Will Respond Honestly

In selfish disillusionment
I set adrift into the black and white text
of empty arms.
SWF seeking who?
Honest? Sometimes.
Overweight? All the time.
I take long walks to the fridge
and hike through my disaster of a room.
I drink through sunsets
and my idea of breakfast-in-bed is the
leftover pizza I passed out on.

Strong, reliable, and independent?
How 'bout stocky, affordable, and co-dependant?

I’m a mess of a man
avid drinker and smoker
a bad quitter.
I’d tell you to forget about me
but you would before I finished
and this is not a race.

Tales of the Vu (revisited)

I used to dream that night was just
a reason for God to hide his face
and cry for me
just as I hide behind the doors of a
Gentlemen’s Club
gathering with those righteous enough
to lend a self-employed ear.

I know they don’t give a shit
but I figure it’s only fair
that I be naked too.

I used to dream that drinking
gave me a reason to believe
but now know
that believing gives me a reason to drink
and even a bottomless glass
could not quench my thirst.

I used to dream
that love was infinite
sex was forgiveness
clocks were evil
and that all dogs bite.
I dreamt that everything outside of my vision
ceased to exist
my eyes as headlights through the dark night
that is my predestined future.



I don’t dream anymore.

Dogs still bite
clocks still stop
and God still cries at night
as I do
in the midst of a free topless table dance.

Tales of the Vu

Eleven dollars and unlimited refills later
I find myself chatting up a stripper
putting herself through college.
An art major.
She said her favorite painter was Turner.

She fondled my head
to put her nipple in my mouth
as I reclined on the couch
melting into her purrs and growls.

The VIP room made me feel macho.

She gyrated and grinded
told me she liked the band Tool.
I sat there with my eyes closed
kissing her thigh as it brushed my lips.
I paid for two dances but
stopped her before the second.

“Let’s just chat.”

We talked about life and art.
She asked to sketch me
I said okay.
She grabbed a pen
flipped over a flyer
I posed.

She drew passionately.
Her fiery red hair tossed
each time she glanced to soak me in
burn me onto the paper.
The most piercing eyes.
A goofy smile.
She was intense
unfazed by the flashing lights
or skimpy bathing suit.
When she finished she signed it
Ruby ‘99
and gave me another couch dance.

She told me I smelled great
was cuddly
had a wonderful demeanor
all while nibbling my ear.

I returned to the showroom
as she took the stage.
Smoking my cigarette
staring casually as
she glided up and down the pole.
I envisioned us living in a studio in Soho.
Sunday morning
Jewel playing in the background.

I watched as patron after patron
put dollar bills into her panties with their mouths.
I felt like I had something they didn’t.
A glimpse into her world.

Either way I had her art
my face as seen by her soul,
the soul of a twenty-two year old stripper
that captured my attention,
my face,
and a page in the book of me
which was getting very dusty.

Hell is a Broken Ferris Wheel with Me on Top

Life is a cruel joke
I'm still sporting stitches from the last punch line.
Wrestling myself away from reality
to find deeper meaning in my television
or truth at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Each time I review my life
my mainframe crashes
rebooting to the same old me.

By the time I find my place
I have already drank the spirits
inhaled the earth
and regurgitated the same old song
passed out in the closet
in the arms of a skeleton.

Melvin’s Hell

After having my pancreas removed by blessed hands
and no incision
I quit smoking
and moved in with Melvin
a duck-billed platypus and eager playwright
who wielded abrasive eyebrows
and an extensive knowledge of reflexology.

Between three jobs
I stole from the rich
to pay the poor tax.
Melvin was always playing this
ridiculous puzzle game on the internet.

My only escape was
driving old Highway 61
listening to folk-grass
while clouds tossed rain on me.

“Better days are coming,” Melvin said.

His voice alone helped me understand
why women love older men.

Melvin was forty-three and fair looking
but had trouble finding dates
or even scoring phone numbers.
I’ve dated the best women in the world
and found ways to make them leave me within six months.

Naturally, everyone thought we were gay.

Gin and Cheesy Puffs

Earlier I went to the store
got some gin and juice,
cheesy puffs and a Snickers bar.
Now home drunk,
I stare down the passing cars from my window
assassinating with my gaze
all who dare veer from their lane.
The cheesy things are sticking to my back teeth
but the gin is Bombay Sapphire
so it gives the cheese a subtle edge.
The juice tastes like shit.

I peel a callous off my palm and dream of being the perfect
Christ-like savior.
Swaying through crowds at the local mall
doing poetry slams throughout southwest Michigan.

I wonder if I would save everyone
or just the beautiful women at the bar?
When I talk to God
should I use a cell phone?
If people see me talking to myself they might not
think I’m actually a demigod or whatever.
Could I still drink gin on a warm night in Otsu, Japan?
Would I have to give my sermons sober?
I don’t think the Pope could carry me from the pew.
Either way, I’d eat cheesy puffs on Good Friday.
Do I need to be circumcised?
I’m sure I know a good doctor.
The Snickers bar sounds good right now.
I wouldn’t want an amazing Technicolor coat or anything
just a warm vest or windbreaker.

Would I still be able to baptize a woman
with my holy tongue?
Would I ever hear the echoes of orgasm
grace my ear in shallow breaths?
If she screamed, “God, fuck me!” would it be sacrilegious?
Would I still be worshiped?
Would my confessions slit my wrist or make me a saint?
What if I stopped believing in myself?
Would people finally know that I’m a lost soul
disguised as a soldier of their Lord?

I’m out of cheesy puffs.
Even if I could drink more I’d still consider myself lost
and even if I had more cheesy puffs
I could never be the son of the Lord
because I am obese and
the alcohol compromises my ability
to make judgments on everyone’s souls.
So I’ll finish my Snickers bar and
wait for the real second coming.

Bus Stop

There is a bus stop
at the corner of love and lust
and I have been waiting forever
sitting atop the bench
under the rain
next to your shadow
holding the umbrella of fear above us.

All Day Long

This brings me back to
your grey knit sweater
sit on the hardwood floor of the apartment
clean and open, simple.
I thought of you
all day long
times when you were an artist.
I loved you
you loved being an artist
and I loved loving you.
Trite problems for true times
with no motivation.