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”.

– – – – –

Diagnosis

I have depression

anxiety

sex addiction

trichotillomania

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

candy

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

Imagine

every sock you’ve ever cum in

wants to kill you

so you

stop

buying

socks

but then it’s like

fuck,

your feet,

they’re so cold

so you consider going to the sock store

AGAIN

and even the thought

is just so

DAUNTING

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,

“Hey

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

because

they

are just

socks.

– – – – –

Cheers

fuck your fuckin cummy

tits

leaking runny eggs

under water

on fire

naked

sobbing

sucking off

George Wendt

and

fuck it,

the entire cast of Cheers

while your asshole

blossoms outward

oozing juices

red

and brown

and your dog

laps it all up

while you piss on the floor

and drool down your

neck

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?

– – – – –

Norm


Butt Stuff

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

– – – – –

Peek-a-boo

Goo

goo

gah

gah.

Welcome

to

the

Baby Spa.

The staff is comprised of

babies.

The clientele are all

Japanese businessmen.

We’ve got

manners.

We’ve got

nanners.

– – – – –

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

Touch

my

butt

and/or

bust.

– – – – –

C9708


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

“Bingo.”

“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


The Burn

Today’s selections were featured in “Farm Sauce: an anthology”, “The Glib Warlock Monthly”, and “Home and Garden”.

– – – – –

Rinse Cycle, 2015

Artists filter

bad experiences

through their creative lens

to make life more bearable

which is why

I put your cat in the washing machine

because that cat

was a bad experience for me

and the washing machine,

ahem,

was my canvas,

which killed

your fucking shit-town of a carpet beast

and made you cry

and so

life, more bearable.

– – – – –

Please

DON’T

come

to

my

one man show.

The

lead

dropped

out.

– – – – –

The Burn

“My cunt is on fire”

She read to the class from her diary

“OUCH HOSE ME DOWN”

A woman alone

hungrily clawing to be saved

screeching her personal laundry out at her students

How does one get to this point?

How does a person reach such inner hell

and frigid loneliness

to literally cry out for help

in the form of a fireman dousing her vagina in hose-water story?

but a better question would be,

why don’t they screen for origami teachers better?

– – – – –

painting-cat


Not My Presidential Suite

These next poems (poems) were featured in “The Chartreuse Aunt” as well as “Crease Magazine” and “The Washington Post”.

– – – – –

Easy

If you buy me a drink

I’ll fuck you

If you say ‘hello’

I’ll fuck you

If you glance in my direction

I’ll fuck you

If you tell me you love me

I lost my phone

– – – – –

Not My Presidential Suite

I wanted the honeymoon suite

Yes, just for me

I like having a lot of space

for my birds

and my potato sculptures.

Yes, I travel with them

they are my light and joy.

I didn’t ask for this.

Not what I wanted.

Also Bush did 9/11

– – – – –

ESL

Repeat after me, class,

My horse-dad came on my baguette.

These clams have married my niece.

Leonard exploded and now I have all this cream.

I’ve lost all my pasta to Michelle and her grandma-husband, Phillip.

Please remove your pelican blog from my gong bath.

Steal nine grapes!

The mustard prince shares a Volvo.

Tell Brian to force lemons on the injured large boy.

– – – – –

presidential-suite1


I Poemed

These tiny word turdlets AKA “poems” were featured in “The Brownstone Bustier Quarterly” as well as “Old Wooden Spoon Monthly” and “Cat Fancy”.

– – – – –

Deep Down

If someone hurts you

makes you feel wrong

makes you feel alien

if they bully you

call you names

make you feel small

just remember

always remember

that deep down inside

of the farthest left cabinet in my bedroom

is where I keep the crossbow.

– – – – –

Every Life is a Miracle

I found a baby

Does anyone want it?

Yeah me neither

– – – – –

Steven’s Pissed About It

Claude is the name of a Frenchman or a hermit crab

that’s it.

There are no other kinds of Claudes.

There are tons of Stevens

but only two Claudes

and that’s why we gave Claude the prize for best name, Steven.

He’s suffered enough.

It doesn’t matter if “Steven” is objectively better as a name.

Claude doesn’t have anything

can’t you let him have this?

Christ, it’s a “Best Name Contest”

This doesn’t even matter.

Fine

go berate the judges, Steven

I’m sure that’ll help your case

I mean honestly it’s all political

If I had my druthers

I agree

Steven is a better name.

Sorry dude

Claude’s just a cooler guy

and yeah

I know

it’s not a “Cool Guy Contest”

it’s a “Best Name Contest”

but dude

– – – – –

pie on a windowsill