevin's Acid Cave
before my face split
into small pyramids
and wandered
away, deranged
in the slow summer air.

new poem

2010-03-31T13:51:00.000-07:00

Left Of Shamrock

came to
the window, colder, earlier
there were others with
certified colors, pamphlets
of local knowledge,
turned left, transported by
bus, bullets through
the lobby, from the ledge
they watched us
incinerate the evidence, you
were tired, fingers over
the electric fence,
frightened, four clicks
from the warehouse district,
jumped the guard rail,
fire from the quarters, two
miles left, stomach
full of capsules, skinned my
knee nearby, ears
stationed to constant ringing,
and sirens calling from
somewhere else.

new poem

2010-03-12T20:07:00.000-08:00

Melina

dropped their flashlights, morning
happened, slunk out the van,
your tiny hand, scabbed, tracked,
limply clutching your
mother’s silver flask, shaken awake,
we fled the Emporium,
blacked out in Naples, blood on
your sneakers, pockets
full of Crystal, night turned
red, you let go of him, lost
through weirder subdivisions,
stucco dens of
pill-snatching pre-teens, your
brothers and sisters, your
pin-eyed minions, found you
again near the church,
eyes all wrong,
pulled you up, brushed your
skull, moved on,
cut through Sorrento Woods
into the Campus, hid under
the bleachers until
they saw us, ran far through
unfamiliar pastures, ran for
hours, woke up, tied up,
locked in the neighbor’s
shed, saw you
near, smiling,
and something heavy
was lifted.

new poem

2009-12-15T14:19:00.000-08:00

"Biscayne"

This morning, pacing,
I understood the importance
of basic things.

If there was nothing
to distract us we'd all
be taken by a
rapid darkness.

The fact is that each second
has in it the potential
for death's arrival.

Earlier,
I made a few phone calls.
I was in a state of panic
because there was a man,
a savage vigilante, chasing me
with his machete.

The truth is,
he's always chasing me
but I only let others
know occasionally.

Please, do not contact the authorities.

I should use this time
to apologize to anyone
still waiting for me
to call them. I'm sorry
for hiding, it's only a
defense mechanism.

I would go outside
but

trees and water and
the intricacy of nature
remind me only of a
beautiful girl
who is incapable of
loving you back.

Here, in the back,
I can see the driver
dozing. Maybe he's on
too much of something.
Either way, he's forgotten
where we're going
and I'm not compelled
to tell him. He swerves
right, corrects himself,
then swerves left.

Half of me knows
that when we crash
we will land unsuccessfully
and be eaten alive by vultures.

In the morning, rotting,
we will understand the importance
of much more than
basic things,
and maybe then,

under the wreckage,
I'll be over it.

new poem

2009-12-11T01:44:00.000-08:00

"December 11th, 3:55 am"

I stood by the door, half-open,
trembling, listening to
you make noise in there
with him.

I knew you better when
your hair was shorter and
a different color, when
your head was full of smoke
and my belly full
of downers.

I often wonder why I
feel pain in both of
my shoulders, but then
I remember
that my body is full of poison
and that I fell off the sofa.

Sophia, I am withered and
beaten by your infernal wisdom.

These frostbitten urchins
are all my children, and I
have been hiding in my room
for as long
as time has bloodied them.

There is also a painting
of birds behind the desk
of Dr. Richardson.
My poor mother sent me
to him

because she thought I
was going to kill myself.

Dr. Richardson says that
every person is like a puzzle
with missing pieces, and that
some people are missing too
many pieces
and it's his job
to find those pieces and
help his patients put
together their own unique
puzzle.

Being with Dr. Richardson
makes me want to
swallow all of my
mother's klonopin
and wake up in a
foggy heaven

with all of my dead dogs.

ten favorite albums of 2009 (no order)

2009-11-11T18:24:00.000-08:00

Top To Bottom:

Necrophobic - Death To All

Nudge - As Good As Gone

Blut Aus Nord - Memoria Vetusta ii: Dialogue With The Stars

To Kill A Petty Bourgeoisie - Marlone

Fever Ray - S/T

The Ruins Of Beverast - Foulest Semen Of A Sheltered Elite

Katharsis - Fourth Reich

Bloody Panda - Summon

Zola Jesus - The Spoils

Glorior Belli - Meet Us At The Southern Sign

2009-07-06T18:00:00.000-07:00

new poem

2009-06-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

Residential Doubles

we woke to shrill lashes
of parental static and stayed still
until I crept into your mother's
pharmaceutical pantry for a few
more handfuls. It was

summer when the walls were
too thin to not spy on eachother, when
her pleasure arrived in sharp cries
through the hall and into my room and
into my arsenal. They found us

passed out at the
Shiloh Recreation Center, and
according to mirrors, we were older,
still skating the broken diameter of
a non-city spent under
spells of syrup and ether, past
echoes of other nights, names
not remembered, plaza to plaza
before cutting through the Health Park
on the way to your house. By the time

I zeroed out in Osprey,
you'd already forgotten me, and
life became a series of
unanswered phone-calls, some of
which make some of me still
feel guilty for forgetting you
not entirely. For weeks,

I hid in garbage bins and crashed
through fences, into backyards where
stepdads scrambled for reefer,
shirtless and full of anger, outside,
where we would duck in through the back
and watch
sisters act like sisters
before settling on poppers,
and later, again, I became
your shoulder until it was
time to go, until she

tripped over an uncoiled hose
and hurt her skull and hated me
for the rest of her life.

Sara

2009-04-24T16:08:00.000-07:00

Part One.

I am fifteen years old. More people than ever now know how old I am because my face is plastered on the sides of buildings and streetlights.

I have been gone for nine months, the time it takes for a baby to come out of someone’s vagina. Last year, when I was 14, I became pregnant. A baby was put inside of me by a boy I do no much care for. The baby never came out of me and it is probably in a dumpster somewhere with a bunch of others just like it.

Last night I met a man named Charly. He was black, or a nigger, as my dad would say. Charly asked why someone like me would be prowling through the city streets without company. He said I was beautiful, that I deserved better. Then he tried to rape me in an alley so I stabbed him in the throat with a letter-opener I took from my mother’s work-desk shortly before I left home. I have never murdered anyone before. I’m not even sure If I killed Charly, I just know there was a lot of blood spewing from his neck and down into the rainy gutter.

My name is Sara. I am attempting to document my life up to this moment. I was considering not telling you my name, but what difference does it really make? If I could know your name, I promise I would remember it for the rest of my life.

When I was six my father read me many stories. I do not remember any of the stories specifically, just his voice and how it made me feel safe. When I am without sleep, without a place to lie down unless it is in some sleezoids bed after we fuck dissapointingly, I think of my father’s voice, of the stories I cannot remember, then I fall asleep, at least usually.

The other night, I stayed at this ratty house full of other kids like me, and there I met a girl two years older named Kelley. We had what some would call chemistry. Kelley had a tattoo of Orion’s belt above her pussy.

I am not scared of anything, really. Just boredom. When I used to get bored at my old house, I would drink lots of my parent’s liquor and go outside and watch the stars. Sometimes I would see Orion's Belt. Kelley has a tattoo of that. She rules.

classic albums pt. 3

2009-03-09T07:48:00.001-07:00

new poem

2009-03-05T18:59:00.000-08:00

The Elderly

The Elderly are now
taking Cocaine Cues
from young men
with lip-piercings,

tattoos?

We were
originally trained find the
infamous Heartworms Of Spirit
and Body,

and there is a difference
between the use of
abstractions in poetry and

the use of poems
as psychoactives,

Uncle Lester's ass
still hurts, too taxed to buy
laxatives. I remember, your
number ended with three sixes,

or

were they twos? My first sentence
had something to do with the

sickly, or
splinters covering The Elderly,

still circling
outlines of
old enemies, lost
in the city, and
bored by poetry,

we, the disposessed,
deserve some hot sex,

some hard candy...?

new poem

2009-03-03T15:33:00.000-08:00

Cinema Skullz

the buck stops here so
lick my feet
and shoot this dirty animal,
this

is

filial sentiment,
bondage, or
something American,

some shadows,

and you shot a gallon
of gunk on
your mother's ghoulish tits
and your mother
is just

like you,
a real cuckoo
with credit problems
and bad skin.

back to
your final cameo,
and the softness of skulls
behind other skulls, other screens

darker, the
last scene equals many dead things,

your naked process,
your severed heel

my last lunch before war

three favorite films pt. 3

2009-03-03T11:25:00.000-08:00

new poem

2009-02-28T22:29:00.000-08:00

"Possible Notes (my brain is on fire)"

these crawling bitches will terrorize

the garden, and though your lawn will remain

unchanged, there is still a curse somewhere

in this building, leaving you to wait

restlessly in the lobby. Did you forget

to get the right groceries? Prepare to be

more plump, more unhappy during your middle years,

years and years and still I do not remember

you, my dear and darling

Acrobatic Shotgun Wizard

BANG BANG!, I say,

but no one can

hear me here

in aisle 6

six
six

new poem

2009-02-27T21:59:00.000-08:00

Ghosts of Palatine

When they wiggle out
of bed, I am again

tardy, totally

asleep behind
the Mastectomy

Salon,
among other things,
there are others all
around me, nesting
their tired bodies
in
chemical shrub.

Kid creeps me out, your father said

after I left. When
you were
eleven
was when
you first disappeared, and
your mother called mine
and mine called another,
thousands of sad, sad mothers
dialing numbers to
find you, and
still,

no you.

Still sleeping,
Stacy,
sorry,
did I miss your
call? I bumped into you
at the mall?? No
way. Anyway, I'm
sorry, Stacy,
today
I don't feel like
me, see, when I

was ten was
when
your
fragile
skull
first fell
into
the crater,

where
your father
buried
the computer,

are you
still there? Sorry friend,

today

I must be

dead already

yeahyeah

2009-02-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

new poem

2009-02-24T14:46:00.000-08:00

The Tripout Chamber

too nervous
to not blink
too much

sam steps in
then i step in
and by the end we are

too wasted
to find
our own feet

and

i do not see sam when

i step in
before him but
by the end my head
is spinning too fast to see

anything

to step in
is to stop
seeing what i usually see

and when

i step in again

FINALLY

i see sam
smoking
something
somewhere

behind me

an even newer poem yo!

2009-02-22T22:50:00.000-08:00

Gary, 73

You see, harder drugs, the big guns like heroin, they teach you more about life in the long run. Sounds crazy, but believe me, addiction problems and just hard times in general have helped me become the strong and wise man I am today, and someday, you, a young person, can be strong and wise too. Just listen for once.

Have you read Crime and Punishment? Dostoevsky, he believed suffering was essential for some sort of Christian mystical experience, and he was right and you should read up on him if you haven't already, young mister,Mr. Peach Fuzz, Mr. All grown up, ah geez I love you and miss you and

my ass hurts real bad.

My advice to you, little kiddo, little devil, is to fuck up your life as much as you can while you're still young. Just don't die. See, sooner or later, if you don't die, you'll be an old man like me, and you'll

be more like me,
just like me,
fuckin' shit up real hard
in the land of the free.

My ass still hurts real bad.

Sincerely,

Uncle Gary

new poem

2009-02-22T15:25:00.001-08:00

daniel, divisible

such a great
plea

sure yesterday
to meet you today
not so great lost in space in

some strange neighborhood not
yours maybe ten miles from
yours jumped five fences i am
naked in a lot of
trouble trying to find
you you have no idea the pain

i'm in mornings should
never be
like today today
it is morning and
i'm on a million milligrams
of something
so come find me i feel
so sick
so lost out here
somewhere on
such a fucked up morning
without you

CLASSIC ALBUMS pt. 2

2009-02-22T15:18:00.000-08:00

new poem

2009-02-21T20:19:00.000-08:00

Karl asks a question.

lets call them

Mike
and
Paul,

two twentysix
year old
dudes, white
as glue with

backward
baseball caps, both

porn-
obsessed,

well I saw them last night
outside the Chevron station,
the certified chillspot

for Floridian
hoodlums, anyway,

yes, I saw them there, Mike and Paul,

with two
young teens, two girls, two

nympho Goddesses
in
training, and I

started thinking
to myself,

tonight,
Paul and Mike are
going to
fuck the shit out of these
beautiful teenage ladies,
perhaps even

pop their
bathed
and
shaved cherries,

so my question is,

why am I,
a classy kind of guy,
locked in the trunk of my car
about to die from swallowing too
many of my wife's

prescription
pain
pills?

new poem

2009-02-19T21:55:00.000-08:00

Larry (and his buddy)

On mondays,
between the hours of three and five pm,

I leave my house to meet my friend named,
well, no, I'm not going to tell you his

actual name because
I could be killed

and I am afraid of death
and so are you

so stop lying to yourself right now,
you fucking liar you fucking liar.

Anyway, my nameless friend was injured badly
several years ago in a horrible accident

and he lost both of his legs
and both of his testicles,

so now he lives alone in a modest
little home and on

mondays I meet
with him, my friend, between three

and five pm because
he provides me with the

all the firearms and ammunition
I need in order to protect myself in this

increasingly dangerous world.
So my friend, the gunslinging cripple

with
ONE TESTICLE

happens to agree,
we live in a world which will eventually

implode or explode or be taken over by
homicidal alien creatures,

and, God Forbid, if such a thing happens,
at least my nameless friend

and I will be
prepared to kick ass and prove who's boss

in this vortex of

unbridled freedom

three of my favorite films part 2

2009-02-19T15:35:00.000-08:00

new poem

2009-02-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

Bingo

Everyone at
Bingo is diseased,
even the folks of my
friends, like my

friend Sal, his
mother Marge
is all about
Bingo, goes there every
Friday

until recently
when Sal's Dad
found out that Marge was
a liar liar pants on fire
and that

Bingo was not Bingo and that
Bingo was a bar and
Bingo was some other dude's dick.

My friend Sal,
his family

is

FUCKED UP.

CLASSIC ALBUMS part one

2009-02-18T23:21:00.000-08:00

new poem

2009-02-17T14:21:00.000-08:00

Wanda

Naked, between two oncoming Hondas.

My friend or fuckbuddy or whatever named
Wanda got killed that way. Naked and dusted
out of her skull.

Wanda liked to strip down so much she even
made a living at it. She stayed at my place
for a few weeks and used to smoke a ton of
crack in the bathroom near the kitchen.

I told her it was cool as long as she helped
clean up around the house sometimes,
and suck my dick daily.

Okay, so one day
Wanda was gone and
so was all my money.

I got so angry
I threw my TV at the stove.

It's fucked up, but
at one point I even wished
death upon that bitch but
then like

two days ago I heard she was dead
and so I was like "Oh shit" so I started
writing this and so now i'm done

I guess? Yeah.

three of my favorite films pt. 1

2009-02-16T11:02:00.000-08:00

Steve Martin is seriously one of my creative heroes. I think I might do a blog dedicated to him with an essay or something like that.

peeeeace

new poem

2009-02-16T10:28:00.000-08:00

Kenny's Valentine

yeah i fucked her like 2 months ago or some shit and she kept callin and callin until finally i was like look bitch whats done is done so go find someone else to fuck

you NASTY SLUT BITCH but anyway like

3 days ago or some shit i heard that bitch tried to off herself with a shitload of her moms xannies and some beer or some shit and so they had to pump her stomach and send her to the hospital and all that so yeah

shes alive now and i know shes gonna keep buggin me so sometimes i wish she took bunch more benzos and a bunch more beer and sometimes i wish she never woke up and sometimes

i wish that stupid fucking bitch was dead

where I live.

2009-02-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

new poem

2009-02-15T12:29:00.000-08:00

To Jason

your stepfather,
the fifth grade science teacher,
treated your mother very, very
badly

so eventually her eyes became so bruised
she started wearing these jumbo-sized
sunglasses, the ones from Jewel-Osco,
and her friend Beth, the only one left,
would ask your mother daily,

"Susan, what's with the sunglasses?",

and your mother would just lie and
we'd just get high in the attic
while your mother and stepfather would fight

until one night
when the police pulled up
to your house and your stepfather,
the fifth grade science teacher,
was gone for good and

we drank the rest of his beer
and like three years later I heard
you went to prison
for possesion so

I hope you don't get raped.

new poem

2009-02-09T12:20:00.000-08:00

Julia, 1st Period Algebra

waytoostonedwaytoowaytoowaytoostoned

too stoned to bone least im not thinkin bout you when im this high

so high in da sky superfly butterfly NINJA 4-LIFE

and fuck da haterz and don't show this to anyone tomorrow youarewaytoofuckingstonedfuckingidiot just stop writing stop it cant stop it stop this no ones gonna stop this fag! uggggh

hehe

<3

JuJuBEE

new poem

2009-02-08T19:39:00.000-08:00

A History of Kenny

I
said its in my past,

I
am no
longer a
sex object
for my Uncle

Bert

and the
Buddies

Bert

drinks beer with.

No.

Now
I am different,
not a Sex Object
or a

Sperm Vacuum

like

Bert

and the
Buddies

Bert

drinks beer with

say I am.

No.

Now
I am a different person not
as a slave,

as a Vacuum
for the sperm
of

Bert

and the
Buddies

Bert

drinks beer with.

No.

Now
I am just me,
just fine being
the king of my neighborhood.

Now
my name is

Special K
so I hope you respect that.

I hope you do not decide to FUCK with

Special K

because

Special K

will FUCK your shit up and leave you and your

WHOLE FUCKING FAMILY

either
dead or injured seriously.

You see,

either way,

it doesn't truly matter

to

me,

to

Special K,

king of the

motherfucking jungle.

new poem

2009-02-05T13:30:00.000-08:00

"Nathan, Age 11"

fuck school

fuck you

fuck faggots

fuck bitches

fuck stupid faggot bitches

bitches love me

I fucked your mom

I fucked all your moms moms

okay

just

two rules

be chill

act cool.

new poem

2009-01-31T16:04:00.000-08:00

Pillow God

I lived in a house with my mother and father for what seemed like forever but it was actually until I was eighteen the summer I went to the slammer for stabbing a person too many times in the neck.

Most of my time growing up was spent in the basement, where there was a big-screen TV and lots of room and space for guests. I used like to watch action movies with Dolph Lungren in the basement. And drink lots of soda. There were many things to do, in my home, in my basement. See, these were the days before puberty, before I was wetting my bed with semen. That basement was my own private party club.

No girls allowed.

One of my favorite things to do in the basment was arrange my father's designer pillows in a vertical row and then hump the pillows as if they were humans until my hairless thurst-hammer felt all tingly. Until it felt really good.

I used to lie on that couch
for what seemed like forever,
forever until

Mom made dinner

or

American Gladiators.

new poem

2009-01-29T14:03:00.001-08:00

new poem

2009-01-28T09:03:00.000-08:00

Jason

As my friends will tell you,
I have trouble remembering much
of anything. For instance,

was it last evening?
Or an evening not last evening?
Perhaps even a druggy morning
when I bumped into

Jason? Yes, it was Jason,
the same Jason who used to sling
heroin
in the house i'm now
living in.

"Central Florida", he said

"Tomorrow, I'm leaving",

and right then and there,
directly in front of him,
I understood so clearly how
our lives are based solely on

timing

that is,
until the memory of Jason

escaped me
completely

and I was left
with only a
fourty of Mickey's

and my
own

frazzled
skeleton.

new poem

2009-01-27T12:20:00.001-08:00

Dream #1

When I step from the entrance
to Tina's loft of
flashy narcotics and\or-forget the or-
intercourse between strangers
I see a kitten whose dark eyes burn
through whatever is left of me.

There were many men with pinpointed
pupils and oversized jackets
on the way home,
and when I say "home" I really
mean your mother's house because your
mother-your lovely mother-has sex with
many young and waifish men and yes, I
happen to be one of them

but
believe me, this is nothing personal.

Earlier, before I ventured to
Tina's, I had a dream in which
I was chasing an unnamed nymphette
from my glitchy past through a
shopping mall. She turned a corner
and I lost her, but no, the dream was
not over because later I saw her
face-to-face at her parents' place where
we first locked eyes and I tried to glue
my melting face to yours

but failed.

The next night, awake, no one,
not even Tina and her
shapely cohorts could replicate
the last dream I would have before
dying between two ravaged buildings

surrounded by
these strange men with

pinpointed
pupils
and oversized
jackets.

In closing,
I pray you are somewhere
far from danger,
still waiting for me to
steal medicine from
your mother's secret cabinent.

Goodbye, Bug-Eyes.

story

2008-11-22T00:03:00.000-08:00

"In Unison"

Jared, drunk and stoned, is taking a piss inside while girlfriend Lisa, 16, less drunk\more stoned, sits outside under the poolcage pulling marathon hits from her mother’s glass bong, waiting anxiously for Jared to come back out and join her in celebration of another night when the house belongs to just them, a large space for them to act insanely in for a night or two before Lisa’s wayward mother stumbles in, pilled-up, drunk, and ready to inflict her pain on someone. It is not long before she, Lisa, lost in thought, blanks on why Jared went inside to begin with and quickly stops thinking of him or her mother or much of anything at all if not the stars above, onto which her eyes are now locked like deadbolts, indefinitely.

The last few lonely drops fall like tears from Jared’s dick as he wonders if he and Lisa will fuck tonight. He hopes the pot has rendered her sluggish and horny, not entirely due to his brutish will to dominate a flimsy nymphette two years younger, but rather because, to him, Lisa is most beautiful when she is spent, when a certain narcotic presence becomes her, when her lazy green eyes are both weary and desperate like twin invitations, two winning pleas for him to swallow her completely.
Now hardening with drunken blood, his dick struggles to rise like a veteran boxer refusing defeat, and he proceeds to stroke it determinedly until its cruel-looking, a destroyer of anything not it. He imagines Lisa, the lazy lover, the broken doll, Queen B, arsonist of his lost being. Motion is charged and violent until arrows of jizz dart militantly to the beige wallpaper and slime to the floor ominously before he looks to his gooey, shrinking vessell and finds it sadly repulsive like an undercooked eggroll, an earthworm’s abortion.

Lisa, with clumsy execution, yanks open the sliding-glass door to the interior of this mildly affluent home she shares with her addict mother. She yells for Jared and he responds through the door. The scattered quality of his voice renders Lisa aware of his secret masturbation, and with it, his panic of her knowing. She laughs to herself, amused by how sex-crazed Jared gets when he smokes weed, yet finds it odd that he was driven to the bathroom to fulfill what she could have easily fed him, and she thinks that maybe she should have given him head or something earlier, that it must be her duty to please him when she senses he is in need of her cunt or her mouth, and since he is far too reserved to vocalize such things, that she must initiate these acts even when he does not ask for them.
He’s now wiping the cum off both himself and the wall. Though he expects Lisa to show some semblence of concern or anger for his crude behavior, Lisa herself is not in the mind to fight. Tonight is a recurring occasion when she feels less a girlfriend and more a true counterpart to Jared, a partner in conversation, mishchief, intoxication, and, of course, sex, but sex with Jared is not like sex with other boys, no, their sex is transformative in the way it approaches a level of total disorientation for both parties. For instance, when Jared is fucking Lisa, her brains feel something like scrambled eggs, and for him, the act of conquering her like this is less a display of dominance than it is a means of reaching oblivion, in the way one must feel strangely elevated mid-fall from a skyscraper. Lisa understands, solemnly, how unlikely it is that she will ever find another cock so seamlessly able to obliterate her during sex, while he, perhaps unknowingly, will never meet another girl with whom he feels the same furious longing he has for Lisa.

(She opens the door and asks if he was masturbating and he answers yes and casts his head down but she just laughs and kisses him and says you better have been thinking of me and he says of course I was and she asks if he wants her tonight and he answers non-verbally and they go into the bedroom and she sucks him and fucks him and swallows his cum and when it’s over he says he loves her and begins to cry like he always does after they finish having sex and then she says I love you too and embraces him tightly and falls asleep while he watches her and strokes her hair and thinks to himself please don’t ever leave me.)

Jared’s eyes are fixed to the ceiling. They connote no more than unrevivable despair for many reasons he is unable to articulate, and he wishes for sleep since sleep is the only fleeting simulation of what it must be like to not exist, and like death, it happens most naturally, most easily when you are not focusing on it too much. He tells his mind to stay quiet but this is, of course, an impossible prospect, one which only sleep and death can regulate. He looks over to Lisa and it is then when he finds potential to rest. He closes his eyes.

Naked, Lisa gets up. She studies Jared’s sleeping face, kisses his head, and leaves the room. Outside, the neighborhood hibernates, only the glare of a single streetlight signifies life but it is enough. She begins walking down the length of her street, unabashed by her nudity. From nowhere, headlights surge through the dark, shine onto her. She squints, the driver’s face obscured by shadows. Keeps walking, car moves past her to a stop-sign and stays idle. Lisa turns around and so does the driver. Soon the car is directly beside her and even sooner a window rolls down, revealing the driver, an innocuous male figure tuned noteworthy by the semi-automatic in his hand. She freezes. The driver shoots. Lisa falls to her death.

Jared wakes up. She lies next to him, her sleeping breath inaudible. He stares at her closed eyes, projects his own waking dreams into them. The mere presence of Lisa is always a relief after he dreams of her death, and this relief also happens to be coupled with intense arousal, as Jared regularly wakes with a glass-cutting erection. He has often desired to have sex with Lisa while she is asleep, but to do so would elicit too much guilt unless he were to consult her beforehand, but, of course, he understands how unlikely it would be for this to actually happen since Lisa, and since no one, really, can truly rest with the knowledge that, boyfriend or not, another person is going to fuck them while they are unconscious. But Jesus, Jared thinks. Look at her. I have to be inside her right now. After a good long while of weighing the possibility, of chewing it up silently, he settles on using his fingers instead of his penis. Hers is the only vagina he has truly admired in 19 years of life. Its impossible softness always comes as a shock. How can a human being have such an angelic cunt? Shouldn’t cunts be less perfect than this, more fishy and complex? He digs around for a while, gently as to not wake her, while likewise jerking himself off.

--

Lisa walks with her mother. They have done this before, but only here, at night, alone and unbothered.

“I love you more than anything. You know this, don’t you?”

“Yes”

“You know that your father is a liar and a cheater, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you understand that the men I bring home are meaningless compared to you? Do you understand the reason mommy brings those men home is because mommy is unhappy with herself? Do you understand they have nothing to do with how much I love you?”

“I guess so.”

Jared gains momentum. He finds more pleasure in the covert fingering of Lisa than in the routine service of himself. He wonders if she is somehow able to experience sexual pleasure while sleeping, if maybe what he is doing to her is translated into a dream language, if maybe she is dreaming of herself with him, or someone else, and if it is with someone else, if she is enjoying herself. God I hope not.

“My greatest wish is that someday you will find a trustworthy husband. One who you can trust with your precious little heart. Is there a boy in your life?”

“Yes”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Does he love you?”

“I think so.”

“Have you two had sex?”

“Yes”

“Was he your first?”

“Yeah, besides blowjobs.”

“Was he gentle?”

“No, but I didn’t want him to be. I wanted him to do it like he would normally. I didn’t care if it hurt.”

The moment Jared spills his load onto the bedsheet, he feels like a dirty criminal. I am a horrible person. I am a sick person.

“So he’s slept with many other girls?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like to talk about it. It makes me jealous to think of him with others, and I don’t like myself when I am jealous.”

“Did you feel loved when your virginity to him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did he make you climax?”

“Yes, I do everytime we have sex.”

“How big is he?”

“He has the biggest dick I have ever seen.”

“I thought the same thing about your father. We used to screw like rabbits, and then, well, you know the rest of the story. Sex is not everything, you know.”

“It’s not like that, Mom. He cares for me.”

“I certainly hope so. There are many bad apples in this world, Lisa. And many, if not all of them, are men.”

Jared turns to his left side, then to his right. Only unrelenting thoughts and discomfort prevail, as is custom for him, whether or not in bed. He thinks it must already be 5 in the morning and he has gained only 3 hours of sleep, and he thinks how depressing it is that the only dreams he has left in him are ones as ugly and diseased as he considers himself to be. He imagines what his life will be like during days when he does not look young anymore, when girls like Lisa are no longer attracted to him. He comes to the solid conclusion that these days will most likely, in spirit, resemble all the other days he has lived, and that all these other days, at least since freshman year of high school, have been hell for his brain, and how much can a brain withstand, how much more of this constant churning can a person possibly endure without the aid of psychoactive drugs or sex with a beautiful young girl or sleep, all of which, excluding the latter, he has, in nineteen years, already exhausted to the point of what might be addiction, or at least a daily regimen without which a functioning life would be inconceivable.
He gets up.

“When I met your father, he seemed to promise everything. I was blinded by him. I could not see the truth. There are very few dependable men in this world, Lisa. Very few who keep their promises. You must stay alert, before they’re able to hurt you. Just look at me. I’m a total mess. I want better for you.”

“I’ll be okay, mom.”

“Just tell me he is not just using your pretty little body for sex. Tell me he is one of the good ones."

“He’s one of the good ones, Mom. I promise.”

He’s in the bathroom, surveying the medicine cabinent. Settles on a pillbox belonging to Lisa’s Mother, full of some drug designed to make people sleep. Takes the first. Then another, then another, and then-

“I won’t be here forever, you know?”

“I know."

“Someday you might have children of your own. I pray you will not make the same mistakes I made. I pray that you will have a happy family, with beautiful children and a man who loves you. I pray that you are never hurt. You are my pretty little angel. I love you.”

-he walks back into the bedroom and lies down next to her, kisses her freckled cheek, tells her he loves her, that he’s sorry, and finally: a deep sleep, deeper than usual, and dreamless.

Lisa’s mother walks off, disappears, leaving her daughter alone in this empty space of night’s invention. It is here where she will wander aimlessly without company and wait for Jared to arrive through a fluid perimeter, arms outstretched for her, handsome and sturdy like a prince.