The Church of Arby’s

– – – – –

I’ve come to understand my deep and steadfast love for Arby’s. It’s not because the food is delicious. Arby’s is the one place that allows me to be my true self.

When the night sky is a pale winter navy over Sunset and Tamarind at 7:23pm, the hot glow of that towering cowboy hat signal is a neon north star for the dregs of society. The patrons at Arby’s are connected by a disgusting commonality. Depraved untouchables, squirming gelatinously from their vehicles to the horsey sauce station. Meat-bound underlings, crawling towards the heated high of au jus, french dipping their intestines into diabetic oblivion. Pigs eating cows.
There are crystal-rubbing vagrants surrounding the corner booth with broken bicycle parts and beard shavings, staring into their thin beef slices as Goodbye Stranger by Supertramp hums throughout the din at a low and lovely frequency. There are chunky Hispanic couples arguing loudly about perceived sexual glances over their smokehouse brisket sammies. There are forehead-scarred army men, trying to forget their lives for a mere 30 minutes as they inhale their steak fajita flatbread and buffalo chicken sliders. There is me. A thyroid-less lunatic, whom on any other day would attempt to mask his grotesque tendencies, but today, here, now, at this fast food establishment, he is free to air out his bent brains, his bug-eyed behavior, his bellicose mania manifesting in a meaty delirium of “fuck the world” beefery, eating his feelings like they were on fire and the only way to fan the flames was with swift and violent consumption.
– – – – –
– – – – –
Fuck you, earth. I am the sun, moon, and the cows. I am the end to all lettuce. I am an infinite onion roll, slathered in cheesy garish goop. I am god chugging curly fries. Hello, I’m Arby, nice to fuck you (with my mouth and gut). Now kiss me and tell your friends you’ve smooched the devil. I’ll be in the attic, grinding up against the crumbs on the floor, braying about my golden years as a stomach.
When I leave I will have nothing. I will no longer be at one with grease. I will no longer be a Picasso of pork belly and pain. My senses will un-dull and I will revert back to societal banalities like laundry and sleep. I will drift away from my self. When I leave this booth and this building and climb back into my 2016 Toyota Camry with it’s working air conditioning and reliable safety rating, I will shed the memory of the meal that was me. I will be a citizen once more, causing no conscious harm to the world or my body. I will be so full that I am empty.
My words will lose their wonder along with their alliteration. I will peruse the echoes of the internet to find the Nihilist Arby’s twitter handle and see that even this, my most self destructive and authentically profound feelings for this chain of chains has already been explored, inspected, discarded. I will return to bed, beaten like a bear after Folsom. Tattered like a twink after Dore Alley. My mind divided in chaos like the whole city of San Francisco. But I will lie here in Los Angeles and hope for the best in the morning.
– – – – –
smoke mountain
– – – – –
I will cling to the quicksand of my youth as I return in one month’s time, ignoring the warnings my father’s death provided. There and then, again, I will fetishize my sadness. I will make it all about me. I will discover the secrets of every one of my flaws and personality defects, my deep-seated issues and phobias, my arrested development and addictions, and I will shove them down into the forgotten bowels of my gullet with the biggest beef n’ cheddar they can bolster. I will figure out how to be happy and toss out my findings with a half-scraped carton of bronco berry sauce.
It’s waiting for you. You can discover these American secrets for yourselves. As you approach from Santa Monica and Wilton, you’ll return to that voice in your head that asks, “remember when you were a child and nobody liked you?” You’ll answer “Yes. I remember”. It’ll ask “Remember eating lunch in the stairwell?” You’ll answer, “Yes. I remember”. It’ll ask, “Remember feeling content with just being yourself and existing?”. You’ll scratch your head and answer, “Nope. Don’t remember that.” And the voice will laugh a lofty bully-cackle, lacquered with that special brand of childhood malice.
When your post-gluttony coma commences, you’ll optimistically attempt to think of how tonight could have been worse. You could have chosen Carl’s Jr. only to find one-third of the insight that our great and mighty Arby’s hath subpoena’d. Yet, there is only one true barbecue cowboy god. Only one smoked house of worship. Only one potato cake sanctuary. I bow to you, my queen. I pray on bended knee, to fill my flesh with flesh. Please deliver me from perdition. Provide some respite from myself. Coat me in sugar and salt and let me forget.
– – – – –

Phil Nulman is gone.


sammy's roumanian restaurant

My dad died on August 13th, 2016.

I click through the shirtless photos of the gym-bodied men on facebook and instagram and I speak to them. I say out loud once per photo, “congratulations.” then immediately click to the next one, “congratulations. congratulations. you must be so proud. congratulations. oh wow. congratulations. must be nice. congrats.” My bitterness knows no boundaries and no one can stop me now. I am erratic, unpredictable, my feelings will spew violently in every direction like a broken boiling hose and I am entitled to this. I have congressional approval to scream “nazi jew cunt”  at the top of my lungs at the car that tried to cut into my lane. I have a hall pass to break into a flash-sob while pouring ginger ale and stop as quick as I started then go look at dicks on the internet as distraction. I am in the Delta Sky Club of people who can lie around and feel like utter ass-shit while never attempting anything productive and/or helpful to feel better. Fuck feeling better. Feeling like garbage is where I’ve built my teepee, it is where I’ve planted my crops, laid with men, ingested meds, cemented my feet, foraged for more trash emotions, eaten Dave’s Classic Triples from Wendy’s. I am pregnant with hate-bile and desolate wretch and despair. I am gone. I am now someone else. Someone writhing on the inside while ordering a Mexican coke at the cafe. Someone one follicle away from complete and total madness while discussing media with clueless peers at a party. Someone weeping with every movement. Someone broken and empty and tired of the voice in his head. Someone ill-equipped to get along in this world and too angry and sad to learn. Someone strong and trying. Someone desperate.

People come up to you. People you barely know. People you don’t know at all. They say they’re sorry to hear. Suddenly you’re having casual conversation with a stranger about the deepest most effectively horrible thing to ever happen to you. Your true life tragedy becomes trivialized, sanitized, shoved in a box and placed on the lowest shelf to talk about but not open up. They give you their condolences and you wish you knew what they were. Can you buy a sandwich with condolences? I’ll take all of your condolences if so. They shake their heads and scrunch their faces and try to understand but they can’t unless they know. You’ll find that now, when talking to someone that doesn’t know, there is a distance that wasn’t there before. You’ve reached somewhere new, deeper, stranger, but they are still on the Earth’s surface trying to lighten the mood.

You are still funny. You are still a good time. You are still hungry. You are still horny. You are still you. But you carry something with you now. The knowledge that you will now have to live your entire life and he won’t be there for any of it. He is gone. Gone gone, for real gone, like actually, physically, totally never here or anywhere again. They say that as cheesy as it sounds, “He will be with you forever.” You cringe at every saccharine cliche but this one you want to believe. This one you MUST believe or the darkness will envelop you and his absence will never turn bearable.

You go to the grocery store. You do your laundry. You go to parties. You go to bars. You drive your car. You go for a jog. You remember your father is dead. A grapefruit-sized ball of itchy oxygen thrusts up through your insides and lodges itself firmly in your throat. You shakily breathe in and out, catching your breath like an asthmatic child who fell down. You go to the post office. You get ice cream. You pay your bills. You go to sleep. You wake up. You brush your teeth. You look in the mirror. Your dad is still dead. You shower. You towel off. You get dressed. You drive your car. You live your life. And then you realize, living is to keep walking. Walking and walking across the canyon while others suddenly and gradually fall away, into the abyss, but you just keep walking. The more people fall, the more you accept that the walk is the walk and you can’t stop to stare into the void, screaming for the fallen for too long without losing sight of your own unique walk. You continue while others drift in and out until one day you will be the one who falls and then the others will keep walking and you’ll just be another one of their stories of a guy they knew who fell off the path that everyone walks. And you’re fine with it? You don’t know. No one knows.

You can’t find a conclusion. You can’t wrap anything in a bow and present it as a lesson you’ve learned through the horror. You only have feelings. So many thrashing feelings. You realize you’ve been disassociating. I come back into myself. I am jarred into the present. I am a human being. I am alive. I had forgotten.

Every Sock

– – – – –

Today’s selections were featured in “The Weekly Cossacks”, as well as “Gutter Burger Magazine” and “The Washington Post”.

– – – – –


I have depression


sex addiction


skin picking disorder

unwanted thoughts syndrome

delusions of grandeur

suicidal tendencies

an empty bank account

a bow-legged stance

hips that don’t quit

Rumours on vinyl

a closet full of child mannequins

Ikea furnishings

an endless supply of boogers and cum


two lamps that work

one lamp that doesn’t

two clocks that work

one clock that doesn’t

a repulsion towards lists

wine I left in my friend’s fucking car

two ex-boyfriends

a thousand ex-flings

the velvet rage

a regal gift card

fun socks

house socks

reg socks

immaculate feet

a 2004 Toyota Highlander

some ratty wigs

a combative relationship with AT&T

four bags of german gummies

a quarry of regret

a canyon of self-doubt

a trench of straight-up feelings

iridescent white boy eyes

no prospects

no hope

no love

no god

no thyroid……


I’ll have the filet o fish, please.

– – – – –

Every Sock


every sock you’ve ever cum in

wants to kill you

so you




but then it’s like


your feet,

they’re so cold

so you consider going to the sock store


and even the thought

is just so


but what are you supposed to do?

Not wear socks?

Ever again?

It’s so fucking cold

and you need something

to cum in.

So you buy new socks

but this time

you ask,


what if

later on

I decide

that I wanna throw you away

and you decide

that you wanna kill me?

What IF, ya know?

Do you think that could happen?

Do you think

you’d ever

wanna kill me?”

but then you must remember

it doesn’t matter

what the socks say back



are just


– – – – –


fuck your fuckin cummy


leaking runny eggs

under water

on fire



sucking off

George Wendt


fuck it,

the entire cast of Cheers

while your asshole

blossoms outward

oozing juices


and brown

and your dog

laps it all up

while you piss on the floor

and drool down your


you jizz-stained dilettante

mephitic bundle of rape

busted barnyard bitch

sweaty slab of excrement

shard of stunted puss meat

you lava lamp cunt

jk lol u up?

– – – – –


Reagan, My Fuck Puppet

These selections were featured in “Catch a Rising Fart”, “The Loud Grizzum Quarterly”, and “Entertainment Weekly”.

– – – – –

Not Really A Thing

It’s not really a thing.

He lives in Weho.

He’s probably a whore

and that’s what I’m banking on.

– – – – –

War Cry

I’m the bolshevik

sucking dick


mozzarella sticks

– – – – –

Reagan, my fuck puppet

I’d legit

take a shit

into Reagan’s clit.

Use his hole

like a goal

with my soccer dick.

Dig his tomb,

flood his womb

with my angry pole.

Rape that slime                                           

more times    

than the AIDS death toll.             

His mud-          

thick blood    

trickles down bright red      

and in hell      

he will dwell      

and he’ll have many friends.

– – – – –

reagan gun

Butt Stuff

Today’s selections were featured in “Breath: An Air-Based Lit Mag” as well as “Fucktown Monthly” and “Vogue”.

– – – – –

Fourty-Nine States

Thank the stars I’m not straight

because I know

that I would have sexual assault charges

across the nation

in all fourty-eight states

and also Alaska

but not Hawaii

because I’ve never been

but if I went there

and I was straight

no hula girls would be safe

I’m not talking rape

Just creepy come-on’s

“Wanna get lei’d?”

– – – – –

A Goose Rhyme

The poor little goosling

feathered and loud

ran beak first at life

full speed and proud.

He fell forward hard

and cracked his young beak

The surgery will cost

a thousand a week.

And until he can pay

his bills to the doc

it’s bureaucratic hell

and sucking rich cock.

Now he dies with each step

to his benefactor’s castle

to beg for a job

as a butler or vassal.

But the story ends nicely

for our little goose friend

cuz he hitchhiked to Canada

where there’s universal healthcare you god damned fucking morons.

– – – – –

Butt Stuff






– – – – –


Marsha Marsha Marsha

These selections were featured in “The Contemplative Carrot Quarterly” as well as “Pizza Bagel Magazine” and “GQ”.

– – – – –

Date Thoughts

I’ll have the branzino (I hope she likes fish)

and your finest bottle of pinot (I hope she likes wine)

What are your specials? (I hope she’s special)

Sounds good but I’ll stick with the branzino (but not like retarded special)

and some more bread, please (Do I smell? Can she smell me?)

So what do you do for fun? (I really should have showered before this)

Ah, and do you make the candles yourself or just sell them? (just didn’t have time)

Well I would buy your candles for sure (can’t tell her about my hobbies, gotta lie)

I fuck raccoon snouts I was just doing it earlier I forgot to shower which is why I smell I do it all the time and yes they’re living coons I don’t fuck dead snouts that’s unsanitary I’m aware of the health hazards but it makes me happy and my friends tell me I gotta let loose so I’m trying to do that I’d love to make you watch sometime but I could only get hard if it was against your will so I hope you’re cool with that we could do it tonight after dinner I know a good dumpster where the coons hang and we could see if I could wrangle one I’ll hold you by the hair while I hump it’s stupid snot tunnel and shoot my viscous load down it’s rodent sinuses and gunk it up hey why don’t we just skip the dinner and go do this right now I’m all excited I can’t wait for you to meet my roommates (oh darn, the truth slipped out)

– – – – –

I Am A Toilet And This Is My Song

I am a toilet and I like my hot treats

Burble every morning while he sits on my seat

When my boy drops his stuff, man, it just can’t be beat

I wonder what he ate, it’s probably meat

Whatever, could be cheddar, as long as it’s sweet

On a Mexican night, I know he’s bringing the heat

I love to be a toilet, man, it’s so dang neat

– – – – –

An Actress, A Prison

My conjugal visit with Marsha didn’t go as planned

She stared at me blankly

I could sense her seething

We only had a half hour

so I started to take my pants off

She shut her eyes in disdain

I pleaded

she was silent

“Marsha Marsha Marsha!”

That used to cheer her up

Like I was Jan Brady

but she didn’t blink this time

She slid me a letter

it read, “I’m not Marsha”

I looked up and asked, “Judy?”

She slid me another letter

it read, “Nope, not Judy either.”

I scratched my head and then it came to me

“You’re Anne Heche.”

She slid me a final letter


“Where’s Marsha?”

“I’m playing Marsha.”

So that’s where she’s been.

“Wanna fuck?” I asked.

We fucked

The whole time she kept repeating,

“It’s all for research, it’s all for research”

She let me cum in her

The baby’s due in April

she’s naming it “Research”

– – – – –

Anne Heche



I will cruise through Beverly Hills like a hillbilly hijacking a hearse

shooting snot through a booger cannon,

a mucus drive-by,

blasting “The Beautiful People” by Marilyn Manson

wearing water wings and blackface.

I will smear the makeup off my face and into the blonde hair

of the ladies walking their bulldogs and their burberry bags.

I will scream like I’m on fire

and everything around me is also on fire

and all I can do is scream

and hope that somewhere,

water becomes sentient and capable of listening.

I will uglify this place

so that finally

the outsides look like their insides.

I will kiss the police when they arrest me,

grope their whose-it-what’s-its,

stick my tongue between two fingers and drool

bend over and hope they’re as horny as they are sadistic.

I will fling my shit like a chimp in the jailhouse,

plop it on the booker’s keyboard,

laugh like a toddler catching his breath.

I will speak eloquently at my trial,

wear a suit and tie,

squeeze chemicals in my hair,

whiten my teeth and sit upright

so they all know that I intended what I have done,

that the “Booger Bomber of Beverly Hills” is no psycho

but just a boy on the brink of banality

desperate for clarity through insanity

begging to be boxed away.

I will read like hell in the slammer,

Dickens, Dickinson, Dick Tracy.

I will fill my head with law knowledge

better than a Stanford grad,

become dangerous with words and persuasion,

discover loopholes and oversights,

crevasses and clerical errors.

I will dazzle my parole board,

make em laugh, make em cry

make em joke about hiring me at the clerk’s office!

I will be set free and immediately get my law degree.

I will be hired by billionaires to sue the little guy for slander.

I will win for them,

toast scotch in the executive lounge with the big boys,

get sloshed beyond reason and start to cry,

bawl my fucking eyes out

because what a fucking sell out

and the big boys will be baffled and slink away slowly

but I’ll sneak up behind my client on the walk from the bar to the escalade

and wring his bratty neck until blue and bruised

and as I stare at his empty eyes on the pavement

I will shoot a snot rocket into his mouth,

onto his rolex and pinstripes and comb-over.

I will live on the lam

hopping from freight train to freight train,

hitchhiking from city to city,

terrorizing CEO’s and poodle-women,

falsely tan rich kids and young execs.

I will be cornered by the cops in Columbus.

I will get gunned down in gaudy glory.

I will perish.



justice and history will be forged:

I’ll be talked about on blogs.