Forgetting Emily in the Dens

 
Gina danced around the pole,
Hank Williams Jr. blasted through the speakers,
and the bourbon flowed freely into the glass;
 
I knew the owner, we once had fucked the same woman,
and he liked the poems I gave him written on cocktail napkins.
 
he watered me with Four Roses and Jim Beam;
every night I left petrified, unable to find my way back home.
 
thankfully, Gina (usually; sometimes, other women, whose
names have been lost in the roaring sea of time),
would sometimes come back with me.
 
the bus ride would sober me up and at 8am I’d
have to have some Wild Turkey to balance the
alcohol my then well-functioning liver could process.
 
she was exhausted most of the times, collapsing on my small, uncomfortable bed,
her gentle snoring the only music I needed to feel energized, drain some glasses,
and sit at the keyboard, commencing the dance that will never
get me anywhere, because my inspiration’s always been illegal substances,
lethal amounts of bourbon, and hard women that embrace their roughness.
 
never married her; never saved her from a life in underground strip joints;
never met her at an airport as she was about to leave the country broke
and heartbroken; we never lasted 11 minutes; it lasted months,
seconds, and lifetimes.
 
never 11 minutes; there was no inspiring tale behind it,
no grand love nor a glowing prince
to carry her to the glass palace where dreams come true
and happily ever after exists.
 
she was the hardcore princess of the dens, able to turn someone’s lights out
with one hard punch on the bridge of the nose; you did not want to get
kicked in the nuts by her, trust me.
 
she was there, couple of months after Emily was taken away by the
heartless spike. we didn’t last, as I’ve said, and we could have never lasted.
 
soon, I gave up on the den; the strippers didn’t do it for me,
nor drinking outside my tiny apartment. I bought bourbon from the drugstore
and drugs from Jenna. and that’s all there was to it; for years, glass-pipes
and bourbon bottles had been my sole true companions—one night stands,
periodical affairs, and summer flings could never amount to anything more
than a few stories, few lines, a couple of heartaches.
 
Emily was the true love, taken away
way too soon,
 
ever since her funeral, I’ve searched for the
right path to follow; and I found it in an
underground joint few people knew of,
 
and I’ve lost it. now,
I’m trying to regain those months,
in constant lookout for a new joint
with an owner that’ll appreciate dirty poetry
in moist napkins.

Fate Can Wait 

 
Every so often,  
it's important to shut the world off.  

Get sun soaked;  
        preferably near a pool.  
Sit on Walmart chairs,  
they recline better than elegant cabanas.  

Assemble the best people you can find.  

For me: it's the wild dreamers,  
   	the mouth pieces that spin jokes all night,  
     	and the personas that pack years in-between orders of cocktails. 

Snag some Love;  
        at whatever level you need to be fulfilled.   
Could stand for a night,  
        or hump your way to matrimony.    

People will rattle off opinions;  
        freely about your life,  
        and never apply the advice 
        to enjoy their own time. 

Our biggest crime 
        is a “better way” for others live,  
        that we never apply to ourselves. 

Figure out what gets you hard,  
        and get good at fucking it.  

We are all here  
        for not enough time.  
It's imperative  
        To live the desires in your heart. 

Self-reflection is maddening...we think things should be a certain way,  
make sense at a precise time,  
   	and flow how we expect it too.  

Endurance is better than answers 
because correct never comes up the same. 
Eat drugs,  
        get over it, nights & days  
        are equally fleeting,  
        you’re gonna lose,  
        get over it.  

Here’s a quick piece of extra advice:  
don't blow it. 

Evaluation of Prospective Employee

Negative points:
Can hardly read.
Writes with fat crayon.
Can't do simple math.
Loses car in parking lot.
Can't use a broom.
Chopped off two toes.
Can't count change.
Can't button buttons.
Registered pervert.
Hates spaghetti.
Neo-Nazi affiliation.
Smells like butt.
Fears dogcatchers.

Positive Points:
Loves Jesus.
Slipped me a c-note.
Brought in nose candy.
Cousin Carol's first born.

Recommendation:
Hire immediately.
Executive potential.

The Neighbor’s Cat


Should I take offense?
What does it mean, then, when
The neighbor’s cat pukes
On my deck? Heck, I don’t
Know. It must mean something,
Right? A bad day in the sunlight,
Too warm, sleep too deep?
Mistaken kibble for meow-mix,
Or over-spiced vole viscera?
Perhaps moonlight too bright
For a proper prowl. So, did you
Mean to offend, or was this just
An offered trophy gone bad?
Disgusting—but no offense taken.

The Rebirth of the Green Onion


Green onions
Are often rooted out
To be sold as groceries

The hopeless plant
Is chopped into pieces
And fried in a wok

One of the lucky bulbs
Is planted in a flower pot
And nurtured

Thus, this green onion
Is reborn
Where one’s heart is settled
There it is the hometown

This green onion
Never bends down
But grows into a bud, blooms, and produces seeds
And the seeds are spread to other places

Many years later
This single bulb
Turns into a sea of green onions

Under the sun
This sea of green onions
Are vibrant with straightness, forcefulness, and robustness
And vibrant with verdancy

In wind
This sea of green onions
Sway into sprays, waves, and billows
And sway from generation to generation

How to Swing the Seafood Minuet
 
I don’t waltz into a room as much as cha cha. But then, I never had much luck with 3/4 time. I’m your standard four-on-the-floor kind of guy. Keep it simple, and don’t confuse me with your high-stepping sorority graces, girl. We’re going to move our lips and shake our hips. We’ll be doing the monkey time before midnight. Of course, anything can happen. The floor can drop out from beneath us. Or the needle can get stuck in a groove and never make it back to the chorus. Despite what you think, making a good first impression is the secret to faking your way through most anything. Before we go any further, let’s stroll over to the seafood buffet. I hear the crab legs are so fresh they dance the mambo on your plate. 

STAND UP

After reading Kafka’s Hunger Artist,
I thought about becoming a stand-up comedian.
When I told my wife I was thinking of
putting together a comedy routine about
my sex life, she said, “That won’t
take long.”

Last night I looked in the mirror and saw
a haggard old man with wrinkled skin and
bags under his eyes. I called out to my wife,
“Maria, I’m feeling terrible. Help me out.
I need validation. I’m falling apart.”

“Well,” she said, “your eyesight is still ok.”

Say What?

Hot and heavy, a night of passion
Leads to the moment when I say,
"We shouldn't do this without a
Raincoat."  A pause and she says,
"I've got an umbrella."

“Middle Aged Me”

My fingernails were clean enough
to read Milton in university
as I stayed away from the campus bar,
believing in textbook knowledge
being my saviour, but middle aged me
has dirt writing poems under my nails
and palms with lines like hand drawn routes
on a map with the sort of certainty
guaranteeing I’ve gotten lost so many times
that I know exactly where I am now.

what it fears


darkness

it is when all the
evil souls do their
best work

when the imagination
gets to visit what it
fears

dance with a raven-haired
devil and lose yourself in
the silence

each moment in this
fleeting desire savor,
let it kill you

we are nothing but wasted
time

all that which holds us back

eventually, either death
wins or you stir a little shit
up before the knock at the
door comes for us all

embrace that pain that
never ends

as with anything, it is
only looking for love

a warm body to shelter
it from the cold
------------------------------------------------------------
sweating bullets

 
scribbling poems
in the afternoon

sweating bullets
in the cheap air
conditioning

a sweltering
lament hangs
in the air like
a sudden doom

everyone can
feel it coming

the inevitable
nature of this
life

more downs
than the ups
could ever
eclipse

you can't help
but ponder a gun
in your hand or
learning to knot
a sturdy noose

the hollow eyes
of the woman
you love

she stopped being
here years ago

saw one too
many sunrises
to be happy
ever again
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