Saturday, June 1, 2013

Curmudgeon Armageddon:The New Notes of a Dirty Old Man in the Body of a Young One

Unseasonable May heat permeates the apartment, 
traces of light breeze tease relief while my woman sleeps. 
She's dead tired, dead to the world, and the oppressive warmth 
outside keeps me up. Laying in bed, trying to close my eyes 
while my body aches, but the mind races formula-1 swift. 

Most males who've gone through puberty 
and have some hair on their chest 
will tell you what the holistic alternative 
to Ambien is-- bating, jerking, jacking. Off, 
I gently shuffle out of bed and into the den. 
Not of inequity but my living room 
and what some call the rumpus room, 
which is a bawdy expression if there ever was one. 

The 'Net is logged onto and logged into is a site 
where women pay for college or a mortgage by stripping 
and baiting, jerking, jacking in the comfort and sovereign safety 
of their own rooms. Watching for free, lurking as the cyber-voyeur, 
I spy a Canuck of indigenous decent squirming around 
in a wet v-neck in the bath. After about 15 minutes, she gets out 
and lubricates her body with lotion and at that point, it's on. 
Her somewhat almond eyes are that of a female deer's, hair 
black like a raven's feathers, and her flesh is the color of buckskin. 

Am I eroticizing her? What else would I be doing at a moment like this? 

She places the white cream in cleverly chosen erogenous zones 
and massages it in until it becomes a part of her. With each of her kneads, 
my needs are being met, The imagined wetness and moisture propel 
my self-strangulation. My pace is that of a jockey's steed's gallup 
as it nears the finish line in the lead and just as the win is imminent, 
a student emails me at a quarter 'til 2 in the morning
and the notification flashes on my screen not ignorable 
and at what should be the blissful instant of release, their face is all I see. 
Finished and slightly disgusted, cleanup happens and this is written. 

Talk about anti-climactic.

Sunday, May 26, 2013


Cold and I'm nothing 

while the dragon lady rips

my flesh with her kerosene touch,

which forms the fire right next to me

and ignites my molotov sacred heart.

Lobbed like a grenade, war's hot

potato. Cold burns stronger than flames.

Cold as the vacant part of our bed,

emptiness is evanescence, disappearance,

and disintegration. Cold when I can't see

outside my head. Cold and the violence

cannot set me free. Cold and coming home

with marshmallow smiles, saccharine tar

affixes my facial expression

forever Joker-esque

while I can't seem to hide

from what makes the most sense.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

No Carbs for Old Men

Hunger, a burning legion of desire, 
amasses in my belly as it cries out 
for satiation. Denial 
is easier when it is of the truth 
and not of a biological need.
What's at stake? Mmmmm…
Steak. No, no. Think of health,
your health and survival. Fat,
slaughtered cow meat thinly 
sliced and exquisite then slathered
with horseradish atop a bun. Wheat
cracked and delicious, slightly sweet
like honey. Oh, my kingdom
for a sandwich! Look down though,
peep your gut as it sways pendulous,
a wrecking ball in a hurricane conjured
out of self-loathing and good ol' 'Merican
body dysmorphia. Losing weight, awaiting
a confirmation that we're all pretty.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

New Year's

Drunk off wine and life,
we shovel ceviche
by the half-pound down
our throats, tortilla
chips like earth movers
tiling tart lime juice
drenched bits of snapper,
onions, tomatoes,
serrano chilis,
and avocado
into our waiting
bellies of hunger.

Surrounded, friendly
faces contorted
and laughter stricken
dole out anecdotes
met with choruses
of thrumming laughter,
mostly playful gibes,
and ad hominem
terms of endearment,
but these sweet nothings
mean more instantly 
than dearer buddies.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Roll with It

Never tell anyone that you're
gonna do anything to really
give them any power over
you as they'll never let
up until you're dusted.

Never be the one who's
gonna roll over and just
let them do whatever
you wouldn't want
down the road.

Never trust those who're
gonna whore and run,
run with hair afire
around a bastille heart
and glide to forever,
desert everyone on islands
you can't hide transparency 

Never be the one,
gonna run,
make it up,
you, cravenly
cry, tumultuous. 

Never harken,
gonna carve up,
say all you can,
goodbye times five.

Never call out,
gonna run,
tell us if
a jumper can
lie inconsiderately
and calculate all heavy
hurt that deafens all around
you, angels of mercy, you. 

Tuesday, October 23, 2012


Liar screams face in mirror,
hand around own self's throat,
tight like rope burns,
throttle harder
for the love
of God,


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