author bios

i wonder
what
bukowski’s
author bio
would read
like
if he had
to make
his own
like we all
do now.
probably
be covered
in shit
& piss,
beer
& hangovers.
something abt.
how the
razor strop
molded him
into
a writer.
maybe
he’d mention
his 2 yrs.
at LA
city college,
but doubt it.
one thing
i know:
he would
hate it
like i do.

 

v-day

the flamboyant kid
in the coffee shop
doing his best
to make sure
everyone
hears him.
young kids,
babies
cycle through.
he is
emphatic
about the f-bomb.
i say
something
to my wife
that is
not meant
for him
but he
overhears it.
interjects
into our
conversation.
you can
tell
he is one
of those
ultra-left
instagram babies
who lives
to die
on that mountain.

“kid,”
i say.

“don’t stick
your nose
in other peoples’
butts
to sniff around
where it don’t
belong.”

“oh, don’t!
great grammar
you fucking
prick!”

i smile
at him.
satisfied
by the size
of his balls
that haven’t
dropped yet.

“why
don’t you
mind
your own
fucking business
and not worry
about
what the fuck
i say?”

my wife
kicks me
under the table
to steady
my excitement.
i’m surprised
she hasn’t
leaped up
and clobbered
him yet.
she sees
a twinkle
in my eye.
other eyes
scour us.
the music
is cut.
i get up
and walk past
his table
to the
coffee bar.
grab a container
of hand sanitizer.
walk back
to his table
and pump
a few shots
into his cup.

“just
what the fuck
do you think
you’re doing,
mister?”

mister.
good one.
he makes
for the coffee
in an attempt
to heave it
at me
but i rifle
the container
in time
to knock
the cup
from his hands.
it splatters
on him.
he squeals
like it’s blood.
he’s lucky
it’s not.

“wash out
your mouth 
you fucking
prick.”

i turn
to the mother
of a young child.

“sorry.”

both
of their mouths
hang agape.

“let’s go,”
i say to
my wife.
she is
smiling.
i am going
to get
the best head
ever tonight.
happy valentine’s
day
to me. 

Drinking


drinking. the window shows the
wrong view. I can’t see the
street we viewed
together when we shot, when we
were drunk on love and rotgut.
I’m gagging on air, struggling to
maintain a straight face as I’m getting
drunk, trying to forget you once
belonged in my life. the wrong neighborhood expands
under the window, there’s no traffic at
3 in the morning, that’s alright. I still feel you
shooting junk next to
me on that foldout blue couch–—could I have saved you?
that’s the harrowing question that keeps me awake every
half-sober night.

The Greatest


Am I the life of anything other than
Shit talking and manic episodes?
Greatest hater to ever walk these streets:
Bourbon on ice, rye neat, gin with vermouth,
Or whatever that one guy made me that one time.
Not even looking to get fucked up,
More just validation,
An excuse to be myself
To soften the edge from here to there
I see no point in the middle
I see no point in the essence
Looks like the juice is all squeezed out
And we’re left sucking on rinds

 RPM
—For EGA

 
The couple next to me in CVS talk Bitcoin.
This is so far from my reality, it would
be redundant to laugh. I wear grey sweatpants

from a bygone era, my glasses are crooked,
and I haven’t bothered to trim my nose hairs.
I’m thinking of getting the latest Stones album

on vinyl. Though my fragile LPs are analog.
Streaming music is digital. My Pioneer
PL-50 turntable is my age, so I may need

to replace the stylus. (I’m talking about a needle,
not a tablet accessory.) Regarding the indie
music scene, Kurt Cobain said, “Let them eat vinyl.”

I don’t mind if you think LPs are for hipsters
and old folks. More for me. My attention span
is large enough to listen to an entire

album side at a time. I don’t want to go
to a concert and see some guy turn on a laptop.
Put your sterilized, overproduced modern

music in a bong and smoke it. Life has
the occasional pop and hiss. Gimmie danger
and distortion! Which aisle is the Metamucil on?

observe and remember

 
i am the lonely man
you see in the coffee
aisle

looking for something
that is just dark, simple,
easy

the little joys i can find
sometimes

the rest of life is spent
eyes open mouth shut

observe and remember

all life is is content

i would love for that
to change at some
point before i die

but my desperation
hasn't reached the
stages of mail order
brides or falling in
love with a stripper

of course

i still have a few
years to go

"The Quiet One"

Silver water and stars
All my heroes gone

And I'm growing old
Can't do what I use to do

Doesn't seem fair
To end like this

So I'll make it quick
With one last stand

Left jab
Overhand right

Left hook to the ribs
Right crusher to the chin

Coleman would have been proud
To see his grandson go out
Standing up

Since I never saw him
When he was alive

My Dad and I
Only knowing the stories

My Dad welterweight champion
Of the Airforce

And I hidden in the shadows
Of the spirit world
Doer of the done

The quiet one
Floating
In the silver water and stars.

If This is Love I’m Not Happy


Mexican Carol and I would drink Coors, hit a few bongs, and watch Alfred Hitchcock; after a good hard romp. I called her Mexican because I was also poking Red-Haired Carol and Pizza Hut Carol. She was Mexican too, right down to her little chile bean nipples.

It was convenient having three women named Carol at the same time, besides the obvious fact of never calling out the wrong name in the throes of orgasm, each was special in her own way.

Red-Haired Carol had an hour glass figure. She could have stepped out of a center fold, no staple. I believe she could’ve sucked the chrome off a 57 Chevy Nomad. Carrot top red, on both ends; makes my gonads tingle just thinking about all that red hair splayed across my lap.

Pizza Hut Carol was manager of, you guessed it, Pizza Hut. She was a big boned lady, not fat, just husky. I ate so much pizza and chugged so many free beers, they should’ve put my picture on their logo. This Carol was into leather, but not the tie me up and do kinky things kind; she had tools and hammers and made belts with your name on them. She liked it in unusual places: the floor, tables, and counter of Pizza
Hut, up against the lion’s cage at the zoo, the cemetery, on top her Ford Falcon at the drive-in movie.

We once did it on the toilet at her grandparent’s house, going so wild we ripped the commode out of the floor. I’ll never forget what her grand-dad told me, standing there pointing his scatter gun at my belly button.

“Son, you ever come in my house again, I’ll blow your guts into such little pieces the buzzards won’t even waste time on ’em.”

My mother told me I’d always been attracted to Latin women. She said it started on a Greyhound bus on the way to Hollywood. We were going to the Queen For A Day Show from Fresno. She wanted to expose her rough, downtrodden life of being married to a bricklayer, to all America. How they were all no-good drunken skunk sons of bitches. There was this beautiful Mexican Lady on the bus, that held me while Mother went to the bathroom. When she got back to her dismay, I had my tiny two-year-old fingers up
the woman’s dress. The lady and I were both smiling and enjoying ourselves.

Mexican Carol was my favorite. She could bump and grind and squeeze and tease. I told her she could milk a barn full of cows, better than a machine. She was so sweet, even her farts smelled like Chanel numero cinco.

My amigo always asked me how I managed three women.

I replied, “One at a time.”

“There must be some advice you could give me?”

“Never lie, never tell everything, and get a secret weapon.”

“Secret weapon?” he asked.

“You heard me.”

“Well. Do I gotta beg?”

“How long have I known you?” I asked him.

“All your life, I’m your cousin,” he replied.

“I guess that’s long enough. What I am about to reveal to you has never been seen by a man.” I gave him my poem. He read it.

I Am

I am a rainbow, Jack the Ripper’s knife, a tumble weed, the petals of a rose, a worm drowning in mescal, Van Gogh’s ear, the Statue of Liberty, Hendrix’s guitar. I am now. I am free. I am.

“A poem?”

“That’s it.”

My sexathon continued. I felt like the Sheik of Arabia.

One afternoon I walked into Mexican Carol’s, the other two Carols were there also. This had never happened before, I smelled peligro, danger, dread.

One of them said, “The arrangement is no longer satisfactory.”

I awoke in the hospital, feeling like a herd of buffalo had walked on me.

A doctor entered the room, a dour look on his face.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“Domestic problem,” I shrugged.

“Paramedics brought you in beaten, half to death.”

“Guess, I made it, huh?”

“That’s not all.”

“What are you keeping from me, doc?”

“You’ve been castrated. We found your left testicle lodged in your throat and were able to reattach it. We were unable to locate your right testicle.”

“Damn. Will I be okay, you know sexually?”

“In about six months you should be able to perform within limitations, maybe once a month.” The doctor left.

About an hour later the phone rang.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Que pasa, lefty?” I heard three women laughing their asses off.

Homo Homini Lupus


First I try reading myself back to sleep. Then I try sleeping on the couch. Then I get on the Internet. Endless wars. Out of control climate change. The hands of the Doomsday Clock creeping up on midnight. Oswald was just a dupe. Annihilation has always been the plan. Meanwhile, satellites outshine the stars.
&
It’s after six in the morning, but still dark out. I have an idea what might be hiding there. Homo homini lupus (“Man is wolf to man”). Most everything that suffers his attention dies from it. Hitler planned to open a Museum of an Extinct Race to celebrate the Final Solution, the liquidation of European Jewry. In the pages of this month’s Hadassah Magazine, Auschwitz survivors share treasured recipes.
&
Sunrise has turned the sky the color of tarnished blood. The trees sway like drunks. Somewhere a team of torturers shoves a hot wire up a prisoner’s penis. Birds feel the voice of God despite and sing.

 

It's a Sad Thing

Ya know, it's a sad thing
Going to the funeral
Of a friend.  Just sad.
Ya know you're gonna
Miss seeing them around.
Now then, see, going to
The funeral of an asshole
Is a laughin', knee slappin',
Ear to ear grinnin' time.
The old hateful varmint
Is justa lyin' there in the box.
Stake for the heart, crucifix,
And garlic on hand just in case.
You wonder what they're
Up to now they're in Satan's
Happy go lucky playground.
Stoke that furnace.  No way
Are there any breaks there.
That ice cream and cold beer
Are just for looks.  Want some?
Hell no!  Get your ass back to
Work!  Fun, ain't it? 

Cheese Icarus

 
Peripheral
paraphernalia burned
away, Icarus is
the cheese
that stands
alone,
porous like
Swiss,
greening like
gorgonzola—
sun-grilled,
sandwiched
between
sky & sea,
melting into tailless
tuna in the oily
Aegean.

M.C. Escher
convergence of
fish & bird,
Icarus is
also a mosaic
piece, a
nursery rhyme
fragment, cast-
away fingernail
paring; a floating
obscene
signifier—
but always,
the solitary
cheese; single
waxy Kraft
slice, residue
of manufactured
American
hunger, standing
alone.