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.
These selections were featured in “Catch a Rising Fart”, “The Loud Grizzum Quarterly”, and “Entertainment Weekly”.
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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.
– – – – –
I’m the bolshevik
– – – – –
Reagan, my fuck puppet
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
than the AIDS death toll.
trickles down bright red
and in hell
he will dwell
and he’ll have many friends.
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Today’s selections were featured in “Breath: An Air-Based Lit Mag” as well as “Fucktown Monthly” and “Vogue”.
– – – – –
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.
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When I saw my ex-boyfriend had posted a picture to instagram of himself and his new boyfriend smiling at a worksite with Habitat for Humanity helmets on, a few thoughts came across my mind.
Wow. Good for you guys. Giving something back to the community. Altruism is alive and well. And documented. On an app. No good deed is ever justified until shared with everyone you know. So thanks for showing us all how helpful you are! Very inspiring.
Wow. I should tell them about that time that I held the door open for that large Hispanic family. It was like a darn clown car, so many kids my arm started to get tired! But the appreciative look on that single Latina woman’s face was all I needed as compensation for almost injuring my arm. I guess I could have taken a selfie of that moment but… I guess it just never crossed my mind. Personally I never even thought to tell everyone about my mitzvahs, I just do them and reap a smile as reward. Like the time I held the door open for that old Asian man. Maybe I should share that with them as a fellow philanthropist. Oh bah! They probably wouldn’t want to hear from me. I’m “the ex”. And I don’t have a new boyfriend to take cloyingly charitable photos with in abandoned buildings filled with dirt. I guess I’ll just keep doing these deeds unnoticed. I don’t personally live for the “likes” but of course, to each his own.
Wow. It’s so noble that they’re willing to get down in the mud and really get their hands photographed. But that must be taking a toll on their actual career-paths. You can’t make experimental music videos featuring candles and spoons AND save the world. It’s such a shame because I’m sure they have so much to offer.
Wow! You know what? I think that one day in the next two to three years when my sold-out play, “The Boy Who Could Only Give” wins an Obie, I’ll mention them in my acceptance speech. Or more realistically I’ll mention them in my post awards show interview. My speech is a little jam-packed already with all of the sherpas I need to thank. Then of course I’ll speak on my journey that took my quest to the voyage I’m currently embarking within, and then I’ll need to thank my partner Raoul (stop taking your shirt off you silly goose! We get it! You’re a 10!) and finally I’ll need to thank my parents and God/Buddha/Vishnu/Abraham/Gandhi/Mother Theresa/Oprah.
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These selections were featured in “The Contemplative Carrot Quarterly” as well as “Pizza Bagel Magazine” and “GQ”.
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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)
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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
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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
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
“I’m playing Marsha.”
So that’s where she’s been.
“Wanna fuck?” I asked.
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”
– – – – –
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.