BIG POPPA E
GREATEST
MISSES
MORE STUFF TO READ
OUT LOUD
sanctum sanctorum productions
austin • seattle • chico • wichita • bakersfield
big poppa e + greatest misses = more stuff to read out loud
copyright 2008, eirik ott • ISBN 000-0-0000-0000-0
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the following poems
have been previously published
in the following chapbooks:
the wussy boy manifesto (2002)
frat boy, worm boy, party boy, the miracle corner pocket luck shot,
minuet, sexuality, routine, doug cale and the closet king.
missing (2002)
booji boy, dreams, equalizer, wilson road, the butt triplets.
exploding heart (2002)
map of your body, moonlight through mini-blinds, wendy, ourobouros,
ode to a plaster casting, her smile like knives, rats in the ivy, death to romance,
aspartame, appliance envy, wired, echo, the girl on the bus, sorrow,
the endless pursuit of happiness #1,2,3.
big poppa e’s magic poetry (2003)
cellophane, i miss you, albuquerque penance, austin penance,
sushi penance, wendy’s penance, war penance, road penance,
how i escaped my shitty little town, temp hell.
come destroy me (2005, 2007)
michael6, scars, i want to hold you, cats, dead horses,
disillusion curry, lord of the breakfast club #1,2.
the following poems appear here for the first time:
add it up, catching the bus, ma’amed, microwave, seesaw, x-rated haiku.
this collection is dedicated to:
every kid who’s ever slammed poetry
or competed in a speech tournament
or simply written their own words
in a tattered notebook for only themselves to see
my family
richard and sandi and sabrina
for putting up with my nonsense for so long
my kitties aretha and thelonious
for being the most stable force in my life
marc smith
the father of poetry slamming
shannon leigh
who left this world too soon
the genius of richard pryor
jenny holzer
barbara kruger
henry rollins
etheridge knight
david sedaris
and spaulding grey
everyone who’s let me sleep on their couch,
especially annie la ganga and william cotter
for the use of their magical red couch
stephanie and jamie
my friends
zara
my best friend
my habibi
my left arm
intro
if you are reading this right now, then one of the two following
situations must be true:
1] you are reading this introduction on a computer connected
to the internets or as a PDF file which you downloaded from the
internets, which means you are probably checking out a sample of
this book, which means you probably have not actually purchased
this book, but perhaps you are considering it, in which case i
think you should just go ahead and order a copy because even
if it sucks — and i really don’t think it does, otherwise i wouldn’t
have dedicated so much of my life to producing the works within
— anyway, what i was saying was you should just go ahead and buy
it because doing so supports an independent writer who operates
outside of the traditional publishing labyrinth and is trying to
keep it not only real but really real, and you should support that
because there is always talk of supporting the arts, but how often
do we actually go out and buy something directly from an artist, i
mean really, so now is your chance to not only support an artist but
also the very idea of d.i.y. art in this country;
2] you are holding an actual hard copy of my book in your
hand, with its glossy cover and perfect spine, with its UPC barcode
and its ISBN number, and that is really awesome to think about
because i made this whole book by myself on my computer
— meaning i not only wrote every word within its pages, but i also
designed how each page looks and also the cover, which i think
looks really nice, especially since i don’t know what i’m doing...
ever... — and now it’s somehow gotten into your hands, and how
cool is that, which means you either purchased my book from an
internet site and had it delivered to you via us mail (in which case
thank you!) or you bought this book directly from me at a live
reading of my stuff (in which case i hope you had a good time and
please know that i use my book sale money to eat while on tour,
so you are actually feeding a poet with this purchase) or you are
borrowing this book from a friend (which is cool, but if you find
yourself reading the whole thing, then you really should get your
own copy so you don’t have to keep borrowing this book from the
person who owns it or, even worse, steal it) or maybe you received
this book as a gift from someone (in which case you should let
them know that i thank them profusely for helping spread my
words beyond the reach of my fingertips) or maybe you have
actually found this book on the shelf of a real live bookstore or
even a library, and if that’s true, then holy shit, how’d that happen?
irregardless of how you got here, welcome to my new
collection of stuff to read out loud! i hope you get as much out of it
as i did putting it together.
and yes, i know irregardless is not a real word, but that’s not
going to stop me from using it, because i think it’s funny when
people get all worked up about it, the freelance correctors of
grammar, the mercenary pointers-out of linguistic mistakes, the
self-proclaimed arbiters of what is and is not proper english. they
need so very desperately to let you know the right way to do this
or that, and they need you to know that they know the correct way,
these scrabble dorks, these failed MFA students, these kibbitzers.
how do they think languages evolve? people who actually use the
language and play with the language force changes in the rules of
that language, and that’s called progress, so either ease up on your
strict definitions of right and wrong or get the fuck out of our way.
go fuck with latin. that shit never changes. fuck with ancient greek.
fuck with esperanto. tell lewis caroll chortle ain’t a word, asshole.
ahem.
as i was saying, while i appreciate proper english and
endeavour to use it correctly to make myself understood, i still
kinda sorta don’t sweat it. if you understand me, cool, don’t bother
me with the petty details. i know i’m sloppy. sue me. if my words
don’t make sense, then let me know so i can clarify.
know this: every single word in this book is exactly where i
want it to be, irregardless of rules and regulations and conventions
and whatever other crap i don’t care all that much about.
about which i don’t care.
whatevs.
are you still reading? are you comfortable? would you like a
mint? are you sitting in a comfy chair or leaning against a counter
or relaxing in a cafe or sitting cross-legged on the floor of a funky
bookstore (oh god, i hope so, because that would be so cool if you
found this book in an actual bookstore... am i famous yet?) or are
you perhaps reading this years in the future long after this world
has erased itself of my footie prints? i wish i knew. you should write
me and tell me. as long as there is something called email, i will
keep my address active, so you should float me a quick note to
poetryslam at yahoo dot com. no matter what course my life takes,
i’ll keep that email for as long as i can. tell me how you discovered
my words. it would tickle me to hear from you.
if you are reading this in the future... i mean... WAY in the
future, because obviously you’re not standing behind me looking
over my shoulder as i write this on my battered ibook, smelling
the melting peanut butter slathered on my cinnamon raisin bagel
and the hot soy chai very hot no foam in a to-go cup and listening
to the SHHHH of barrista wands and the tinkling techno jazz on
the coffeehouse stereo system (or ARE you?... wait... okay, you’re
not... whew...). of course, if you read these words at all, it must
be sometime in the future, whether it’s years or months from now
or simply the next day on my livejournal... but, anyway, if you are
reading this so far in the future that i’m... like... no longer among
the living — and i hate thinking about that sort of thing, which
means i think about that sort of thing all the time every hour of
every day — anyway, yeah, if i’m dead as you read this, then know
i was so very alive once, so pink and alive and smiling, so sad and
alone and lonely, so very alive at one time, just like you, and these
words danced from my tongue in front of live audiences all over
the place before they ever graced besmirched scarred these pages.
is there still an internet? is it totally awesome? can you
download whole movies in mere seconds? is music free? do you
remember nine inch nails? i loved them so much!
if there is an internet and you suspect i am dead — just subtract
1967 from whatever year it is now, and it you get a number larger
than, say, 70, then yeah... i’m probably not here right now... that
would mean... what? 2037? — then search for my grave, yeah? go
visit it and bring this book. sit six feet above my decaying body
and read from this book aloud. read your favourite piece. read
the butt triplets for me, because that’s my favourite thing in
here. i especially love the last sentence in that story. a creative
writing professor once told me she hated that last line, that it was
unnecessary, that i should lop it off like i would a tuft of crooked
hair sticking from an otherwise functional haircut, but i refused.
i sorta think that last line is the payoff to the whole story. so fuck it,
it stays. anyway, read it to me. read me the whole thing.
and then just kinda sit there for a while and miss me.
(god, i don’t want to die. it scares me so very much.)
i put this book together as a companion to my first collection
of work, big poppa e’s greatest hits. it’s really good. if you don’t
have it, you should get it. now. i can wait...
the greatest hits focused on the road-tested performancey
slammy kinda poetry i had been using since i first hit the spoken
word highway back in 1996, back when coffeehouses and open
mics ruled my life, when memories of kurt cobain were still fresh
and the first touring lilith fair was only a year away from making
the airwaves safe for women singers again, at least for a little while.
remember limp biskit? i hope you have no idea what i’m talking
about. just take my word for it... you are better off not knowing.
i wanted that first book to be something high school students
and teachers could take anywhere they wanted without risk of
being suspended or fired because of foul language or inappropriate
themes, so i picked the poems that either had nothing foul in them
(some of them) or i edited out the foulness and replaced so-called
bad words with allegedly good words (most of them.) i was fairly
happy with the results, and if i showed up to a reading somewhere
with nothing but big poppa e’s greatest hits under my arm, then i
could throw a kick ass good time.
but there was so much stuff missing from that book that
was still worthy of sharing, poems that were either too short to
qualify as performance pieces or too long to hold an audience’s
attention the whole way through, poems where the curse words
or inappropriate themes were so intrinsic to the piece that editing
them out would destroy the poems, and some poems that were
just not really all that good to be honest but that still held a special
place in my tummy for whatever personal reason. that’s what this
book is all about, the stuff missing from the first collection.
i didn’t edit any curses out, which means some of this crap may
not be appropriate for all occasions, so share it sparingly in school
or work situations, if at all. make this book the secret you pass from
backpack to backpack when the teacher’s not looking, the one you
tuck between the mattresses, the one you read to a friend giggling
over the phone because they totally have to hear wormboy right
this very second because it’s so foul and nasty that you are totally
reading it at the very next poetry reading.
and wouldn’t that be fun?
table of contents
cellophane ................................................................................................... 1
frat boy ........................................................................................................ 3
booji boy ..................................................................................................... 6
party boy ..................................................................................................... 8
fly boy ........................................................................................................ 10
worm boy .................................................................................................. 13
dead horses ............................................................................................... 15
take another drink..................................................................................... 17
lincoln logs and rabid dogs ....................................................................... 19
add it up .................................................................................................... 20
cats ............................................................................................................ 23
rats in the ivy ............................................................................................. 25
scars ........................................................................................................... 29
wired ......................................................................................................... 32
the endless pursuit of happiness #1 ........................................................ 35
the endless pursuit of happiness #2 ........................................................ 37
the endless pursuit of happiness #3 ........................................................ 38
ma’amed .................................................................................................... 40
the miracle corner pocket luck shot ......................................................... 42
minuet ....................................................................................................... 44
sexuality .................................................................................................... 45
routine....................................................................................................... 46
dreams ....................................................................................................... 47
equalizer .................................................................................................... 48
wilson road ............................................................................................... 49
disillusion curry ........................................................................................ 50
moonlight through mini-blinds ................................................................ 51
map of your body ...................................................................................... 52
i want to hold you ..................................................................................... 54
i miss you .................................................................................................. 56
catching the bus ........................................................................................ 57
wendy ........................................................................................................ 59
store-bought flowers ................................................................................. 60
ourobouros ............................................................................................... 61
ode to a plaster casting ............................................................................. 62
her smile like knives.................................................................................. 63
table of contents, cont.
aspartame .................................................................................................. 64
appliance envy .......................................................................................... 65
death to romance ...................................................................................... 66
echo ........................................................................................................... 67
michael6 .................................................................................................... 69
the girl on the bus ..................................................................................... 73
sorrow ....................................................................................................... 76
doug, cale, and the closet king ................................................................. 78
the butt triplets ......................................................................................... 89
temp hell ................................................................................................. 105
how i escaped my shitty town (a true story) .......................................... 112
microwave ............................................................................................... 117
seesaw ..................................................................................................... 124
lord of the breakfast club #1 ................................................................. 131
lord of the breakfast club #2 ................................................................. 135
ABQ penance........................................................................................... 137
austin penance ........................................................................................ 138
sushi penance.......................................................................................... 139
wendy’s penance..................................................................................... 140
war penance ............................................................................................ 141
road penance .......................................................................................... 142
x-rated haiku ........................................................................................... 143
notes ........................................................................................................ 153
operating instructions
1] you have a job, and it is a very important job. you must free the
words confined within these pages and give them the freedom
to fill rooms using the sound of your voice as the skeleton key.
allowing these words to remain trapped in the prison of this book
would be such a shame. let them loose. let them be free-range
words. let them frolic and fornicate and make feral baby words.
2] few things would please the author more than to know these
words were performed in front of live audiences, so please do so as
often as you like. just let the listeners know whose words they are.
3] and if you do perform any of these words, please make a video
and e-mail a copy to the author. he would just be tickled pink.
cellophane (2003-2004)
i am starting my poem from the middle of the audience, with no
microphone, with no paper, with nothing but my words, rising
amongst you all... unashamed... unafraid... as if one of your very
own has suddenly be electrified to speak and is incapable of
resisting temptation.
now...
i am slowly walking around the room, causing heads to turn and
eyes to follow, focusing the attention of this room like the spokes
of a giant invisible wheel with my words at the hub. the barrers
between speaker and spoken-to have been erased. there is no
stage; all the world’s a stage! there is no microphone; all of our
mouths are microphones! there is poetry; there is only life! there
are no poets; there’s only us breaking down the barriers between
us.
now watch! as this empowers me to do things i normally would
never do, like find the most beautiful woman in this entire room,
walk towards her with my bedroom eyes a-glinting, run my fingers
through her soft, rose-scented hair, and gently place upon her
lips... a kiss.
now watch! as this woman — who normally would never allow me
to do this — allows me to do this!
now watch! as i find the biggest, baddest, meanest motherfucker in
this entire room, press my forehead to his, and offer my stare as a
challenge.
now watch! as i slowly walk away... without getting my legs
broken.... for he knows this is not just a slam poem: this is a lucid
1
we press our bodies together so tightly our ribs become tangled.
dream over which we have complete control. this is not just a
poetry slam: this is statement! this is a manifesto! this is us raising
our voices as one and telling the powers that be that we do not
need their $200 million special effects budgets! we do not need
their 60,000 watts of sound! we do not need their cable teevee,
their high-speed internet, their 3G cell phones!
at the poetry slam, we have distilled mass communication down to
its most basic elements -- a mouth; a stage; and an audience -- and
with those simple tools, we can do anything.
we can build bridges between us, or we can bring them down.
we can build skyscrapers of knowledge, or we can bring them
down. we can elect effective political leaders, or we can bring their
crooked regimes down.
we can make this guy go home and call every ex-girlfriend he’s ever
had and leave two words on their answering machine: “i’m sorry.”
we can make this girl go home tonight and call every ex-boyfriend
who’s ever treated her like shit and leave two words on their
answering machine: “fuck you! i am better off without you!”
and we can make this woman go home after this show and write
things in her journal she never thought she’d have the courage to
write before this night.
you see, this is not just some kind of game we are playing: this is
real; this is true; this is life; this is comparing notes on the human
experience to confirm that we exist.
you are no longer sitting in a smoky bar watching a poetry slam,
no... you are all cradled in the hearts and minds of poets. you are
amongst friends. you are surrounded by family. you are safe. you
are one of us.
and this is our motto: slamito ergo sum... i slam, therefore i am.
2
every time i try to write a haiku for my lover, i write, mmmmmmmmmmm.
frat boy poetry
or He Loves His Girlfriend’s Thesaurus (1999)
Baby,
listen to me.
I like you...
a lot.
As a matter of fact,
I admire you.
I adore you.
I am gratified by,
keen on,
partial to,
pleased by,
sweet on,
and delight in
and derive pleasure from
you.
I care for you.
I cherish you.
Baby, I dig you.
I fancy you.
I get a kick out of you.
I go for you.
I hanker for you.
I hunger for you.
I yearn for you.
I prize you,
revel in you,
savor you,
relish,
deify,
glorify,
idolize and treasure you.
I worship the ground you walk on,
3
electricity arcs in tendrils between our tesla-coiled bodies.
sing praise to the phone you talk on,
shout hosannahs to the blackboard you chalk on,
because you’re a starring role, not a walk on.
I am captivated and fascinated by you,
enraptured and enchanted by you.
I care for you.
I delight in you.
I hold you dear.
I hold you high.
I put you on a pedestal.
Baby,
I think the world of you,
would do anything for you,
would walk 500 miles for you,
then would walk 500 more for you,
just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles for you.
Baby,
I
love
you.
Now,
come on over here...
that’s right.
You know I love you, Baby.
Don’t you, Baby?
Why don’t you come on over here
and let’s get a little something something going on,
you know what I’m saying,
let’s try a little tenderness.
Let’s get naked.
Let’s breed, Baby, let’s mate.
I’m talking about having relations,
excitations,
stimulation,
erection,
4
a tear weighs less than a raindrop, yet an ocean of tears can crush you.
lubrication,
penetration,
fornication,
copulation,
conjugation,
orgasmatration,
ejaculation,
jubilation!
I’m talking about
smoking rubber hammer head shark
wide-bore piston jack rabbit love, Baby!
I wanna knock boots with you,
square the circle with you,
become the beast with two backs,
plow the fields of love
with the scrotum tractor,
get down,
get funky,
and get back up and do it again with you.
Let’s get nasty, Baby.
Let’s get stinky, Baby.
Let’s get to know each other in the biblical way, Baby.
Let’s practice making a baby, Baby.
Quit that grinning and drop that linen and
fuck me ‘till the cows come home, Baby!
What?
Where you going?
Wait a minute... what’s wrong, Baby, what’d I say?
Come on back, Baby, it’s all good, we can...
I don’t know...
cuddle, caress, touch, fondle,
Bitch!
Page me...
5
this road trails behind black asphault spine connecting your brain stem to mine.
booji boy (2001)
i see you, militant white poet x, be-bopping and cock-rocking to
co-opted hip-hip rhythms, busting out bumper sticker diatribes to
pre-packaged beatbox beats.
you’ve got your lee press-on dreads on your pointy head and your
free mumia iron-on patch on the back flap of your $100 jansport
backpack, your $125 nike sneakers, your cell phone humming from
the hip pocket of your tommy hilfiger hip huggers, and your $35
hot topic t-shirt with “consumerism sucks” across the chest.
and you’re pointing your straight, white, middle class, american
male finger as you sneer, “FUCK the bourgeois... man!”
and then you beatbox.
and then you freestyle.
and then you beatbox.
and then you raise your fist defiantly in a militant salute, just like
that poster of malcom x you bought in the mall and hung on your
dorm room wall.
and then you leave.
and i can’t help wanting to stick my finger in your face and point
out how much easier it is to pin a “feminists kick ass” button on
your backpack than it is to actually treat women with respect and
kick misogyny’s ass face to face on a daily basis.
how much easier it is to slap a “free leonard peltier” sticker on
the bumper of your beemer than to free YOURSELF from society’s
stranglehold on the truth and fight the prison industrial complex
that holds peltier hostage.
6
sun-lazy cat on cool green grass inspires envy through office windows.
how convenience is bliss full of soundbite politricks and push
button Oprah topics — RACISM IS BAD!!! SEXISM IS BAD!!!
HOMOPHOBIA... IS REALLY BAD!!! GEORGE BUSH!!! (pause)
— self-satisfying slogans that sing you to sleep without accomplising
a single thing, except allowing you to deny your blindingly obvious
privilege from being a card-carrying member of said bourgeois.
how convenient to stage bedroom revolutions and basement coup
d’etats to fight the powers that be one rage against the machine cd
at a time, one tibetan freedom concert dvd at a time, one poetry
slam at a time. you keep talkin’ about a revolution, but your
revolution will be memorized from pop songs and ad campaign
sing-alongs and mass marketed, corporate sponsored propaganda
made to satiate and silence the activist inside you.
how much easier to spiel a self-serving, hypocritical screed posing
as poetry than to stop DENYING your privilege and start USING
your privilege to change this fucked up, straight, white, american,
patriarchal hegemony so that people who are not white and
straight and american and male can live lives free of oppression.
and i want to get in your face and deconstruct the fucked up front
you have constructed in order to prove how open-minded and
politically active and militant you are...
but i don’t, i just watch you leave the open mike, climb into your
friends benz and drive back to campus, satisfied that you have
made... a difference.
and how convenient is it for me to pick such an easy target as you
— umbilical-corded college student with shoes costing more than
would feed for a year the third world slave who sewed them for you
— how easy it is to point out your obvious shortcomings than it is
to deal with my own.
fuck the bourgeois? no boojie boy, fuck you.
and fuck me, too.
7
kitties yowl outside. sleepy lovers loll inside. screen door stands between.
party boy (1995)
Have you ever gone to a party with a friend where the only person
you knew in the whole place is that very same friend and your
friend happens to know everybody in the entire place and did you
end up glomming onto that friend, sticking to their side and just
kinda nodding and smiling at everyone your friend introduces
you to like some mute sidekick and did your friend just kinda
leave you standing there by the cheese dip so they can go off to
socially butterfly and you’re left to just pick through the chips and
lunchmeats, feeling like a real schlemiel because nobody will talk
to you and the few times you try to strike up a conversation with
some random person standing next to you they just sort of look
at you like you smell like Play-Doh® or something and did you
just find a piece of wall to lean against and watch all the people
go about their little party business while you’re drinking flat beer
from a red plastic cup and did you look at everybody and they’re
all thinner than you and they have cooler hair than you and they’re
tanner than you and taller than you and their teeth are whiter than
yours and their clothes are nicer than yours and you totally feel like
a loser because you’re doing the wallflower bit just like in 6th-grade
after your mom dropped you off at your first dance and you felt like
a real geek and did you listen in on their conversations and find
that they’re talking about totally stupid shit, like their clothes and
their hair and their tans and diets and their white fucking teeth and
did you realize that these people are just so completely shallow that
the only thing they know how to talk about is themselves and didn’t
you feel so above these people and superior that you can talk about
something of more substance than the brand of hair conditioner
you’re using but then didn’t you also feel so totally beneath all
these people because you will never look or be anything like them
because they all look like they’ve got the world handed to them
like bright red delicious apples on a silver platter and you’ve always
had to work hard to get everything you’ve ever had because you
8
i want to invent god so i can thank her for inventing you.
don’t have the looks of a model or mommy and daddy’s money
fed to you by a 1,000-mile long umbilical cord and then, all of a
sudden, did you look across the room and see that one person
standing by the mantle with a red plastic cup who looks like they’re
enjoying this party about as much as you are and then they like
smile at you and you smile back and you think, “Thank God, there’s
someone here who can see through all this shit,” and maybe this
party will turn out better than you thought and then they wave to
you and you wave back to them and smile and then they call out,
“Hey, what’s up?” and you get ready to answer back but before
you do someone from behind you says, “Nothing much, what’s
up with you?” and you get pushed out of the way as some fashion
mannequin shoulders their way through the crowd to the person
by the mantle and you realize that they weren’t smiling and waving
at you at all but at some boob standing behind you and didn’t you
feel totally embarrassed and burnt and so completely over this lame
party and all the posing and posturing and that same 70’s disco CD
compilation they’ve been listening to for the past two hours and
your friend’s gone and there’s no more dip and you can’t find the
bathroom even though you’ve asked four different people and you
finally decide, “Fuck it, I’m out of here,” and you just leave without
saying a word and then you walk the long way home, sort of sad
and sort of burnt but sort of hoping you’ll happen upon some truly
cool party with truly cool, approachable people listening to really
good music and they’ll say, “Hey, come on up to the porch and
hang out with us! Wanna beer?” but there doesn’t end up being
any party and there’re no people there’s just you walking home
in the dark all by yourself and did you just let yourself into your
dark apartment and go straight to your room and put some Billie
Holliday in the CD player and maybe light some incense and get
undressed and get in bed and stare at the ceiling for a couple of
hours before you finally fall asleep?
i hate that.
9
tiny fists pound their sorrow on the tear-stained ground outside our window.
fly boy (1988)
fucking cat!
we decided
it would be in our best interest
to fly our cat
ivan.
so,
with a rented helium tank
and k-mart punching bag balloons
in hand
we traipsed to the top
of the bluffs.
quite suitable for the flying of cats.
the crowd was already there.
we
had put up flyers
all over town.
“come see ivan the flying cat,
saturday at 2:30 p.m.”
we
had this harness thing
with 4 little holes in the bottom
for 4 little cat feets
and 2 rings on the top
for tethering the balloons.
jim
held the balloons
as i blindfolded ivan.
on the end of a fishing line,
little legs dangling,
the cat flew.
10
when i want to please my love, i don’t buy flowers. i clean the kitchen.
meow.
meow.
meow.
he got pretty damned high.
if i had watched mr. wizard
more often
i could’ve predicted
what was going to happen.
helium expands at high altitudes.
POW! (meow?)
POW!POW!
POW!POW!POW!POW!
the crowd sucked
air in a collective gasp
as ivan’s
little
body
tumbled
cat-ass
over
cathead
little legs
kicking
and
clawing
11
six million places i’d rather be than at work, and they’re all with you.
down
onto the hard-packed floor
of the oil fields
with a wet, sticky
SMACK!
we
received
lots of hate mail
for that one.
it seemed a good idea
at the time.
12
shoe print. paw print. cane. shoe print. paw print. cane. leaf. leaf. autumn in concrete.
worm boy (1998)
So, I’m fingerfucking (insert name of prominant boy in the
audience who deserves to be mocked) and he’s really getting into
it and he’s moaning and groaning and grinding and my middle
finger is stretched just as deeply inside him as it can go, so far I’m
starting to feel like calling him “Elliot... (E.T. voice).” Soon my fist
is shoved so far up his ass I feel like Jim Henson with a muppet on
my hand, “Look everyone, I can wiggle my fingers and his facial
expressions change!” And something suddenly occurs to me, so I
say to him, I say, “Baby, you know what?” and he says, “(Moan),”
and I say, “If you were in some horrible farming accident and got
both your arms and both your legs chopped off, I’d still love you.
You’d be my little Worm Boy. I’d just make a special backpack so we
could go on walks together, and you could just lean your head on
my shoulders and give little chin hugs, and when we got married
I’d just put your ring on a silver chain so you could wear it around
your neck. Sure, people would stare, but fuck ‘em. I’d look ‘em
straight in the eye and say, ‘Hey, he might only be a torso, but he’s
MY torso, and I love him from the top of her head to...’ well, you
know what I’m talking about. To be honest, you’d be the perfect
boy. And if you ever gave me grief I’d just lie you on the ground
and tickle you until you shit all over yourself. And if you really
pissed me off, I’d just rent Boxing Helena for the 10th time to show
you how good you’ve really got it. Sleeping with you would be a
little weird, though, because half the time you’d end up under the
covers at the foot of the bed with the socks I’d kicked off during
the night with the cat gnawing at your ear. And when we’d go into
Tower Records, I’d have to check you and the backpack behind
the counter. But, think of all the money you’d save on clothes... all
you’d have to buy is extra large athletic socks and stretch them up
over your head like a terry cloth turtleneck. Of course, we’d have to
be really careful about the dog. That’s a big dog, and you’ve seen
how horny he gets around the furniture.” And by this time, my boy,
13
ant drags seed across hot sidewalk. business man answers his cell phone.
who I’m still fisting, has stopped moving and breathing hard and is
just looking at me with this cute little pissed off look he gets when
I say something stupid, so I say, “What?” and he says, “To be honest,
Big Poppa, if you lost even your middle finger in a freak farming
accident, I’d dump you so goddamned fast your head would spin,
and I’m not talking like spin once or twice, but you’d have to get a
job at the Barnum and Baily sideshow as Billy the Spinning Head
Wonder Boy, so shut your goddamn cake hole and fuck me right
because I’ve got to be at work in 25 minutes!” So, I say, “Okay.”
14
fat laughing buddhas with huge flapping earlobes dance slowly down my cheeks.
dead horses (2005)
i was molested as a child... now, give me a 10.
my mother had to raise me by herself while hooking on the street
corner... give me a 10.
i have so very little self-control that i am addicted to everything,
and everyone who’s ever tried in vain to help me has given up on
me, and i think this is all somehow so... very... romantic and tragic
and moving... and so not my fault! give me a 10!
the government hates people of colour! and gay people! and
feminists! and ravers! give me a motherfucking 10!
and i’m not going to actually write a poem, oh no, i’m gonna slap
together the most unsubtle images and over-used similes stolen
from every high-scoring slam poem i’ve ever seen and use them
to paint my tragedies with such bold strokes and lurid detail that
you will be both repulsed and proud of the strength it takes to
admit them... over and over on stage after stage, a single tear
rolling down my cheek as my voice cracks with passion during the
same... pregnant... pause... pushing the same worn buttons and
manipulating the same hackneyed emotions.
i dare you to disrespect my pain, because if you do, everyone will
know that you think i DESERVED to be molested -- even if the story
i want you to believe is MY truth is actually a conglomeration of
stories i’ve either overheard or made up.
give me a 10, because if you are against me, then you hate america
AND the baby jesus, and what did the baby jesus ever do to you,
heathen? give me a 10 or every bad choice in my main character’s
life will have been in vain! give me a 10 or this audience will know
15
platinum moonlight reflects from silver polish on my fingernails.
that you think watching my best friend die in my arms after i shot
him up with that eightball of speed, or dimebag of... heroin, or
what the fuck ever is NOT fucked up.
you see, i don’t want you to rank my poem; i want you to rank my
issue.
and when i come here next week and drag my dead horse to the
corner of this stage and spend three minutes and ten seconds
beating the living shit out of it, then pass the mic to the next poet
so he can do the same, we can all abandon any pretense of poetry
and simply pit i was molested vs. i was discriminated against vs.
george w. bush is an asshole and force the judges to assign scores
to these ideas rather than the poems used to communicate and
explore these ideas, turning every truly moving human tragedy into
just another strategy to pimp our real or imagined pain for points.
and then we can pat ourselves on the back for rendering yet
another vital form of expression irrelevant by the very people who
claim to be its staunchest supporters, derailing our revolution by
simply writing about a revolution we’ll never have the courage — or
writing skill — to bring to fruition.
and let’s be honest... i don’t really want to change the world...
i just want you to think i do long enough to win.
16
the last place i want to see my love’s face is in my rearview mirror.
take another drink (1996)
So, I’m sitting on the couch drinking Early Times whiskey straight
from the bottle with this chick I’ve been seeing for the past couple
of years and the stereo’s spieling this vicious smoky room ricochet
Coltrane sax solo and my girl’s looking up at the glow-in-the-dark
stars on the ceiling and just a-smiling like a busload of mongoloid
schoolchildren on a field trip, so I poke her in the ribs with my big
toe and I ask her, I say, “Baby, what is it that you’re thinking about,
‘cause I just gotta know...”
and she looks at me and she says, “Man, it’s this music, it’s this
rabid Coltrane be-bop jazz, it’s got me thinking ‘bout that time
we were in that old white Mercury with the oxblood tuck-and-roll
interior and the battery-operated Holy Mother of Jesus suctioncupped to the dashboard and you were blazing a path down
that methamphetamine highway, man, pedal to the metal like a
one-man gang-bang bending the needle of that speedometer over
backwards and still pressing your foot harder on the gas, so fast
that when we hit a bump we flew like the goddamn space shuttle,
man, we took off, man, like ten- fifteen feet into the air and when
we touched back down we’d bounce like a goddamn skipping stone
and you could hear the elbows of those two waitresses knocking
against the roof of the trunk every time we hit the ground and I
was slumped against the door trying not to get blood all over the
upholstery and listening to the wind, oh man that wind, the roar
of that wind was so loud you could barely hear the sirens of the
17 Nevada State Troopers behind us splashing the sharp desert
rocks with blue and red blue and red blue and red and they were
so close you could almost smell the adrenaline on their breath but
you just looked straight ahead, man, you didn’t look at the rearview
mirror you didn’t look at the gas gauge you didn’t look at the
suitcase in the backseat, you didn’t look at me sitting in a puddle
of my own blood, man, you just looked straight ahead and I said,
17
motorcycle crash stalled our conversation for the next hundred miles.
“Baby, what the hell are we gonna do?” and you closed your eyes
and opened the glove compartment and reached past the .38 with
the black electrical tape stretched around the grip, past the last box
of hollow-point shells and searched around until you found that
Coltrane 8-track and you popped it into the tape deck and turned
the volume knob all the way up just as loud can be and I tell you,
man, no music in the history of this entire planet ever sounded so
goddamned brilliant as that music right at that very moment...”
...and then, this girl I’ve been seeing for a couple of years, she lays
her head back on the couch, closes her eyes and smiles, and I look
at her and say, “Baby... what the HELL are you talking about?”
and she looks at me and says, “Ahhh... nevermind, man, it’s just the
coltrane talking. just take another drink.”
18
driving into the sun, the souls of dead insects pollock our windshield.
lincoln logs and rabid dogs (1990)
regression’s white-knuckled fist swells my lip and bloodies my
smile as i genuflect from a fetal crouch in a corner k.o.’d by visions
of wascally wabbits and nuns in white habits (where in hell’s the
deference) i pray my unseen days away looking for an answer a
cure for this cancer that eats a whole in my soul i wish i could
drown my doubt in a bowl of holy water but the tear-stained
stormdrain of eternal desire has smothered the fire that burned
so fervently in my misplaced youth i’ve lost it and the cost it’s so
fucking hard to bear where did i leave the wide-eyed ignorance that
shoulders those summers of razors and incense why’d they have to
tell me there’s no such thing as santa claus (sainted clause) it’s all
cause and effect and causing me to remember when i believed in
a god and all was fine and all was dandy and all was teeth stained
with cotton candy but now all’s i got are cavities pockets full of
holes and a heart full of cold and a head full of nothing at all i
wish i could go home where my innocence roams where it’s safe
and warm and jesus christ tucks me into my bunkbed every night
but i can’t ‘cause i’m stuck out here with the rest of you rocked by
adulthood’s numbing wake and wishing i could come home again.
19
pavarotti learned how to sing by listening to your heart beating.
add it up (2006)
i’m on the phone with a customer, and he asks me to calculate the
sales tax on an item, so i pull out my little calculator and multiply
$185 by 1.0825, which yields the cost of the item plus the sales tax,
$200.26.
he says he must discuss this with his wife, so he puts me on hold.
and i sit there.
just me.
and the calculator.
i press C to clear the display, then i enter 2006 and subtract 1967,
the year of my birth, and i get 39, the age i’ll turn on my birthday,
may 11.
39 years old. one year shy of 40.
i hit C.
i enter 2006 and subtract 1985, the year i graduated from high
school, and i get 21. i’ve never been to a high school reunion. i
didn’t like those people then, and i doubt i’d like them now. still... i
wonder... who got fat, who got pretty, who got rich, who died... 21
years...
my girlfriend is 21.
i hit C.
i enter 1967, then add 57, the age of my father’s father when
20
spider floats on wings of silk across our river. conversation stops.
he died of lung cancer, and get 2024. from that, i subtract 2006
and get 18... 18 years left to live should i die at the same age my
grandfather did.
18 years.
2006 minus 1996 equals 10 years i’ve been slamming. add 8 more
years, and i’m dead.
i hit C.
i enter 39, my age, and i subtract 21, the age of my girlfriend, and i
get 18 years...
i ponder whether my fear of death and the age of my girlfriend have
any connection, as if dating someone so much younger than me
somehow staves off thoughts of aging.
i hit C. i hit C. i hit C. my cubicle neighbor stares at me. i stare back.
i am on hold.
my father was 21 when i was born. he was on an aircraft carrier off
the coast of vietnam when a month-old letter from my mother told
delivered the news. i was nearly a year old before he held me in his
hands.
he turns 60 this year. three years older than his father was when he
died.
i see my parents once or twice a year, and every time i am surprised
by how much older they look. they’ve been married just seven
months longer than i’ve been alive... you do the math. my mom was
17. my dad was 20. they’ve now been together more than twice as
long as they were apart.
i first had sex in may of 1984. her name was michelle. we were both
21
sandpipers scan the grey morning tide for mussels. i look for haiku.
17. we didn’t use condoms. we had sex in the back of my pickup
truck in the middle of a field at the edge of town. if she had gotten
pregnant, she would’ve had the baby in february of 1985.
my girlfriend was born on february 20, 1985.
i hit C, and nothing happens.
“i fucking hate math,” i say out loud under my breath as i close my
eyes.
my customer says, “excuse me?”
i am no longer on hold.
i ask him if we can move forward, and he says he has to think about
it.
we both have a lot to think about.
i wish him a good day. i end the call. i toss the calculator into the
garbage can beneath my desk.
22
only tom waits could sing a song about the way i’m feeling right now.
cats (2004)
why can’t you be more like my cats?
my cats are happy when i come home. they greet me warmly, are
very obviously happy to see me, even wiggle their little tails at me
with anticipation for my touch.
they’re never, like, “where have you been all night long?”
they’re never, like, “what’s this? is this cat hair on your hoodie?
you’ve been hanging out with other cats, haven’t you?”
they’re never, like, “how come nothing but cats leave comments
on your livejournal? you’re using your livejournal to flirt with other
cats, aren’t you?”
they’re never, like, “who made this long distance phone call to the
vatican?”
they’re never, like, “when are you going to pay me back that $2100
you owe me?”
no, they’re just really, really happy to see all the time. the only
thing my cats want more than for me to touch them is for me to
pick them up and hold them and whisper cute things into their
ears. they love that shit. why can’t you be more like my cats?
my cats are never cold and distant for weeks at a time. my cats
never roll over and turn their backs to me immediately upon
getting into bed because it’s that time of the year. my cats never say,
“don’t pet me, i have a headache.” my cats never say, “i hate it when
your legs touch me when we sleep because you get me all sweaty.”
my cats never say, “don’t kiss me, you breath stinks!” my cats never
23
gritty symphony of road-weary homesick blues aches from every bone.
say, “i hate giving you blow jobs because it takes you 30 minutes to
come and then my jaw all hurts.”
my cats don’t care where i’ve been, all they care is that i’m back,
and that makes them happy, because they miss me when i’m gone,
even when it’s just to go to the bathroom. they love me dearly,
and they have no problems with that. they need me, and this does
not fill them with insecurities. they know i will always be there for
them, and i know they will always be there for me. they love me for
who i am. and they don’t sweat me all the time about looking for
a job. and they aren’t always on my back about never having any
money. and if they had been the ones to have bailed me out of jail
that one time, they would’ve been glad to do it, and they would’ve
been over it by now.
my cats love me.
why can’t you be more like my cats?
loving you is like having a great big potty box full of cat crap right
there in the middle of the living room, only there are no cats
around to pet.
24
my skeleton’s a radio belting out blues from every joint.
rats in the ivy (2000)
pain is a gift,
she says,
pointing to her heart.
as long as you feel pain,
you know
you are still alive.
she smiles as she says this,
as if offering a bon bon.
and i say,
smoke
is a symptom
of an inefficient fire,
and i pinch what’s left of our love between my thumb and
forefingers
and i suck
to numb
the pain.
(suck)
and it’s a good thing
because I was tired
of that pansy-assed love bullshit
i was experiencing in other so-called healthy relationships,
you know,
that lame happiness nonsense,
that silly stability tripe,
that boring great fucking sex
unsweetened by the pang of regret.
25
the couch is where we talk, watch, listen, kiss, fuck, sleep. i love that old couch.
how fucking blind was I?
i had no idea of the pure pleasure
of a truly self-destructive co-dependant relationship.
oh, but now how I revel in it’s beauty!
don’t worry about me, I tell my therapist!
i’m fine!
i’ll survive!
i thrive on contradiction!
i like it when shit don’t make sense!
i can quit anytime I want to!
(suck)
fuck trust!
fuck mutual respect!
fuck solid ground to stand on!
that shit makes you weak!
loving you is a work-out!
i’ve got muscles on my corpuscles
‘cuz my heart is pumping iron
when you scream,
oh baby, your mainline is divine!
Just shoot me up, baby,
I am addicted
to what your dick did!
when we make love,
no, when we have sex,
no, when we fuck,
no, don’t go away,
no, just hold me,
no, just get the fuck away from me,
no, give me back my fucking key,
no, how come you never call me?
no, can’t you just leave me alone?
...I miss you...
FUCK YOU!
26
waiting patiently for a dollop of honey to grace my mint tea.
i love you...
(suck)
wait, here’s a haiku:
I am Charlie Brown
and you are Lucy and your
love is that football!
and i just keep coming back for more!
you are the heroine of this love story,
and i am hooked.
i got motherfucking donkey kong on my back, baby,
only it’s not donkey kong,
it’s you in a rented monkey suit
and we’re slinging syringes stuffed with satisfaction
sucking crack pipes crammed with contentment
popping pills of understanding
snorting lines of devotion
huffing sacks of commitment
anything
to keep us from seeing
that this shit stopped working
a long long time ago
and i don’t even know what love is anymore
all i know is this ache
this hunger
this desire for the fire that once burned
in my stomach when you used to smile
at me
remember that?
before we were junkies
hooked on the open-handed smack
of this broken relationship?
27
my lover’s skin smells warm like pumpkin spice and rain. i hold her. she sleeps.
(suck)
i don’t know how to get over
this sweetest hang over.
not even a methadone clinic full of
well-adjusted romantic replacements
could help me kick this habit.
hell no!
i’m addicted to the real deal street level shit you’re working, baby,
100% pure uncut grief
wrapped in the thin paper
called love.
those aren’t tears in my eyes, baby,
it’s just the smoke,
so roll me up another hit
and light my fire.
(suck)
(butt that sucker)
28
cold wet parking lot. umbrella man starts his car. cat darts from wheel well.
scars (2003)
when i belch,
i finish by exhaling deeply
as if ridding my lungs
of any remaining gases.
i don’t make a big deal of it.
it’s just something i do.
and every time i belch like that,
i think of trish,
the first person i ever knew
who belched liked that.
we only dated two and half months.
graduation was enough
to end our college romance,
but she left the belch with me.
there was a time when i could eat
campbell’s tomato soup all by itself,
but no now, not after kimberly.
now a bowl of campbell’s tomato soup
just seems... silly
without a grilled cheese sandwich to sop it up.
i have a scar
on the knuckle
of my right pointer finger
from when i slammed the receiver
of the phone so hard
after breaking up with sonia
it shattered both my phone and my skin.
29
early morning bed. scramble of sheets, limbs, and sighs. alarm screams my name.
once a year
every year
just before the academy awards
that old scar prickles,
and i’ll send sonia an e-mail
asking for her oscar picks.
she usually answers.
two lives dig their nails
into each other
for a couple of months, a year, more
and leave curly-cues of flesh
in their wake
favorite movies co-opted
catch phrases caught and adopted
books
discarded concert t-shirts
for bands you’ve never seen
found beneath futons so long ago
you’ve forgotten they were once someone else’s
they are
blackened rings
hidden deep
in the hearts of oaks
they are hiroshima shadows
on crumbling brick walls
i don’t know what you will have left behind
how you will have marked me
a love for sweet tea and the central texas hill country
sushi and avocados and alt-country and naps and buttermilk pie
and the endless pursuit of the purfect plate of migas
30
the good news: in hell they play npr. bad news: it’s always pledge week.
a yearning to write from a deeper place
to calm my anger and defensiveness
to quiet my insecurities
to remove the stone held tight between my shoulder blades
arguments about traffic about money about jealousy
about space about space about space
these scars
are water stains
on eggshell plaster walls
so faint
you can only see them
when the light’s just right
they are small half-moon crescents
dug into the meat of my heel
whispering of barefoot summers
fishing from wooden docks
they are badly-fused broken bones
that ache
when i read poems about rain
but i want you to know
that i have torn my shirt off for you
whip my bare back with rose bushes and nettles
i’ll take the scars
and i cherish every one of them
and i gladly collected them
and the stories behind them
and the lessons learned
and all the songs that for the rest of my life will sing only of you
i’ll take the scars
they’re the only things that prove you have loved
and i have loved you as much as i could.
31
dancing in the cold catching snowflakes on my tongue warmed by thoughts of you.
wired (2000, 2008)
i have a post office box for my business letters
and a mail box at my single bedroom apartment
for my personal letters
and a mail slot in my cubicle
in the office where I work
for my inter-office memos.
i have call waiting on my home phone line
and a cable modem for my home computer.
i have an answering machine at home
and a direct line with voice mail at my work number.
i have a pager
with voice mail
and a cell phone
with voice mail
and a skype phone on my laptop
with voice mail.
i have e-mail addresses through my work,
my university,
and on america online,
and i also have free internet e-mail service
through hotmail.com,
gmail.com,
and yahoo.com.
my home computer can even send and receive faxes.
i have two graphically pleasing web sites
featuring photographs of me and my two cats
32
the prostitute knocked on our motel door and asked for a cigarette.
and stories about my life
and poetry I’ve written
with links to websites featuring my favorite things
and a button you can click to send me e-mail.
just surf to www.bigpoppae.com
and you can read all about me,
you can even read my diary entries,
which I also post every day
on livejournal
myspace
facebook
friendster
and twitter.
i am a member of four internet chat services
and six internet list serves
and i frequently post messages
on no less than 12 newsgroups
such as alt.penpals and alt.relationships.
i have 127 buddies on my america online buddy list
with whom I can exchange instant messages
anytime we’re online at the same time.
i publish a personal zine six times a year
and send it to other personal zine publishers
all over the world.
i have personal ads in seven newspapers across Texas
under the heading
looking for a friend,
and i am registered with 12 Internet personal ad websites
such as love.com, match.com, okcupid.com,
meetingpeopleiseasy.com, and singles.net,
all under the heading
still looking for a friend.
33
ancient live oak tree shakes arthritic limbs at the invisible wind.
anyone
can contact me
at any time of the day or night
they can phone me
they can fax me
they can page me
e-mail me
instant message me
send me a virtual greeting card
anything
and no matter where i was
and no matter what i was doing...
i would stop what i was doing
and i would talk to them.
but,
so far...
nobody has.
34
let’s pull apart the fresh bread of our hearts and feed it to each other.
the endless pursuit of happiness #1 (2001)
i went to the candy machine in the break room just a moment ago,
and there it was, amongst the plastic packages of cookies and chips
and gum and poptarts, for only 65 cents — true love — nestled
at E4 between the reese’s peanut butter cups on the left and the
hershey’s chocolate with almonds on the right.
imagine, the thing i’ve been searching for my whole life, and there
it is, in bright yellow plastic wrap in the candy machine at work,
and for only 65 cents.
i know i’ve spent way more than that looking for it up to this point,
so 65 cents was one hell of a bargain. i reached into my pocket,
and found that i had exactly 65 cents... two quarters, a dime and
five pennies. since the machine only took silver, i was out of luck. a
nickel short.
i went to the receptionist and asked if i could borrow a nickel, even
offered to give her the five pennies for a nickel, but she didn’t have
it.
she had no change.
i went to all the people who work near my cubicle and asked if they
could trade my five pennies for a nickel, and none of them, not a
single one, could do it.
they had no change.
i finally dug around in the very bottom of my backpack and found
one dirty dime, more than enough to make my 65 cents, so i
marched to the break room with change in hand...
35
i’m contemplating angels dancing on the heads of pens and pencils.
...only to find the true love in bin E4 was gone. there had been only
one, and someone must’ve gotten it as i was looking for the money
to pay for it.
i looked at the machine...
i looked at the money in my hand...
i looked back up at the machine...
then i put my 70 cents into the machine and pressed E5: hershey’s
chocolate with almonds. got a nickel back for change.
36
man orders, the veal. waitress says, we’re outta veal. man sighs, scans menu.
the endless pursuit of happiness #2 (2002)
after work, i walked to my bus stop. on the way i passed the
brightly lit windows of a gift shop, and right there in front of the
biggest display was a box marked “deluxe true love.” there was a
photo on the box of a man and a woman staring into each other’s
eyes and smiling slow, dreamy smiles. the flashing sign next to the
box said, “only $29.99! going fast!”
i walked in and went to the front counter and asked the cashier
what about this brand of true love made it “deluxe.” he said
that this particular true love was especially long-lasting, yet it
encouraged individuality, which many other cheaper brands of love
often neglect.
i took out my wallet and told him that i would take one, but the
cashier said that he was all out because of the christmas rush. he
said he could put me on the rain check list, but he cautioned that
the wait would be several months, if not longer. i asked if he could
sell me the one in the window, but he said it was an empty box. i
asked if he had anymore in the back, and he said he didn’t think so,
but he would look just in case.
when he came back out, he held a much smaller box that was
wrapped in bright paper with neon ink and colorful photos of
people smiling very large and beaming and driving sports cars and
talking on cell phones and playing computer games and watching
big screen teevees.. i asked him if that was it, was that “deluxe true
love,” but he shook his head slowly and said, “no, we are all out
of ‘deluxe true love,’ but we do have several boxes left of ‘instant
gratification’ for only $9.99.”
i told him that i already had enough of that, and thanked him for
his time.
37
threadbare green carpet. flimsy floral comforters. fist-sized hole in door.
the endless pursuit of happiness #3 (2002)
when i got home, i turned on the teevee and flipped around the
cable channels and stopped for a moment on one of those home
shopping channels. and there on the screen was a big colorful box
of “deluxe true love,” only this was a special version of “deluxe true
love” they called the “limited edition deluxe true love.”
the salesman said these versions were hand-crafted in very small
batches by experts in the art of making love, and that his company
was allowed to sell only 100 boxes, and the time was running short,
he said, since 67 had already been sold in the last five minutes. the
price, he said, was three low monthly payments of $59.99 each.
what made this version of deluxe true love so special, he said, was
its easy application, its long lasting strength, and its durability. it
wasn’t like those shabby versions of love you could buy for less
elsewhere, he said, that were fine for the first few months or even
years, but then began to fade. this version of deluxe true love was
specially made to last the lifetime of its owner; in fact, it even came
with a guarantee.
fourteen more boxes of “limited edition deluxe true love” were
sold as i watched, so i grabbed up my phone and called the 1-800
number, and was greeted my a friendly receptionist named molly.
she asked me what product i was interested in, and i said i wanted
a box of “limited edition deluxe true love.” she asked me what
credit card i used, and i said that i didn’t have a credit card. she
asked me if i wanted to use a check card, and i said i didn’t have a
check card. she said she could only accept one or the other, but i
asked her if i could just arrange to send cash. she put me on hold.
and i watched as 5 more boxes were sold. and 7 more boxes were
sold. and then 6 more boxes were sold. and the announcer on the
38
my radio is tuned to one station, the one with songs about you.
teevee said, “and we only have one more box of ‘special edition
deluxe true love left,’ and our lucky next caller will have the first
crack at it!”
and then the receptionist came back on the line, and i said, “i’ll
take it, please, i’ll take that last box of ‘special edition deluxe true
love,’” but she replied, “i’m sorry sir, we can only accept credit
cards or check cards with the visa logo. we do not accept cash. i’m
sorry sir.”
then she hung up.and on the teevee screen, the salesman
announced that a lady from americus, georgia, was the proud
owner of the last box of “limited edition deluxe true love.”
i turned off the teevee. i reached into my pocket, and pulled out my
hershey’s chocolate bar with almonds, and proceeded to unwrap it.
39
lazy eights over juneau, alaska, waiting for the fog to clear.
ma’amed (1996)
my friend nancy
was ma’amed
the other day.
she’s 25
and was not amused.
she ran home
and glared into the mirror,
pinching her cheeks for elasticity
and checking for bags under her eyes.
she told me,
“just last week
my 26-year-old friend and i
decided
we were at that perfect age
where we’re neither too young
nor too old
to date anyone we want
from 18 to 50.”
and yet,
just like that
some overly polite supermarket checker
(the little bastard!)
with pimples and a greasy smile
ma’amed her and offered to carry her groceries,
damning her
to a too-near future
of backyard barbecues
and early bedtimes
40
being james dean ain’t easy; even he couldn’t do it very long.
and planned vacations
and mortgages
and mid-life crises
and pta meetings.
and this coming just three days
after not being carded
at the liquor store downtown.
laughing at first,
then sighing,
i realize that i too
am nearing the twilight
of my omnisexual years,
where hair dye and barrettes
were just as good
as career suits and sensible shoes.
and even as i roll my eyes
at the giggly slip of a counter girl
i would have killed myself for
at 17,
i quietly mourn the passing
of her affections.
gee, sir, i didn’t know
sting was in the police!
here’s your receipt, sir!
have a nice day!
sir.
41
echobelly boy heartbeat bouncing against bare walls of bone and flesh.
the miracle corner pocket luck shot (1995)
my friend brian
made the killer pool shot
the other day
at lasalle’s.
it was so good
i told him i’d write a poem about it.
but how?
how to convey the sheer beauty,
the utter perfection,
of this shot?
two ball combo,
not one,
not two,
but three bumpers,
back spin with a perfect leave
set-up snug for the next shot
straight sinker into the corner pocket
and
the bastard
called it.
damn.
if he was any good
at playing pool
it still would’ve been
a good shot
but Brian sucks at pool,
42
always searching for the right thing to say. sometimes silence is perfect.
couldn’t play his way out
of a wet paper sack.
this was nothing less
than divine intervention,
a true blue-chalk marvel
of epiphaniacal proportions.
i ended up beating him
by three balls
because brian really does suck at pool,
but damn
if that wasn’t
a fine shot.
43
the center of the universe is a very crowded place to be.
minuet (1988)
...and then,
of all things,
she hands me a book.
i say,
what’s this?
she says,
a book of games.
i look at it,
turn it over in my hands,
open it,
and find the pressed petals
of a lavender rose.
as i look at her
with anticipation...
...she smiles
and says,
Yes, games.
44
grassgrassgrassgrassgrassgrassgrassgrasssnakegrassgrassgrassgrassgrassgrassgrassgrass
sexuality (1988)
beneath the coloured umbrellas
of an outdoor cafe,
she slowly put down
her cappuccino
and whispered
something
foreign
under her breath.
i think it was latin.
she flashed a knowing smile,
finished the hot liquid,
and proceeded to gouge her eyes
with a fork,
after which
she placed the fork
upon my lap.
i pondered this a moment...
neatly folded my napkin
and left.
45
broken blue bottle. early morning light puddles. pale blue sun on wall.
routine (1988)
i opened my eyes.
there,
standing before me,
were two young women
clad in orange
polyester
jumpsuits.
the one on the left,
the prettier of the two,
smiled
at me.
i smiled back.
i wasn’t surprised
in the slightest
when she gently removed her head from her shoulders
& tossed it to me.
quite naturally,
i caught it.
while the other woman,
who bore a striking resemblance
to shirley temple on crack,
tapdanced
and sang oh tannenbaum,
the head and i
told dirty jokes
to one another.
we
had a lot
in common,
actually.
46
we make monkey love while cats watch unimpressed from the foot of the bed.
dreams (1998)
I had a strange dream the other night.
I dreamt I went on a fishing trip
with Marvin Gaye
and Otis Redding
and Percy Sledge
and Michael Bolton.
After about five minutes,
Michael Bolton disappeared.
I never figured out what happened to him.
But I do remember that Otis laughed to himself
every time he chopped up the bait.
I had a strange dream the other night.
I dreamt I went on a fishing trip
with Miles Davis
and John Coltrane
and Charlie Parker
and Kenny G.
The last thing I remember before waking up
is Miles saying to ‘Trane and Bird
“Well, lookie there, fellas... we’re almost outta worms.”
And they turned and smiled at Kenny G
as Miles reached into his tackle box for his fillet knife.
I had a strange dream the other night.
I dreamt I went on a fishing trip
with Charles Manson
Ted Bundy
Jeffrey Dahmer
and George W. Bush.
They seemed to get along just fine...
except Jeffrey kept eating the bait.
47
in a world of black and white, you are a bouquet of yellow roses.
equalizer (1990)
i sometimes drive down the freeway at 35 miles an hour it pisses
people off but i don’t do it just to piss people off i just enjoy
watching all the cars speeding past when it rains i turn off the
windshield wipers and watch the world turn into an impressionist
painting little dots that shift and move and become renoir
runabouts and monet mercedes slithering past me i suppose if
i looked into the faces of the drivers i’d see little impressionistic
frowns and scowls and even a clinched fist or two but i don’t look
especially at night i just stare at the driplets of light and listen to
the big band music playing over my eight track sometimes i stick
my arm out of the window and make aerodynamic motions up and
down in the wind like a sine wave and the rain slaps my hand and
little coloured beads slide down my wrist and crawl past my elbow
and collect in my armpit and i just smile and smile as the angry
people pass me by sometimes i even forget about the pistol in my
glove box
48
what are you doing with that shotgun? i shouted. nothing, she whispered.
wilson road (1998)
oatmeal.
that’s what I remember...
my young mother
stirring oatmeal
in the early morning dark
scraping the sides of the saucepan
with the wooden spoon.
that meant it was time
to wake my sister up
and get ready,
put on our bunny slippers
and pile pillows and blankets
into the back of the gto —
me and my sleepy kid sister —
so my mom
could drive my dad
to the railroad.
she was 22.
i was 4.
49
my hand has gone numb. sweetie’s asleep on my arm. i endure needles.
disillusion curry (2003)
i knew a girl once.
i don’t remember her name. i may never have known her name, to
be honest, but she was “the cute girl at the thai place” for a long
time, my favorite waitress in my favorite restaurant in my favorite
little college town.
she always made me smile.
one day, she was wearing a sheer white shirt, and you could see
right through her sleeve to see the large tattoo on her forearm. i
asked her about it, and she rolled up her sleeve and showed it to
me, this huge colorful tattoo of a pepsi can.
i was... well... sort of taken aback.
i asked her about it, and she said, “yeah, i used to love pepsi. drank
it all the time, so much that all my friends used to call me ‘pepsi.’”
we paused for a moment, then i asked her about the use of the past
tense, and she said, “yeah, the real shame of it is that i don’t even
drink pepsi anymore. i drink coke.”
at that very moment,
precisely as she finished that sentence,
i fell deeply
out of love
with the cute girl at the thai place.
50
even though i hate you, i still sometimes miss you, you fucking asshole.
moonlight through mini-blinds (1999)
whenever i need proof
of god’s existence
i need only
run my open palm
along your spine,
trace the small of your back,
and cradle
the half moons of your behind.
god must
be an artist
to have crafted
such exquisite angles,
such curves,
such warm, smooth, fine hairs.
soft,
like rain.
51
spent all night looking for sheep to count, but couldn’t find a single one.
map of your body (1998)
I stand in the shower
watching you
wash your hair
watching
hot water
cascade
down your breasts
in soapy rivulets
and arc in streams
from your nipples
and I realize
I have touched
every part
of your body
kissed
every curve
tasted
every
inch
and still
I am fascinated
by the sight of you
then I look to your eyes
as you catch me in the act
and smile back at me
52
sleeping in someone else’s bed, eating their food. house-sitting is fun.
as if you know
exactly
what I’m thinking...
53
everything i’ve ever wanted is here in the palm of your hand.
i want to hold you (2005)
i want to hold you
like an audience holds its breath
when the trapese artist lets go
i want to kiss your knees so weak
the grassy arms of the world
wrap themselves around you
and press your head
to its loamy bosom
i want to love you
like we’ll never be alone
like we’re never gonna die
like all that matters
right here and now
is that we can whisper
promises
on the backs
of our necks
and feel them
before we hear them
carved on the roof of my mouth
in a language your tongue alone speaks
is one word:
yes.
i want to drink deeply
the beads of sweat that collect
in the hollows of your hips
and tattoo devotion on your ribs
with my lips in glistening script
54
fingers laced behind head, staring at the sky from the green grass below.
etch a trail of tingles
with gentle taps of my tongue
from the base of your neck
to the tip of your spine
until your belly beckons me
in syllables of sighs
i want to read psalms
from your open bible
plant soul kisses
that blossom into heartbeats
on my tongue
you taste just like god
i want the riverbend of your body to blend
with my ebb and flow and grow
to embrace us and engulf us and
send us cascading over
the edge of the bed to the floor
with the sheets and the blankets
as the cats run for the door
i want to press my flesh so tightly against yours
our spines entangle and our blood commingles
and your heart
pounds marimba beats
inside my ribcage
and then i just want to lie there
beneath the glow-in-the-dark stars
on the ceiling
and listen
to the cobalt blue sky
shushing against our windowscreen
as the first bird of morning
clears its throat
55
i’m fairly certain jesus would not approve of this christmas nonsense.
i miss you (2002)
my skin aches to smell like you, it weeps
a lost child in the mall
inconsolable and clutching
at passing hems
mouthing your name
my skin could erode mountains with its tears
56
forecast calls for rain, sleet, snow, ice, and tornados. good driving weather.
catching the bus (1997)
so, my girlfriend says to me, she says, “how’re you doing?”, and
i say, “you know, when you’re walking to the bus stop, and
everything is going just fine, and a little breeze is blowing, and
the sun is out, and the sky is blue, and the birds are singing, and
everything seems just about right in your world, but then you look
up and you see the bus you’re supposed to catch pull away from
the curb, and it’s the last bus of the day and so you haul ass trying
to catch the bus, and you’re waving your arms trying to attract the
attention of the bus driver, and your backpack is flopping all over
the place, and your lungs are burning ,and there’s that precious
few moments where you’re running, and the bus is rolling at the
very same speed, and you both kinda hover there, and it could go
either way. i mean the bus could suddenly slow down and stop,
and it would’ve been all worth the effort, or it could remain just
out of reach and then take off and disappear around the corner
as your legs give out, and you jog to a stop, and you just end up
standing there in the middle of the street all hot and sweaty and
out of breath and pissed off that this beautiful day has caught you
off guard?”
‘well, i feel like that, like i’ve been walking through this beautiful
day and suddenly i’ve looked up and i’m at the slender second
where i have to decide what i’m going to do, whether i’m going to
chase after the bus that i’m almost surely going to miss and end up
all hot and sweaty and pissed off all over again, or maybe i should
just say, ‘to hell with it,’ without a regret and start walking home.”
and i stop talking and look down at my thumb and she just sorta
stares at me for a bit, then she says, “i meant, like, are you hungry,
because i’m going to the kitchen to get a sandwich. do you want
anything?”
57
i am feeling the enormous weight of all my untapped potential.
and i look up at her for a moment, take a deep breath, look back
down at my thumb, and say, “do i want anything? well...no, i think
i have everything i need,” and i watch her as she walks away and
disappears around the corner into the kitchen.
58
whip my bare back with rose bushes and nettles, then eat my heart for lunch.
wendy (1992)
empty
as a pane
of glass
cold to the touch
of your pressed-flat
fingertips
you whisper
let me in
let me in
but your voice
only fogs
the window
59
the jerk who designed our staircase should move couches and dressers in hell.
sad bouquet (2002)
the thing about store-bought flowers
is that they always die
no matter what you do
you can give them everything
all the water the nourishment
the sun
but you eventually watch them
fade
slowly at first
brown around the edges
but then one day
you can’t even remember
what they looked like
when they were new
what it felt like
to walk into the room
lit by these
little yellow hands
with a thousand fingers
hoping for you to hold them
you finally sigh
pick the sad bouquet of brown fists from the table
and throw them away
so you don’t have to look at them anymore
60
we ate black-eyed peas for good luck in the new year, our hands held tightly.
ourobouros (1992)
he masturbates
with her body
instead of his hand
they touch
then turn away
side-by-side
the luke-warm space between
their dry backs
measured
in years
a misty reminder
of the love behind her
drips
from between her legs
and fades
into the tightly knit
fibers
of their crisp white
sheets
61
best antidote for disappointment: go and buy something expensive.
ode to a plaster casting (1998)
it doesn’t do justice to her hands
hers have long narrow palms
slender fingers
graceful fingers
tipped with careful nails
so perfectly smooth
so pale
as to almost be
transparent.
hers are hands to be cupped
with both of mine
warmed with mine
then brought to my lips
and kissed.
hers are gentle backscratching hands
crafty short story hands
poem hands.
not chalky hands
not cold dusty hands
wrapped around an apple
held between alabaster breasts
like Eve.
she was motionless
for 45 minutes
covered in cool plaster-of-paris
smiling
the entire time
so she could smile at me
from my wall
when she was gone.
62
where are you going? he said, holding plane tickets. nowhere fast, she said.
her smile, like knives (1999)
thin shivers of lip
turned down
slightly
at the corners
even her smiles
hid something.
that small slit of a mouth
that cut
barely covered
the bright
white
points
of her teeth.
her sharpened smile
could cut glass
could lash out
could wound
without even trying
without even meaning to.
a smile like prison gates
ripe with razor wire
like crumbling cement walls
crowned with shards of glass.
it was an ex-girlfriend smile
a smile i wasn’t on speaking terms with anymore.
i could never kiss a mouth like that.
it would hurt to touch her lips
even with my fingertips.
63
it’s time to go, he said, unlocking the cell. let’s get this over with.
aspartame (1993)
i’m a one-man remembrance day parade
adorning myself
in mournful clutter
of fluttering fits of passion
bits of my past
in ashes
hastily discarded earrings
found
under the bed
a torn concert tee-shirt
left behind
by the girl who said
take your cream rinse
and get the fuck out!
in every new pair of eyes
in every smile
i see more stuff
left behind
64
we’re writing our own bible, not with ink and pen but with sweat and skin.
appliance envy (1993)
they’re chasing me
the kitchen utensils blame me
the silverware shames me
they’re in cahoots with
crockpots and saucepans and
garlic presses and
dusty stoneware
the kitchen screams
and dreams for the day
when you return again
not a pasta’s primavera’d not an egg souflee’d
and they’re pissed
the knives are sharpening themselves
against the countertop
scraping etching
at the black and white formica tile
the spices and teas
in the cupboard overhead
plot to smother me
my allies in the pantry
have all been smashed to bits
the ramen and macaroni the chicken soup and rice
all dashed upon the linoleum
by spiteful sauce mixes
and angry bottles of balsamic vinegar
soggy cakes of tofu and brown and wobbly sprouts plan
to jump me should i open the icebox door again
i wish you’d come back
just long enough
to fix a crepe or something
and make this kitchen happy again
65
lazy weekend with my baby, snuggled under covers with kitties.
death to romance (1996)
i’d like to bring
a class action suit
against the makers of hallmark cards
and the producers of romantic comedies
and the writers of bad love poetry
and syrupy love songs.
i’d like to sue their asses off
and you can all join me,
all you lonely housewives
chain-smoking romance novels,
you lonely placers of personal ads
with blinkless answering machines,
you lonely pursuers of picket fences
and lawn chair weekends,
we can sentence them all to death
and string the bastards up
and light a bonfire beneath them
of burning mariah carey records
and when harry met sally videos
and high school yearbooks
and dozens and dozens of dying red roses
and rotting boxes of chocolate
and just watch the bastards kick
like our hearts have under the weight
of their sunset beaches and candlelit dinners
their harmonies and melodies
and vows of ‘til death do us part.
we can burn them all
then scatter the ashes from hollywood to paris.
and then maybe,
just maybe,
we can get on with our lives.
66
we are surrounded by lonely people looking for someone like us.
echo (1993)
no need
to screen
my calls now
everything is bigger
more space in the cupboard
more hangers in the closet
squares of cleanliness
suddenly
in the middle of dust-caked floors
i reek
of desperation
can’t remember
the last time
i left this room
except
to order cornerstore pizza
from the livingroom phone
or
wash the abandoned cum
from my bedsheets
woe to him
who is alone whe he
falls,
for there is no one
to pick him up
i keep it cold
in my flat
cold
so i can get away
with using heavy covers
67
you are useless as the alcohol swab before lethal injection.
when i sleep
i sleep
entirely too much
and listen listen
for footsteps stopping
outside my door
68
old cigarette butt. dirty black gutter water. little kid follows.
MICHAEL6 (2005)
pissed1 on jesus2 juice3,
we bounce5 on michael’s6 bed7 and
watch8 dirty9 videos10.
1] by pissed, i mean the english11 slang12 term for “being drunk” and not as a
synonym for “angry,” and yeah, we were so drunk13.
2] this would be the son of god in christian14 religions15 and not the short guy16
with the mustache33 who cares for michael’s6 garden23.
3] actually, it wasn’t juice, it was wine17.
4] it was me18 and macaulay culkin19 who were there at the time because jesus20
hadn’t arrived yet.
5] and by this, i mean we4 were jumping up and down on the bed7 clad only in the
underwear21 and rainbow toe socks22 michael6 had purchased for us the afternoon
before.
6] yes, that michael28.
7] it was this huge king-sized four-poster bed with dark maroon sheets and an
impossibly fluffy maroon comforter scattered with throw pillows and stuffed
animals. the weirdest part was the gigantic26 painting of michael6 rising up out of
the sea on a clamshell clothed in nothing but a diaper24.
8] to be honest, we weren’t really paying attention to what was on the big screen
teevee25 because we were too busy spraying each other with canned whipped
cream31 and watching michael6 watch32 us4.
9] at first, we thought the videos were showing us4 on the big screen teevee25
because they featured two boys in their underwear jumping up and down on
michael’s6 bed7, but then there were shots27 of someone wearing spiked heals
stepping onto the heads of mice42.
10] michael6 used a beta max machine25. i remember the tapes being very small,
and michael6 kept bragging about how much better they were than regular vhs
tapes.
11] i love english slang. when i read the harry potter books43, i always make sure
to get the uk versions with all the british slang12 intact.
12] here are some of my favorite british slang words and their meanings: pram=baby
carriage; trainers=athletic shoes; jumper=sweater; candy floss=cotton candy;
whingy=sad and whiny; pissed=drunk; shag=to have sex.
69
three in the morning. ninety channels of nothing. insomnia sucks.
13] i have to admit now that i wasn’t really drunk because i was afraid of alcohol
and only pretended to drink it, but mostly i spilled it on the carpet and dumped
it in the sink when i went to the bathroom44. i am pretty sure macaulay culkin19
was very drunk40.
14] michael6 told us that he was a devout jehovah’s witness45 and that it was okay
to drink the wine because it was the “blood of the lord.” that’s why he called it
“jesus juice.”
15] i’ve tried all kinds of religions, but none has ever really fit. i tried methodist,
mormon, catholic, baptist -- even this one church where their thing was singing
without musical accompaniment since the bible never mentioned singing to music
-- but the whole thing creeped me out. i never felt like i could get a straight answer
from anyone. they would all just lapse into this rote godspeak like recruiter robots
for the lord. my views have since been influenced more by non-western beliefs
like buddhism.
16] jesus gonzales-ortega pronounced his name like this: hey-suess.” he was
always around when we4 were with michael6, so much so that we started calling
jesus juice14 hey-suess juice. this would crack michael6 up to no end. he would
laugh and laugh and laugh.
17] we were never told what kind of wine it was, but i tasted something many years
later called port46 that was very similar. it has a very high alcohol content.
18] my name is bill, but at the time, i went by billy. i was 12 then and in sixth grade.
i am 24 now and just finished by bachelor’s degree in english literature. michael6
paid for my college. a lot of people40 think he did it to keep me quiet. i am not
sure what i think.
19] yes, that macaulay culkin. we were the same age at the time, and even though
we had fun when were playing together with michael6, i always felt a little jealous
of him since he was so rich and famous and so obviously favoured by michael6. we
never talked or hung out outside of neverland ranch47 because i wasn’t famous, i
just had cancer49.
20] this would be the short guy16 with the mustache33 who cares for michael’s6
garden23, not the son of god in christian14 religions15.
21] i had always worn boxers, but michael6 preferred that we wear tighty-whities
because he said they offered more support. plus, he said that they were more
attractive. mac19 already wore them, but michael6 bought me several packages so
that i could wear them, too.
22] michael6 bought these for us, too, and i still have several pairs in a box.
23] the gardens were filled with all kinds of amazing examples of topiary, these
large bushes trimmed to look like elephants and giraffes and other exotic animals.
there was even a maze30, and in the middle was a giant bushy tree carved into
the shape of michael6 holding a small child. there were benches around the leafy
michael6, and i used to sit on them and read comic books29 for hours at a time as
jesus20 manicured the bushes.
24] well, it might have been some sort of loin cloth, but it sure looked like a diaper
to me.
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when have i ever lied to you? he demanded, thinking of each time.
25] it was a sony, i believe, which was michael’s6 record company at the time.
26] i mean, it was really big, by far the biggest painting i had ever seen41.
27] i found out much later these were known as “crush” videos.
28] michael jackson, a soul/r&b singer whose early fame for musical brilliance was
over-shadowed by his eccentricities and relationships with young boys4.
29] i really liked thor and spiderman a lot, and michael had loads of comics in his
mansion, way more than you could ever read in your whole life40.
30] now that i remember that maze, i am reminded of the one in “the shining38.”
31] michael6 taught us how to suck the air out of cans of whipped cream and hold
our breaths until it made us feel lightheaded and funny. he said it was even better
than jesus juice, but it just made me feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. i threw up
on michael’s6 carpet in the bedroom, and he was livid. it was the only time i had
ever seen him angry.
32] michael6 would usually be dressed in a dark forest green smoking jacket sort
of thing with these absurdly pink house slippers that he thought were a gas, and
he would just sit there on a big orange faux-leopard skin bean bag chair and
encourage us to jump on his bed, laughing and shouting, “shoot more whipped
cream on him! jump higher! higher!” i still remember the look of joy on his face.
33] who has mustaches these days? mustaches are weird. cops seem to have a
thing for mustaches. it must be some vestige of ‘70s masculinity. i think it makes a
person look cheesy and cheap. whenever sean pean37 is playing a character that is
unsavory in some way, he always wears a mustache.
34] i think if michael jackson6 is truly guilty of the crimes that are alleged, he should
go to prison36, but i really hope he gets counseling while he is in there, because if
there is anyone in need of counseling, jesus christ, it’s michael jackson6.
35] if michael jackson6 turns out to be innocent, then i hope the people who made
him go through all this pay very, very dearly, then i hope michael jackson6 leaves
america and stays the rest of his life in a country48 where people will leave him
the fuck alone.
36] if michael6 goes to prison, he will probably not last very long. he would
probably die there long before he is due to be released, and that would be such
a sad end to such a turbulent life. i hope he gets help. i don’t know if michael
molested anyone, but i do know he never molested me. it was jesus20 who did it
while we were in the garden20.
37] sean pean is one of my favourite actors. his movie “the assassination of richard
m. nixon” was amazing.
38] the scariest movie of all time40, especially those scenes with the creepy little
girls and that elevator gushing blood.
40] i cannot confirm this.
41] which is not to say that i had seen all that many large paintings as i was only 12
at the time, but still it was huge.
42] i think they were mice, but they could’ve been rats.
43] don’t get me started.
44] you have never40 seen a bathroom as opulent as this one. the sinks were literally
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who do you want to be today? she asked. someone who’s happy, he said.
gold. not just golden, but made of solid gold. the toilet had a seat that was not only
covered in velvet, but it was self-heating. the spigots for the sink we shaped like
the arching necks of swans with the water spilling gently out of their mouths. and
the tub? wow... it was as big as a jacuzzi. we4 took many bubble baths together with
michael6 watching from the toilet seat, and the suds nearly went to the ceiling.
45] while i would never want to disparage anyone’s religious beliefs, i have to say
that the whole “no blood transfusions” thing kinda weirds me out about jehovah’s
witnesses. i asked a jehovah’s witness once if they would just let their child die if
they were in need of a transfusion, and this jehovah’s witness said, “better to let
the body die than the soul.” i don’t know if i believe in that50.
46] port is a very sweet wine with spices and a notable raisin flavour. it’s higher in
alcohol content than most wines, according to the guy at the wine store.
47] neverland ranch wasn’t really a ranch; it was more like an amusement park. my
favorite part was the garden23.
48] france? sweden? luxemborg?
49] i got better.
50] to be honest, i am not sure what i believe.
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early morning sun catches in dewdrop prisms on dead gutter bird.
the girl on the bus (1994)
she rides your bus every morning.
sits in the very front, in the old people section.
she’s pretty. knit gloves, corduroy jacket, sandals with thick
socks. long light-red hair. young, maybe 19, 20, long and slender
like a willow branch.
you don’t know what color her eyes are, but she smiles your
way almost every time she gets on the bus. it’s a yes-we-ride-thesame-bus-and-i-see-you-every-morning smile, but it’s friendly. she
never shows her teeth when she smiles but you bet they’re straight.
and white. you bet she smells like ivory soap and flowers, with a
hint of patchouli oil.
she gets off two stops before you do, at the university, she and
her backpack. she almost always pauses just before leaving, her
hand curled around the silver rail along the wall, and flashes you a
quick i’ll-see-you-on-the-bus-tomorrow smile. then, she’s gone.
you work during the day.
the bus drops you off a few blocks from the restaurant. you’re
a cook. 8-3, weekdays. you don’t talk to the other cooks much.
you just listen to their music — their banda, their salsa, their
cumbias — and fry and flip and mix and stir and scoop and hand
the waitresses their orders on greasy plates. during the winter the
owner overcompensates for the cold outside and turns up the heat.
in the dining room it’s nice, but in the kitchen, with the grill and
the fryers and the ovens, it’s miserable. in no time, you’re sticky
with sweat, greasy balls of warm moisture rolling down your back.
the orders are all the same, variations on a theme. eggs, bacon
or sausage, hotcakes or toast, maybe a hamburger steak or a ham
steak or a new york steak. you don’t have to think about it much.
your hands know what to do. your eyes, too, taking in exactly what
is needed from the scribbled orders ripped from waitresses’ pads.
your mind wanders.
you wonder what she does. probably lives at home, in the same
73
you look familiar, he said, sipping his latte. no i don’t, she said.
bedroom she’s lived in forever. maybe she lives in an apartment
with roommates, two to a room to cut the rent in smaller pieces.
maybe she lives on her own, with cats. tapestries and beaded things
on the walls. a hand-me-down couch and love seat to match in the
living room, a mattress on the floor in the bedroom. blue lights to
replace the bright white ones. no television, but a nice birthday
present stereo. maybe she buys all her cds used.
does she work? maybe she’s a counter girl at some shop. maybe
she works at a clothing store. not an antiseptic mall store, but a
funky clothing store downtown. maybe she works at the s.p.c.a.,
caring for animals, or at an old-folks home. maybe...
...cheese on their eggs...
marti’s talking. she’s 7-3 today, 3 tables in section 2 and 4 in 3.
she’s holding a plate at you, her arm sticking through the window
between the kitchen and the dining room. you ask what kind of
cheese, she says cheddar, and you grab a handful and sprinkle it on
top of her 2-egg scramble.
thanks. she smacks her gum and walks away.
you look at the clock on the wall. 10:30. an hour and a half
before your fifteen minute break. an hour and a half before you
can wash some of this grease from your hands and face, before you
can put your head under cold running water and pat your buzz-cut
clean again. cleaner, anyway.
you get an order for a breakfast sandwich, no yolk. it’s for liz,
10-4, section 5, by the bathrooms on the side. crack the egg, slop
the yolk back and forth in the two halves of shell and let the clear
white ooze into the metal “mason jar ring” on the grill that fries
it in shape. open-faced english muffin half and a slice of american
cheese. egg on top with a spatula. ladle the thick gravy, lumpy with
sausage, but not too much. slide the plate of food onto the stainless
steel shelf in the window, under the red heat lamp, with the order
slip sticking from under the plate like a tongue. order up.
later, 3:15, and you’re walking the eight blocks downtown
to the university, the collar of your blue workshirt still wet from
head-soaking. you’re running a little late for your 3:30 class. child
development, a general education class. you like to get there a bit
early to finish the reading you’re usually behind on. plus, it allows
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pushed you on the swing. pushed you ‘til you flew right off. pushed you ‘til you cried.
you to sit in the very back, away from everyone. you’re sure the
sponge bath in the deep sink at work does little to hide the fry
cook smell.
it’s dark outside, and cold, by the time class ends. you walk to
the bus stop two blocks away. get onto the bus. go home.
and you read. do homework. watch teevee. shower. go to
sleep. in your single bed, wedged up against a wall under the
window, you look up through the venetian blinds at the trees.
at the trees. at the moon. at the stars.
the next morning is full of rain and cold. by the time the bus
comes to your stop, you are soaked to the skin, shoes bleeding
cold water and mud. you slosh over to your usual seat, in the
middle, next to a window, and pull out a book from your dripping
backback.
two stops later, at her bustop, only the two high school kids get
on.
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sock in living room. balled up panties in corner. lube bottle on floor.
sorrow (1994)
harold had been rising slowly through the clouds for several
hours. the edges of his pantlegs and the back of his flannel shirt
billowed and flapped in the breeze of upward movement.
he glanced at his wristwatch, then at the unseen earth beneath
his red hi-top sneakers. he pulled the brim of his baseball cap
closer to his eyes and looked upwards, towards the sun.
the thick hush of moist air within the cloud bank began to thin,
and after a few moments, dissipated as harold rose up and out.
a wide panoramic view of fluffy cloud tops below and the darker
cloud bottoms above spread 360 degrees around harold, extending
into blue forever.
harold slowed to a stop just above the cloud floor and scanned
the far reaches of the horizon, looking left, right, all around. he
floated forward slowly as he looked, his dangling feet kicking up
white tufts of vapor as he changed direction. the zig-zagging path of
his sneakers etched a ski-run trail through the clouds.
momentarily, harold stopped, taking off his ball cap and wiping
the cool moisture collected on his brow with the back of his hand.
the air was wide-wide open up here, fresher than any harold had
ever tasted. it was crisp, ripe red delicious apple crisp, and prickled
his skin like a blast of cool air from a refrigerator in summer time.
he breathed deeply, took off his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped
them with the tail of his shirt, then replaced them on his freckled
nose once they were clear.
he checked his watch again, bringing its face close to see
through the beadlets of water built up on the inside of the glass
case, then proceeded back and forth across the softly undulating
cloud terrain. searching, left and right, all around, his body angled
slightly forward as he moved. harold brought both hands to his
mouth, cupping the word he shouted:
chinook?
he stopped abruptly again, his hands opening and closing,
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sleep is a lover spurned. she has stopped returning my late night phone calls.
opening and closing, his head angled slightly.
chinook!
he spun his body to the left, moving forward a little faster,
following his voice. he stopped again, right hand reaching into his
trouser pocket and pulling out a yard-long jute rope, one end tied
into a fraying loop and the other sporting a chipped metal clasp.
harold slid his right hand through the loop and allowed the rope
to hang down beneath his feet, carving a rat-tail trail in the milky
froth.
chinook!
he stopped again, kicking up cloud as he skidded to a halt. his
left hand cupped his ear as he slowly rotated, his eyes panning.
suddenly, harold jerked his head around, leading with his ear.
nothing. nothing but the wind. he moved slowly forward, his
face pinched with concentration.
there — way, way in the distance — a sound so slight it could
be imagined, yet just above the shushing wind. harold’s eyes
pinched tighter, his body angling towards the sound, his right hand
clutching the worn rope.
there it was, for sure this time, faint but distinct:
the far-off bark of a dog.
he moved faster now, cupping his hands to call out, chinook!
his call was answered, this time closer, just over the next hill of
clouds. faster and faster, his arms spread in greeting, his face split
into a toothy grin. harold’s whole body shook, his kicking feet
leaving a rippling wake behind him.
faster, faster, up and over a cumulous rise, harold flew,
disappearing behind a mountain of white mist.
the clear sounds of laughter, of joyous barking and excited
shouts, filled the space between the clouds.
77
if you love something, let it go. if it does not come back, then kill it.
doug, cale, and the closet king (1994)
camper van jim morrison.
We were sitting on our raggedy-assed couch, my roommate
Cale and me, watching teevee and playing Camper Van. It was the
fall of my sophomore year and this was the first apartment I’d lived
in since moving out of the dorms.
Camper Van Janis Joplin.
The game we were playing was called Camper Van, after the
defunct college rock band Camper Van Beethoven. Cale and I
spontaneously invented the game one drunken evening, coming
up with other composers for the name of the band — Camper Van
Chopin, Camper Van Liszt, Camper Van Stravinsky — back and forth
until one of us couldn’t think of another composer. If the other
could then name just one more, he won.
“Camper Van John Lennon.”
The game this particular night was Camper Van Dead Rock
Stars Who’s Names Began With The Letter ‘J.’
“Camper Van...uhm, Camper Van John Belushi.”
“I don’t know if he’d count, man,” I said. “He was an actor, not
a rock star.”
Cale retorted with, “What about The Blues Brothers? It was a
side project, but they put out albums and toured.”
He had a point. Besides, the shots of Early Times whiskey were
beginning to take effect. I didn’t care. It was Friday night, I didn’t
have any homework, and my rent check hadn’t bounced yet. Life
was good.
“Okay, fine,” I said, “how’s about... Camper Van... Camper
Van... oh, wait, Camper Van Jimi Hendrix.”
“Damn!” Cale was burnt. I’d ripped his next answer right out
from under him. He slammed another shot of whiskey and thought
for a moment, his eyes on the teevee screen. Jeopardy, with shitty
reception and the sound turned all the way down.
About this time, we heard someone come in through the front
78
if life gives you some lemons, squeeze lemon juice in its fucking eyeballs.
door. The wiggle of the doorknob. The jingle of keys. The creak of
the door opening. The clomp clomp of boots down the hallway. It
could only be one person: our other roomie Doug.
Cale and I exchanged amused looks, then counted slowly to
three. One, two, th...we heard the jingle of keys as Doug unlocked
his room door, opened it, and closed and locked it behind him.
Queer bird, that Doug. I had only ever seen him once, when
he answered our “Room For Rent” ad and moved in two months
before. We hadn’t spoken to him and he hadn’t spoken to us since
then, mostly because he was gone in the morning before either
of us got up and went straight to his room at night. Instead, we
communicated via Post-It notes on the front door. Cale would leave
a note saying “Doug, rent is due,” and the next day there’d be a
7-11 money order for the amount along with another note saying
“Here’s rent.” Same thing for the power and trash. No phone,
though. Doug had his own phone line installed two days after he
moved in.
He had his own personal refrigerator in his room, so he never
had to worry about sly roomies drinking his milk or scamming his
cheese. The only reason I knew this was because I saw it when he
first moved in.
Doug also had his own car, a Chevy hatchback like the kind
they gave away on The Price Is Right in the ’70s. And since Cale and
I hated television and refused to buy cable, Doug had his own cable
hook-up in his room. You could sometimes see a pale light oozing
from under his door at night, like from a television screen, but
never any sound. We figured he must listen to it on headphones.
In fact, he must’ve listened to everything on headphones
because no sound ever came from his bedroom. Ever. Not even
breathing. Cale was sure he saw an IBM clone computer and a
component stereo system with Doug’s pile of stuff when he moved
in, but we never heard a peep from either of them.
He also never got any mail...at least, not from our mailbox, so
he must have had a post office box somewhere in town. Or maybe
he had them sent to his work. If he got mail. If he did work.
“Camper Van Brian Jones,” Cale trumpeted, smiling proud and
knocking back another shot of Early Times. He winced as it went
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i knew a girl named nikki. i guess you could say she was a sex fiend.
down, then pumped his arm in triumph, yes!, yes!, yes!...
Maybe Doug was a trust-funder like Cale. Cale’s parents were
rich beyond belief and paid for everything. Rent. Food. School.
Car payments, gas, electricity. Everything. Cale didn’t even need
roommates, and could’ve been styling in some nice condo, but he
chose to live here in this funky townhouse two blocks from the
university.
Cale’s father had made a fortune inventing things. Not really
impressive things that changed the world or saved anyone’s life, but
little stupid shit that he’d patent and make mint from.
His first invention was the little green tab that keeps the plastic
bag gathered on a loaf of super market bread. They’re everywhere.
His “E-Z Lok” jobbers ended up replacing the twist-tie thing
because they cost half as much to produce. Cale’s dad raked in a
cool million dollars every year just on those little plastic tabs.
The next big idea was a replacement for those plastic packets
of ketchup you get at fast food places. His little “Mess-Free
Condiment Dispenser” had two small containers of whatever
needed dispensing that were crushed together, splooching the
product through an opening in the top. What made these special
was you didn’t have to bite a triangle of plastic from the corner
of the packet anymore. The mess factor was, as his father put it,
“virtually eliminated.”
Cale’s dad had been hard-selling the idea to fast food
corporations all over the country and McDonald’s and Wendy’s
were test marketing his thingamajig in Denver, Seattle and San
Diego.
Millions. Millions on these little convenient bits of plastic.
And he hadn’t even been to college. Cale said his father’s biggest
disappointment growing up was that he hadn’t invented Silly Putty.
Maybe Doug was a trust-funder, too.
Maybe not.
As for me, I was working as a dishwasher at the nearby Holiday
Inn. It was just down the street from our apartment, so I walked
to work. I rode my mountain bike everywhere I couldn’t walk and
rode the bus anywhere I couldn’t bike. Things were so set on the
alternative transportation tip that I left my car back home at my
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chipped blue nail polish. mic cord wrapped ‘round clenched fist. sharp intake of air.
parents’ the last time I was there.
The townhouse was only a two bedroom, so I slept in the
closet underneath the stairs. It wasn’t so bad...it was big, like eight
feet long, with a sloped ceiling at least seven feet high at the door
and three in the very back. I had enough room for a narrow futon
bed, a lamp, and a couple of boxes for my clothes and some books.
The rest of my stuff was kept at a “U Store It - U Lock It - U Keep
The Key” place a couple of blocks away.
I had planned on staying in the storage facility when the dorms
kicked all the students out for the summer, but Cale offered to
rent his closet to me for $50 a month, plus a share of the utilities.
For some reason, it never really seemed strange that I was living in
somebody’s closet.
“Uhmm...Camper Van...shit...Camper Van...” This next one
was going to be tough. Brian Jones was my wild card pick. I didn’t
expect Cale to think of last names beginning with ‘J.’ Who else?
Kurt, River, Elvis, Karen Carpenter...no ‘Js’...what about the chick
from 7 Year Bitch, the chick that O.D.’d on heroin...fuck, fuck,
fuck...and that other chick from Hole, what was her name?
Before I could speak, the sound of a door opening wafted
down the hall. Cale and I exchanged curious looks again. Doug?
Out of his room? Impossible!
And yet, there was the unmistakable shuffling sound of his feet,
the jingle of his keys, and they were heading for the front door. He
was breathing heavily, too. Like he was carrying something.
Cale raised his eyebrows to me, like what? He lifted his head
slightly and shouted, “Hey, Doug! You outta here, man? You going
to the store or something?” He looked to the almost empty bottle of
Early Times, then at me and smiled. “We’re almost out of Squirrely
Mimes. If you’re going to the store, can I give you some cash to
pick up some more?”
We waited. All we could hear was Doug’s breathing, bouncing
off the walls from the entryway and into the living room. After a
moment, he set down whatever he was carrying, something that
sounded heavy, and said, “No, I’m not going to the store. I’m going
to visit a friend of mine for the weekend.”
Cale and I exchanged quick double-takes, eyebrows raised in
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walmart universe. single mothers orbit racks of discount clothing.
shock. A weekend trip? With a friend? Our Doug? Unprecedented!
He hesitated again, then picked up his load and shuffled out
the door, locking the bolt behind him.
We waited for the sound of his car taking off down the road,
then jumped from the couch and into the entryway. Cale pointed
to a set of four indentations in the carpet.
“You see these? Wheels from the bottom of a suitcase. Our
boy’s going somewhere and he’s packed a suitcase. Wow! And do
you smell that?” Cale pointed to his nose, then sniff-sniffed.
I sampled the air. Nothing at first, but then the unmistakable
smell of Old Spice made its presence known. Our boy was
powdered and ready.
“Dude, you don’t think old Iggy has found a girlfriend, do
you?” I asked. We’d been referring to Doug as Ignatious since he
moved in, after the mama’s boy in A Confederacy of Dunces who
lived at home with his mother until he was like thirty-five and
stayed locked up in his room all day.
Cale just shrugged his shoulders, pooched out his lips — could
be? — then said, “Alright, you quit? “
“Quit what?” I asked, then remembered it was still my turn at
Camper Van. Damn...I was blank.
Oh, oh, oh! Led Zeppelin...the, uhm, the drummer! I blurted
out “John Bonham! Camper Van John Bonham!” and Cale started
jumping up and down, slapping his knee and yelling “Damn!” over
and over. Yes!
We finished the rest of the whiskey. Cale couldn’t think of
another Dead ‘J’ and I couldn’t think of just one more to clinch
it, so the game was a draw. Cale said he was off to bed, then ran
upstairs to use the bathroom before I had a chance to move. The
bastard shut the door laughing, because he knew I’d have to pitch
a whizz and he always took a fucking week on the toilet. The
downstairs bathroom, the one we considered Doug’s, had been
stopped up for the past few weeks, so I had to take a piss outside in
the bushes.
The crabapples had been used as a latrine so many times I’m
surprised the poor things didn’t shrivel up and die. It was nice
outside. A cool breeze blew through my hair, the smell of trees and
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china would envy you if it knew about the wall around your heart.
grass and autumn was in the air, and I was taking a nice, fat piss
against the building... I closed my eyes and enjoyed it immensely.
When I opened them again, I was looking at the window
behind the bushes. Iggy’s window. I pushed aside the bushes and
tried to peer through the glass. Nothing but the reflection of my
eye staring back at me. It looked like he’d covered the inside of his
window with something like black construction paper or blackened
aluminum foil. It made me think of the crack house down the
block, with all its windows blacked out and graffitti all over the
porch.
Hmmm...queer bird, that Doug. Odd bird. I went back inside
and into my closet, crawled into my down sleeping bag on my
futon, and went to sleep.
The next afternoon, Cale and I were bored so we started
dialing 1-800 numbers at random, seeing what kind of businesses
we could find. The porn lines were the easiest. 1-800-FUCK-YOU
was phone sex, as were 1-800-BIG-TITS, 1-800-HOT-HOLE, 1800-WET-LIPS, and 1-800-MY PUSSY. In fact, they were all the
same company, as if they had gone and reserved all the best smut
numbers they could think of all at once.
1-800-DICK-BOY, though, was the Bank of New York business
line, which cracked our shit up. So did 1-800-NUT-CASE, which was
some sort of crisis hotline, and 1-800-HI JERRY, which was Jerry’s
Automotive in Mobile, Alabama.
We tried to find devil worshippers for half an hour, like 1-800I’M SATAN and 1-800-666-HELL, but then got bored and just sat
there on the couch. The teevee was on as usual, with the sound
turned off. Some talk show was on. Women with big hair and men
with mustaches were screaming at each other and pointing their
fingers like pistols.
Cale suddenly turned to me and said, “Dude, let’s see what’s in
Iggy’s room.”
I looked at him like he was insane. “No, let’s not,” I said,
shaking my head. “Besides, his door’s probably locked.”
“So, I can jimmy it open. C’mon, I’m bored.” Before I could say
a word, Cale was off to the kitchen to fetch a butter knife. We met
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makin’ love in the afternoon with cecilia up in my bedroom.
in front of Doug’s room. Cale knelt in front of the door, wedging
the butter knife in the space between the door jam and the door,
near the knob. A couple of wiggles, a twist, and suddenly the door
was open.
A warm push of stagnant air billowed from the room and
engulfed us both in a locker room stench of soiled underwear and
dirty socks. It had a musty body odor smell, like a room full of hot,
wet sheepdogs breathing too hard. Dirty clothes were everywhere,
on the floor, on his bed, hanging from his closet door...he couldn’t
have vacuumed even if he wanted to because the floor was so
cluttered with shit.
And then there was his computer desk. Immaculate. Not a
scrap of dirty clothes on it, not even dust, and all the books and
cables and computer things were arranged just so... He had a
kicking computer chair with gray upholstery and hydraulics that
neither of us remembered Doug bringing in, and a sheet of hard
plastic underneath it for the casters. Blinking lights flashed from
under the desk and little humming/ clicking sounds spat out in
time to the blinks.
Cale cat-walked over to the computer, choosing his steps like a
land mine de-fuser, and started looking over the computer, trying
to figure out how to turn on the monitor. After a few seconds he
“Ah-hah!’d” and clicked the power switch.
“The main part of the computer is already on, and the disc
drives are humming,” Cale said. “Iggy’s got some shit going on.
Maybe he’s hacking the pentagon or something. Little bugger’s
gonna get us...”
“Dude, look!” I said, pointing to the monitor’s full color
display. On the screen was a slender column of text and a large
full-color graphic of a nude woman spread wide-open like a Hustler
centerfold. As we looked in mock horror, the text scrolled up from
the bottom as more words were added to the column of text.
I looked at the words...it appeared to be some kind of
conversation, only of the worst sex talk bullshit variety. “This
fucker’s on-line to some sex talk thing. He must have a modem...”
Cale pointed to the hard drives under the desk. “See those...I
think those are networked...dude, and look at all the modems he’s
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i punch sleep in the nose. it kicks me in the shins. we fight all night long.
got under there. There’s like twelve of ‘em. Iggy’s not subscribing
to some sex line, he’s running a sex line! He’s got some kind of
computer sex cyber-shit going on! Man, no wonder he locks his
room. Fucking freak.”
Cale opened a desk drawer, then jerked his hand away as if
a viper were about to tear into him. He screamed, “Ewww, look,
look!”
I peered into the deep drawer and saw a collection of rubber
gloves and sex toys, cock rings and pumper things and squeeze
tubes of K-Y Jelly. The gloves had globbers of schmeng on the tips
and little curly-cues of pooby hairs stuck in the knuckles.
Cale was thoroughly disgusted and started making noises like
he was about to retch. His hands were held high in the air like he
didn’t want to get anything on them.
“Let’s get outta here, man, this is fucking gross!” Cale said,
heading back towards the door.
I closed the drawer, switched off the monitor, and turned to
leave when I spotted a sheet of computer paper in the laser printer
on the floor. I bent to pick it up.
“Wait a second, Cale, c’mere.” I read the print-out to him.
It appeared to be a transcription of some conversation through
Doug’s cyber-sex network. Two people named GREYWULF and
BRIGHTEYES were talking back and forth, and they appeared to be
setting up a meeting place.
“Look, man, it says they’re going to meet up in Davis, at some
pizza place near the state college,” I said. “Iggy’s gone and met
some cyber-chick and he’s driving all the way to Davis to meet her.
Man, and look at this shit they’re saying...’The WULF is hungry, he
needs to tell, he’ll give you inches and give it well.’”
“Dude,” Cale asked, “Rock You Like A Hurricane?”
“Yeah,” I replied, disgusted.
“Yuck, put it back, man, let’s go. I’m gonna have to shower just
from being in here.”
I placed the paper back into the printer just the way I found it
and we both left, locking the door behind us.
Doug came home late that Sunday night, toting his luggage
and huffing. Cale and I were in the living room on the couch as
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all the love i send to you comes back to me marked return to sender.
usual, watching the teevee with the sound turned off and playing
quarters. We tensed up, waiting for the inevitable scream of “Who’s
been in my room!”
After a few minutes, Doug’s door opened again and we heard
his footsteps our way down the hall. Here it comes...we both
hunched down in the couch, trying to bury our shoulders in the
cushions in defense.
I saw Doug’s shadow on the wall and heard his breathing. He
cleared his throat and said, “Cale? I need to talk to you.”
Cale gave me a pained expression like he just swallowed
something sour, got up and walked to the hallway to speak with
Doug. I heard their mumbling...I couldn’t make out what they were
saying, but it didn’t sound angry or confrontational.
Doug’s shadow seemed to gesticulate a lot while he was
talking, something I had never seen it do before. Usually, Doug’s
shadow just clung to the wall like a water stain. I didn’t know if this
meant he was agitated or what, but it meant something.
A few minutes later, Cale came back and sat down next to me
on the couch. The shuffling sound down the hall told me Doug was
going back to his room. I looked at Cale, my expression a what?
He just smiled and said, “He’s moving out...and no, it’s not
because we were in his room. I don’t think he realizes he was
violated yet. Anyway, he says he’s moving out by Tuesday. He wants
me to give him the current power bill so he can figure his share,
and says I can keep the security deposit since he can’t give me a
month notice.”
I just shook my head. “Maybe he knows, or suspects...”
He cut me off. “No, man, I think it was BRIGHTEYES. You
should’ve seen him. He was grinning this big toothy grin the whole
time he was talking to me. I think he’s convinced himself he’s in
love and he’s moving to Davis to be with her.”
Cale asked if I wanted Iggy’s room once he was gone. He
offered to keep the rent at $50 a month...he’d just tell his mom to
send enough money to cover the rest.
I thought about it...it would be nice to have more space, but
the thought of living in the same room as Doug and his Internet
Sex Dungeon gave me the willies. I decided to stay in the closet.
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we slay all suckuhs who perpetrate and lay down law from state to state.
Cale kept the room empty the rest of the semester. In fact, he kept
it locked the whole time and told people it was cursed.
On the teevee, some Star Trek thing was on. Captain Jean Luc
Picard’s face was blood-red from some emergency light and the
camera’s view jerked all around like an earthquake.
“Dude,” I said, tapping Cale’s knee. “Camper Van Jerry Garcia.”
Cale just yelled “Damn! Damn! Damn!” and slapped his knee.
Yes!
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moonlit lovers mix their moans with water rushing over river stones.
the butt triplets (1999)
The ceremony began the same way at every apartment in every
seaside town that my family moved to when I was a kid.
The night after the first day of unpacking would be reserved
for me and my kid sister Nelly and our new rooms. After all the
sweaters and pants had been unpacked, and all the books and
dishes and pots and pans had been put into new cupboards and
cases, and all of my father’s crisp navy uniforms had been lined
up in single file in the hall closet, there would a point where my
mother and father would pause and exhale deeply.
They would look around the living room with their arms
akimbo, surveying the empty boxes turned upside down in a pile
in the corner and the stacks of bulging boxes yet to be emptied,
and one or the other would look at my sister Nelly and me and say
something on the order of, “Well, I guess it’s time for you two to
start work on your rooms.”
This was our cue to grab our toy boxes and run into our own
rooms and begin the process of reassembling a space that roughly
resembled the last space, a place we would call home until the next
time we moved to follow our father’s ship.
I had exactly three boxes with my name on them — Alex
(clothes); Alex (books); and Alex (Star Wars + 4 SQ). This last
box was the most important box of them all, holding within its
weary cardboard sides the keys to my schoolyard identity. I was a
freak for anything remotely connected with George Lucas and had
every imaginable action figure and ship associated with Star Wars,
plus I was the very best four square player any schoolyard on the
west coast had ever seen, perhaps even the east coast and beyond.
Buried beneath piles of Boba Fetts and Jabba the Hutts and Luke
Skywalkers were the crusty pair of driving gloves my dad gave me
that were used solely for schoolyard four square.
I hefted this most important box and made my way down the
hallway when my sister Nelly shouldered past me with her box
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and then, suddenly, dark swollen clouds surround us and choke out the sun.
labelled “Nelly (Barbies).”
“Move, Stupid!” she yelled, then added, “Mom, Alex pushed me
into the wall!”
I turned into my room and closed my door before my mother had a
chance to yell at me.
I knealt beside my bed, already covered in my Star Wars blanket
and pillowcase set, and gently opened my box. And right on top,
like always, were my four square gloves. I lifted them out of the
box and held them, looking at all the creases and folds caused by
countless battles on the blacktop.
I had no idea then, as I slipped on my gloves and unpacked my
precious toys, that I would meet my most dreaded enemies the very
next day.
Bertha, Buelah and Bathsheba Butt were the biggest, meanest,
most foul-spirited little wicked third-graders in all of my elementary
school career.
They were ruthless evil incarnate, and those little girls ruled
the four-square court like a mini mob syndicate. Only they weren’t
so little. From a 8-year-old vantage point, they were a living,
breathing three-headed Mount Rushmore of a pain delivery system.
Colossal.
Gargantuan.
Cyclopean.
Roget’s Thesaurus doesn’t have enough synonyms for “way
bigger than you” to describe these beasts. They weighed in at 80
pounds each, easily, with fists the size of fishbowls and arms that
rippled with brute strength. I’m sure they could’ve easily benchpressed 100 pounds, a feat that still eludes me today, and their
butts... oh, never has a trio of thugs ever been so aptly named.
I was sure you could land jet planes on their backsides, their
magnificent, frightening backsides.
I was the new kid again at this, my latest school, after having
just moved from Someplace Else for the fourth or fifth time in two
years. I was really shy, painfully shy, but I had two things going for
me that allowed me to insinuate myself into schoolyard societies
from Bremerton, Washington, to San Diego, California: I could
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grab handfuls of sun, lock them in your heart and save them for rainy days.
read four grades ahead of everybody else, and I kicked ass in four
square.
I could’ve lettered in four square if they had held official
competitions, and my mom’s mantelpiece would have been strewn
with statues of little golden boys holding pebbled four-square balls
over their heads in triumph.
I had mastered all the tricks of the trade: baby bouncies, corner
shots, backstops, double troubles, fakies, spins and my signature
move — the mighty Behind-the-Back Schlebotnick. Oh man, if I
whipped out the Schlebotnick just forget it... pick your jaw off the
floor and put your eyeballs back in their sockets and march to the
hind end of the line, Buster Brown, because you’re outta there.
The first thing I did on the first day of some new school was
check out my favorite book from the library: “My Side of the
Mountain,” by Jean George, a great book about a kid who runs
away from home to live in the forest with his pet peregrine falcon.
The next would be to size up the schoolyard competition at the
four square courts.
I’d stand at a respectful distance from the line of kids waiting
to hop in the first square, rubbing my jaw in deep thought. I’d
gauge second and third square strategies and watch the moves of
the servers. I’d listen to variations in the blacktop lingo and check
out the local procedure for calling “rules.” Then, I’d hop in line and
wait my turn.
The servers would always think they were hot stuff, especially
the ones who had held the position for consecutive recesses, but I’d
knock out the second square like nothing with a quick cornershot.
When I’d advance to second square and the next person in line
filled the first square space, the server would inevitably announce,
“Rules! No corner shots!” and smirk at me as if they had defused my
only bomb.
Yeah, right.
I’d take out square three with a deft fakie with a backspin for
sugar and occupy it, smiling like a mercenary when the server
shouted, “Rules! No corners and no fakies and no spins!” They’d try
to look smug, but they’d be worried by this point.
I remember this one server who tried to ban everything, but I
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tonight is the first night in three years i did not think of you. wait... damn!
demanded he call them out by name, so he shouted, “No corners,
no fakies, no spins, no backstops, no bumpers, no over-heads,
no toe-peggers, no double-bouncies, no baby-bouncies and no
punchers!”
You should’ve seen the look of triumph in his eyes, thinking
he had plucked all the fruit from my cherry tree and was about to
chop me down, but I still had my secret weapon whose name only I
knew: the dreaded Behind-the-Back Schlebotnick.
Once I unleashed the Schlebotnick, the server was mine.
Then, I would cement my reputation as King of the Four
Square Court by reigning supreme all recess. I was a kind king,
however, and took days off to let the other kids play while I sat
under a tree at the far end of the playground reading “White Fang”
and “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” and “Blubber” and “The
Cat Ate My Gymsuit” and “Hello God, It’s Me Margaret.” It added an
air of mystery, I figured, and a little mystery is almost always a good
thing.
Well, on the second day of this latest of new schools, I had
already claimed the crown and was holding court before an
admiring crowd when the evilness made its first appearance.
I was playing an easy game, not really paying attention and
thinking more about adventures in the forests with pet peregrine
falcons, when I heard one of the kids in line whisper, “Uh oh,
the Butts.” I looked up and saw several kids get out of line and
walk hurriedly to the swingsets. Even the kids in the squares eyed
each other nervously and shuffled their feet, finally removing
themselves one by one by one until only I was left, holding the four
square ball and asking, “What’s wrong? Don’t you guys wanna play
anymore? Where are you guys going? Guys?”
I managed to grab some kid by the shirt sleeve as he was
headed for the tetherballs and asked him what was up, and he
nodded his head behind me and said, “The Butts, man, the Butts
are coming.”
I looked and saw them for the first time from across the
playground, stalking toward me with faces sour as vinegar and fists
clenched with purpose. The kid yanked free from my grasp and
ran to the bathrooms as the Butt Triplets took the first, second and
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little kid hangs head. tears sting hot summer sidewalk. balloon floats away.
third squares. They were massive chunks of third-grader, each with
shaggy pig-tails held together with rubberbands and tight corduroy
pants and t-shirts stretched against their bulky midsections. They
had tiny, piggy eyes shadowed by Neanderthal brow ridges and no
necks whatsoever... their heads just popped out of their massive
shoulders like boulders on a hill.
And I was dumbfounded, holding the ball against my skinny
chest like a lifevest. After tense moments just staring me down,
Bathsheba, the loudest and most ornery of the bunch, spat on the
ground and snarled, “Ya gonna play?”
I cleared my throat, shuffled a bit in my Kangaroos, and
bounced the ball a couple of times, my eyes darting from Buelah
to Bertha to Bathsheba, then back again. I finally licked my lips and
said, “Uhmmm... no rules. Everything goes.”
A collective gasp rose from the kids watching from behind the
jungle gym and the monkey bars and the rings and the swingsets.
This was the schoolyard equivalent of looking someone in the eye
and telling them to give you their best game — a no holds barred,
toe-to-toe, knock down, drag out fight to the finish for four square
glory — and was usually reserved for die-hard rivalries that brewed
to boiling points and demanded resolution.
This, though, this immediate calling out was like going to fullscale nuclear war the second the enemy’s troops massed on the
border.
And the Butt Triplets didn’t even flinch.
They just crouched down, like linebackers, ham hands on burly
knees, and waited.
As a hundred sets of eyes peered on, the battle began. I served
Buelah a purposely easy lob just to see what she would do with it.
One second she was frozen there like a hunk of granite with the
red four square ball arcing in slow motion toward her, and the next
instant the ball was rocketing back in my face. Dear Lord, I didn’t
even have time to blink and only through sheer force of will did
I manage to stop the ball from sailing into the troposphere with a
graceless fling of my flailing left hand.
And that was the last time I saw that ball. For the next 45
seconds, I only felt it as one after another — Buelah, Bertha and
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my life is a huge office telephone with the hold button blinking.
Bathsheba Butt — pummeled me with jackhammer blows from all
three squares at once with what seemed like 257 four square balls.
I abandoned every trick I had ever used and threw every ounce
of energy into just moving as fast as I could. This was no time for
finesse, this was survival! They pelted me with a monsoon of red
blurs, and I was there for each one, man, using Jedi superpowers to
arch my body and stretch my limbs in never before seen angles to
return the ball.
It was brutal. Every hit was immediately returned with
lightening speed. If it hadn’t been for the recess bell, I’m sure
I would have spontaneously combusted, but, suddenly, the
lumbering behemoth that was Buelah snapped into sharp focus
and held the four square ball and growled, “You just wait ‘till
tomorrow.”
With that, the Butt Triplets walked away without so much as a
parting glance, and I stood there, gasping, wheezing, t-shirt soaked
with sweat, hair matted to my forehead, one shoe kicked off, arms
hanging limply at my sides, and thought to myself that Christmas
vacation was a million miles away.
That night, I glared up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my
ceiling — this latest set purchased at the navy base hobby store just
two days before — and tried in vain to think of anything other than
the evil Butt Triplets.
I frowned at the green galaxies of plastic Saturns and Jupiters
and crescent moons and the plastic Tie Fighters and X-Wing
Fighters dangling by fishing line from the light fixture. My arms
were crossed tightly across my chest, and I visualized ghastly public
floggings, gruesome sessions of torture and maiming, and clouds
of black crows and locusts that chased the horrible sisters down the
playground and plucked the beady eyes from their sockets.
A soft knock at my door made me jump, and, for a moment, I
considered not answering, but then I crawled from under my Luke
Skywalker comforter and padded to the door and opened it.
It was my sister Nelly, a full foot shorter than me and in her
Barbie Underoos. I had the old urge to yell at her and tell her to
go away and stop bothering me, to yell it really loud so the whole
house would wake up, but I stifled it. Things had been really
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baby fist-sized rain pounds timpanis on the van roof as you slumber.
tense lately, and these late night meetings had been happening
more often than usual. I let her in and closed the door behind
her, watching as she clomped across my room in the dirty pink
elephant slippers Aunt Ruby had given her last Christmas.
When my father was home, we just avoided each other until
dinner, which we then ate in silence by ourselves at the kitchen
table while our parents ate in front of the television in the living
room. But, when my father was out to sea, we vied for my mother’s
attention by constantly bickering and pointing out the flaws of the
other. This behavior would continue until I graduated from high
school, to be replaced by an icy distance bridged by brief phone
calls during holidays and tragedies.
“Sometimes I hate Dad,” she said, looking down at her feet as
she dangled them over the side of my bed. The ears of her slippers
flopped back and forth.
I sat down next to her and looked down at my bare feet, at the
dirt wedged in the nail of my big toe. I told her that I felt the same
way sometimes, especially when mom and dad argued.
“Yeah,” she said.
The wind blew softly outside my bedroom window, brushing
the azalea bushes in the flower beds against my ratty screen. That
sound wasn’t scary anymore; mostly it was annoying. The ‘fridge
kicked on in the kitchen and my Obi-Wan night light flickered.
“Mom cried again today,” she said, still looking down at her
feet, fingers clutching little handfuls of my blanket.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I was playing Barbie in your room and ...”
“My room? Nelly...”
She stopped kicking her feet and raised her hand.
“... and mom was putting away towels and I was playing Barbie
and then it got all quiet and then I heard her crying and I don’t
think she knew I could hear her, but I did.”
The fridge buzzed. The wind blew. Something somewhere
inside the house creaked.
“Did you cry, too?” I asked.
“No.” She bit the corner of her lower lip and reached down
and pulled off one of her elephant slippers, scratched between her
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my love’s a missile, and your heart’s a small country i’m gonna blow up.
toes, flicked a bit of fuzz onto my floor, then put her slipper back
on.
We sat there for a while, kicking our feet and listening to the
night sounds of the house and the world outside my window. After
a while, Nelly plopped off my bed and walked to my door, her
pointy heel bones clomping through the bottoms of her slippers.
She opened the door just a crack, just wide enough for her thin
body to slip through. She disappeared except for her hand, curled
around the edge of the door and still grasping the knob.
“Nelly?”
Her hand paused, then a whisper floated from behind the door,
“What?”
The wind blew again, raking the bush across my screen and
fluttering the curtains.
“Stay out of my room when I’m not home.”
I stared at her hand for a few more moments, then she closed
the door between us and clomped back down the hall.
The next day was a rainy one, full of storm clouds as bruised
and swollen as my mood. I woke up stiff and sore and achy, then
used up all the hot water taking a long “Hollywood” shower, as my
father would say. I ate cinnamon toast in the kitchen with Nelly and
tried to ignore the strained mood between my mother and father in
the living room. They were talking about moving again, this time to
base housing, even though we still had boxes lining the walls of our
latest apartment. My mom was upset because she had just enrolled
us in yet another school.
I didn’t care; I was used to this moving stuff. In fact, if we
could’ve moved right at that very second, I would’ve applauded the
idea. I dreaded going to school. I knew I’d have to get right back
into that pit of vipers known as the four square court and defend
my servership, and I felt drained just thinking about it. If I could’ve
thought of a good excuse — toothache, brain cancer, arthritis of the
eyeball — I might have used it, but I felt I couldn’t back down.
I couldn’t lose my spot.
So, I trudged off to school in my old red raincoat and prepared
to meet my destiny. It rained the whole way, all eight blocks, and
by the time I made it to the cafeteria to eat hot oatmeal with raisins
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she drifts and floats like incense smoke, hips of flame and eyes of candle wax.
and a carton of 2% milk, my cowboy boots were soaked. The ink
from my free breakfast punch card got all over my jeans and stained
the tips of my fingers mimeograph purple.
I ate alone at the corner of a long, white table heavy on one end
with gabbing, giggling, soaking wet schoolkids I didn’t know. I
usually enjoyed sitting by myself when I ate in the morning, but this
time I felt a little paranoid, as if people were sneaking glances at
me over their shoulders and muttering hidden things from behind
cupped palms.
I only looked up once in the brief time I ate my meal, and
when I did I saw the Butt Triplets across the cafeteria, huddled in a
soppy clot at the end of another long table. They sat by themselves
and ate in silence without looking up. They weren’t wearing
jackets or coats, just limp hooded sweatshirts that dripped into the
Styrofoam containers of their oatmeal and raisins.
I looked through the foggy wall of windows along one side of
the cafeteria and saw the four-square courts in the playground. The
grey sky was reflected on the surface of a huge black puddle, and
circles radiated crazily as rain drops hit.
My head hurt. I was already starting to sniffle.
When the first recess bell finally let us out of class two hours
later, the kids all lined up at the edge of the school buildings,
just under the lip of roof that caught the rain and directed it to
overflowing gutters. The playground asphalt was covered by a
greasy sea of blackened rain water and the tetherballs hung limply
from their poles and swayed in the wet breeze.
All the kids were huddled together in a long mass, their hands
thrust deep inside the pockets of their jackets and raincoats,
hunching their shoulders to keep the wetness from creeping
down their necks. It was weird... on most rainy days at most of the
schools I’d gone to, the kids tended to stay in the cafeteria, playing
chess and checkers and Monopoly or just talking in flocks that
moved from one side of the room to the other. But here, everyone
seemed to be staring out at the soggy swamp of a playground ...
... oh God.
Just then, a hubbub erupted twenty people down the line and
several kids scattered as Bertha, Buelah and Bathsheba Butt burst
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i’ve had to pee for three hours, but i don’t want to leave this nice warm bed.
from the crowd and stomped through the curtain of rain falling
from the roof and marched in the direction of the four square
courts. Bathsheba was in the lead, kicking the rainwater into a
huge spray with her dirty white tennies and headlocking a red four
square ball under one arm.
I looked down at my cowboy boots, soaking in a puddle inches
deep, then looked down the line of dripping schoolkids. They were
all staring at me, every single one of them, and they didn’t look
away when I met their gazes one by one by one.
... oh God.
I looked back down at my soggy, wrinkly hands, then back up
at the Butt Triplets who were standing in the first, second and third
squares of a water-logged four square court, then back down at my
hands again.
I sighed a big shivering sigh, held it, then took my Luke
Skywalker backpack from my shoulders and handed it to the redhaired kid standing next to me.
“Can you hold this for me?”
“Yeah,” the kid said, and he held it by the straps with both
hands.
I took one last deep breath and stepped through the curtain of rain
toward the four square courts.
Bathsheba glared at me as I took my spot in the server position,
spitting venom through tiny eye slits, then held out the four square
ball. When I tried to take it, she snatched it from my grasp and
sneered, “I double dog dare you to let us call rules.”
What kind of trick was this? This wasn’t... you weren’t supposed
to be able to do this! The server was supposed to be the one who
called rules, they knew that, so... so... what was this? What kinda...
Bertha, Buelah and Bathsheba Butt said nothing, they just
stared me down like gargoyles, and I tried my best to stare right
back at them.
Fine. Fine. Let them call rules. I told Bathsheba that she could do
whatever she wanted; it wasn’t like other people hadn’t tried this
nonsense before. The crowd behind me began to mutter, blending
with the wind that slanted the rainfall.
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everything’s your fault! he screams, pointing his finger toward the mirror.
The Butts looked at each other, nodded their heads as one,
then began rattling off a huge list of styles and power moves that
they intended to ban from this game: basic tricks that every kid
who had ever played four square knew by heart; advanced tricks
that only the most veteran players could use; obscure tricks that I
hadn’t seen in three or four schools; plus a slew of esoteric moves
I had never even heard of with names like “googlies” and “bone
crushers” and “bloody Marys.” They went on and one, rattling off
move after move, trick after trick, with each Butt contributing every
bit of four square lore they seemed to know.
I just stood there with my arms crossed, resisting the urge to
roll my eyes at this last minute act of desperation. When they finally
stopped, I reached out for the four square ball and snapped, “Okay,
fine, you done now? You satisfied now? Can I have the dumb ball
now?”
Bathsheba stepped toward me, but as I reached for the ball she
again yanked it from my grasp and held it up over her head and
away from me.
“Nuh uh, we’re not done yet, no sir.” She spat, wiped her mouth,
then moved closer to me. She curled her finger and beckoned as
if she wanted to whisper something in my ear. I looked over my
shoulder at the crowd of people behind me — it seemed like the
whole school was watching, including a few teachers — then craned
my ear closer to Bathsheba’s mouth.
She screamed, “AND NO BEHIND-THE-BACK SCHLABOTNICKS!”
Oh the pain! Oh the agony! Oh the humanity!
My eyes opened wide, my mouth froze into the shape of a
capital O, my hands clawed at my face... I became a third grade
dramatic interpretation of Edward Munch’s “The Scream.”
Before I could even mouth the word “how,” Bertha answered
my question by jumping up and down and pointing and shouting,
“It was on your PeeChee! We saw it written on your PeeChee! Ha
Ha, you wrote it all over your PeeChee!”
The Butt Triplets then did something that I had never
seen them do in the brief history of our rivalry: they laughed
— big bellowing evil belly laughs like pregnant hippos choking
themselves on some cruel joke. In between laughs, they gasped for
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downtairs apartment. steel-toed boot drops hard above. man stares at ceiling.
air to power even more laughs.
I was horrified.
Of course, they were right. On the yellow PeeChee folder in my
backpack I had doodled all over the basketball player guy, changing
him into a championship four square player with my name
scrawled on the back of his jersey. Over his head was a bubble that
said, “No one can stop the Behind-the-Back Schlebotnick! Die! Die!
Die!”
How the Butts had seen it, I’ll never know, but there I was
stripped of my secret weapon, and it was all my fault because I fell
for the oldest, most devious trick in the book. In front of the whole,
entire school, too. I was so embarrassed... had this happened the
year before, I would’ve run from the playground with my face
covered, but I fought against that urge and stood my ground.
As her sisters continued to laugh and mock me, Bathsheba
reached over and handed me the four square ball.
There was nothing left to do now but serve the ball and play
the best game I could, given the wind and the rain and the cold and
the fact that every single bit of support had been snatched from me.
I bounced the ball twice, wincing at the spray of dirty water that
weighed down my jeans, and crouched down in my server position.
I reached around and pulled up the rear end of my pants, rubbed
the rainwater from my eyes, then I hit the ball to Buelah in square
two and readied myself for the firestorm to follow.
And Buelah hit the ball gently to Bertha in square one, who
then hit the ball gently to Bathsheba in square three, who then
returned the ball gently to Buelah once again. I kicked up water
in tiny tidal waves each time the ball exchanged sisters, realigning
myself to receive the ball, but each time the ball avoided me and
made a graceful arc to one of the three sisters. This continued, back
and forth, back and forth, and I found myself muttering, “C’mon...
c’mon... gimme the ball...”
But they kept it up, lobbing the ball to each other in a gross
mockery of four square, the kind of four square you play with little
kids, not with each other, and they acted as if I wasn’t even there,
like they were just hanging out, just wasting time, as if the whole
school wasn’t watching our every move. I straightened up a bit,
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my lover is at her most beautiful when she is singing to me.
with my hands on my waist, and said, “C’mon, guys, stop messing
around, and let’s play four square.”
Then Bathsheba started chanting, “La la la, la la la, la la la,”
in rhythm with the movement of the ball. Buelah joined her, then
Bertha, playing little kid four square with that stupid, irritating,
sing-song nonsense.
“La la la, la la la,” like little kids playing four square on the
sidewalk outside of their grandma’s house, as if everything in the
whole stupid world didn’t depend on this very game. I couldn’t
believe the insolence, the... the... why, they were disrespecting
me and... and... MOCKING me in front of the whole school. They
were afraid, dammit, they were afraid of giving me their best game
because they had already tried that, yeah, and I had beaten them at
their own game, yeah, and now... now they were trying to keep me
from exercising my right to be server by messing around with the
stupid ball like a bunch of stupid...
... and then I saw it, the “tell,” the giveaway move, and my
Jedi mindpowers turned the entire scene into slow-mo. Buelah’s
eyes twitched toward me — PINK! — and her shoulder nearest me
dipped ever so slightly. Her knees flexed, the muscles in her calves
bulged, and she took in a deep breath and held it. The ball sailed
through the tattered veil of rain — PINKPINKPINKPINK — from the
soppy hands of Bathsheba, whose mouth was caught in mid-“la”
but whose eyes had also twitched toward me — PINK!
In that split second it was finally obvious to me what they were
trying to do, and I had almost fallen for it! My muscles tensed and
snapped my body automatically to the proper ready position: my
legs spread wide, my body low to the ground, my arms bent like
capitol L’s and my hands open and flexed for impact.
And then Buelah’s body relaxed and gently returned the ball
to Bathsheba , who then gave it gently to Bertha, who then gave it
gently back to Buelah once again.
They knew I was onto them and knew I wasn’t going down
without a fight. It gave me no small amount of pride to know that
they had to resort to blatant trickery to beat me. This game could
go all recess for all I cared, I wasn’t about to let them win.
And that’s when I sneezed.
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old man clasps his hands, closes his eyes, and gives thanks for his cheeseburger.
It seemed like such a simple thing, such an innocent little
sneeze. The wind had blown spray from a splash of the four square
ball into my face, much as it had been doing the whole game, only
this time a few molecules of grit had gone up my nose. My eyes
never wavered from the job of protecting my square, but my left
hand jumped up to scratch my nose and left behind the rubbery
smell of the four square ball. Some passage somewhere behind my
eyeballs tingled. I breathed in deeply. I snorted. I sneezed.
It couldn’t have been more than a milisecond, maybe even a
trillisecond, but when my sneeze was over and I opened my eyes
again, I saw Bertha, Buelah and Bathsheba Butt angled towards me
with their bodies frozen in the ready position. I twitched, my eyes
ping-ponging through the scene, from Buelah’s hands to Bertha’s
eyes to Bathsheba’s teeth, and I couldn’t find the ball.
I stood up and looked back over my shoulder and saw the four
square ball way in the distance, way over by the tetherballs, still
bouncing and skittering along the wet asphalt playground on its
way for the back fence.
I looked back into the faces of the kids crowded by the school
building. The clutter of capitol O’s and the utter silence told me I
didn’t need to ask if the ball was fairly played.
I looked back at the three sisters. The recess bell rang. The Butt
Triplets relaxed and straightened, and they turned and walked back
to the classrooms without a word.
It was all over. I had lost. After all those years at the top of my
game, I had finally lost.
I shoved my hands back in my pockets with a grunt and
watched my cowboy boots as they sloshed through the water on
their way back to the school buildings. When I crossed the wall
of water spewing from the rain gutter and into the shelter of the
overhanging roof, I saw my backpack lying face down in a puddle.
I reached down and felt the weight of water inside. I unzipped the
main pouch and poured ink-stained water onto the sidewalk, then
zipped it back up, placed my arms through the straps, and turned
away from the school buildings to start my eight-block walk home
three hours early.
When I got home and let my self in the apartment with the
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at least the bombs that are falling are doing so outside of my heart.
key that hung from a chain around my neck, my mom was bustling
around with her arms full of boxes. She took one quick look at me
as she walked into the hallway, then shouting over her shoulder, “I
was just about to come get you. Get off the carpet, you’re getting
everything all wet.” Nelly was sitting on the love seat in the living
room watching cartoons with her Barbie backpack at her side. She
was supposed to be at school, too.
“Are we leaving?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said, never taking her eyes off the teevee screen.
“Mom! He’s gettin’ water all over the carpet!”
My mom’s muffled voice rattled down the hallway in response,
“Honey, I told you not to get the carpet all wet! If you ruin the
carpet, your Dad’ll kick your narrow ass!”
I sighed. I couldn’t wait to get this school behind me and move
on to the next one. I dropped my backpack onto the floor and
started extracting myself from my liquid clothing.
Half an hour later, my mom drove my sister and I back to the
school to go through the procedure of checking out. There were
papers to sign, I imagine, and forms to fill out and medical files to
be returned so that we could give it all to the next school. Nelly and
I waited in the Pinto and listened to oldies on the radio. She sat in
front and played with her Barbies, and I sat in back and read an old
Encyclopedia Brown book from last year.
After about an hour, my mom came back and got in the car,
then pulled out of the parking lot for home. The rain had stopped
by this time, and the playground was filled with kids on recess.
Through the school’s chain link fence I could see The Butt Triplets
in one of the four square courts quietly lobbing their red four
square ball to each other. The other four square courts all had
quartets of chatty schoolkids, but the Butts just played with each
other in silence.
We stopped at the corner for a red light, and Bertha, Buelah
and Bathsheba Butt looked up at the same time and stared directly
into our car.
It was the last time I would ever see them or this school.
When the light turned green and my mom made a wide left
turn toward our apartment, I could’ve sworn Buelah waved.
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oh, my little veal cutlet! my lamb dumpling! my sweet potato pie!
temp hell (2002)
I SHOW UP TO WORK ON TIME,
AND I VALUE HARD WORK.
this phrase is glowing at me green from a computer screen.
beneath these words are five choices from which i am to choose
the degree to which i agree with the above statement: strongly
disagree; disagree; sometimes agree; agree; and strongly agree.
i am in a temp agency called adecco in austin, texas, and i
am in the third of what will be four hours taking tests that will
measure my ability to use such helpful programs as microsoft word,
microsoft excel, and microsoft powerpoint.
this particular test seems to be testing my moral character on a
five-point scale. let’s call it Microsoft Homeland Security.
i know which answer they want. they want to know that i am
a hard worker, that i am prompt, that i am worth the money the
client company will pay for my services. i agree with this question
with no reservation, i do, i believe that i am a hard worker. they
want me to click on STRONGLY AGREE. i feel good about it, so i do.
the next question flashes on the screen.
IT IS OKAY TO STEAL OFFICE SUPPLIES SUCH AS
PAPER CLIPS AND PENS FROM THE BUSINESS TO WHICH
I WILL BE ASSIGNED SINCE EVERYBODY DOES IT.
i smile at this one, look around the temp agency office to see if
anyone else can read this and thinks like i do that it’s a ridiculous
question, but no one is looking over my shoulder, of course. the
agency representatives are busy answering phones and faxing
resumes and e-mailing resumes and filing resumes while the
hopeful temps in this office are busy with their own tests. the only
sound besides the hushed tones of the representatives and the
clicks of the keyboards are my barely stifled giggles and the sound
of my eyeballs rolling in their sockets.
why ask such a question? do they really think someone
would actually answer this question using any choice other than
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i need a brand new dictionary. all my words are old and worn out.
STRONGLY DISAGREE?
maybe that’s the point: not to weed out the dishonest temps
from the honest ones, but to weed out the reasonably intelligent
ones from the few so incredibly stupid that they would not know
enough to click STRONGLY DISAGREE whether they were lying or
not. or maybe they want to find out who would try to bullshit their
way through it, answering the questions the way they thought the
company wanted them to answer them rather than answering them
truthfully. like, if you picked STRONGLY DISAGREE every time you
thought you were supposed to, they would think you were lying.
i click STRONGLY DISAGREE.
i hate this process. i have been here since 8 a.m., and i am not
barely halfway through with the testing. i always test in the high
90 percentile on these programs testing me for basic office skills,
but for some reason their version of Excel testing kicked my ass
with all kinds of questions i couldn’t fake. usually, you can figure
out how to answer their questions by simply rooting around the
program and figuring them out, but this version of the testing
program would score you as WRONG the very moment you clicked
on something you shouldn’t have, so i was all huffy and flustered by
the end of it.
and now this, this computerized tool rating my levels of moral
turpitude.
I TRY TO GET MY WORK DONE IN A TIMELY MANNER
SO THAT I CAN TAKE IT EASY THE REST OF THE DAY.
how do you answer a question like this without getting it
wrong? of course, i want to say that i work hard to get my tasks
finished as quickly and efficiently as possible, but i don’t want them
to think i do it just to make time for myself to flake off. seems if you
disagree with this one, it means you don’t work hard and can’t deal
with deadlines, but if you agree with it, then it makes you a slackard
who only works hard so you can fuck off the rest of the day. i have
no idea how to answer it, so i click on SOMETIMES AGREE. i am
sure i will be docked for it. why can’t this be an essay question?
i have a headache. i haven’t eaten today. i am getting cranky.
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your poetry sucks. your hairstyle sucks. your friends suck. you suck. fuck you. dick.
this computer program thing is so demoralizing, like the humans
who work here are too busy to actually interview me, so they’re
getting this computer program written in 1996 to decide whether
or not i should be trusted with office equipment.
IF I WERE OFFERED A BETTER JOB ELSEWHERE WITH
HIGHER PAY AND MORE BENEFITS, I WOULD RESPECT
MY COMMITMENT TO THE AGENCY AND NOT ACCEPT IT.
who are they trying to kid? the application i had to sign
said this job was AT WILL, which means they can terminate my
employment at any time with no advance notice for any or no
reason, and yet they think i would actually turn down a better
paying job with more benefits because of some fucking lame-assed
sense of duty to some company who makes me sign a contract
telling me they don’t give a shit about me? what the fuck kind of
idiot would agree with this statement?
i click on STRONGLY AGREE.
i need this job. everywhere i go, the temp agencies are jampacked with out of work techies displaced by the internet economy
falling to pieces, techies who type faster than me, who know more
about computers than me, who have been out of work longer than
me. i need this job, i need any job, and i need it quickly, so fuck it,
i’ll tell this computer anything it wants to hear.
I WOULD NEVER SURF THE INTERNET, CHECK PERSONAL
E-MAIL, WRITE IN MY ONLINE JOURNAL, OR MAKE
PERSONAL PHONE CALLS WHILE ON THE TIME CLOCK.
this one evokes a snort of derision from me, something
between a chortle and an outright guffaw that sounds like an
engine backfiring right there in the gentle hum of desperation
of the temp lobby. i look around to see if anyone heard me, and
everyone is staring at me, even the agency reps shouldering phone
handsets and typing at the same time. i play it off like it was a
cough, cover my mouth with my fist and cough again — “see, it was
a cough!” — sniff a little like i have a cold, and the heads turn back
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9:30 a.m. the breakfast of champions. cinnamon pop tarts.
to the tasks at hand.
if anyone merely looks at my online journal during the times i
was temping in seattle, they would see that i posted 5 and 6 times
a day for months at a time, and if they were to go back in time and
look over my shoulder as i was supposedly entering data, they
would’ve seen three or four browser windows opened at the same
time -- the new york times, my journal, my e-mail, the onion -- and
they would’ve seen two or three IM windows opened as well, me
typing 165 wpm as i carried on several virtual conversations and
wrote e-mails and entered data all at the same time.
“goddamn, that boy types fast,” my co-workers used to say aloud.
i lie, huge and bald-faced, and click STRONGLY AGREE.
I HAVE NEVER ABUSED MY ACCESS TO SUPPLIES
OR OFFICE EQUIPMENT SUCH AS COPY MACHINES
OR FAXES TO ADVANCE MY CREATIVE ENDEAVOURS.
oh my god... i could never in a million years answer this
question with even the slightest amount of truth and expect to be
employed anywhere ever again. my entire creative career has been
based on pinching office supplies whenever and wherever i could.
if i ever make it big, i swear the first thing i will do is write kinko’s
and send them a check for $25,000 with a note that just says,
“thanks. don’t ask.” why do they even bother to pose this question?
isn’t it painfully obvious what answer they want from you? what is
the point of even asking this question? it’s such a waste of my time.
my head is throbbing.
i click STRONGLY AGREE.
THE CAPITALIST SYSTEM SUBJUGATES THE WORKING
CLASSES AND TRANSFORMS HUMAN BEINGS INTO
MINDLESS DRONES WHO EXCHANGE THEIR SHORT LIVES
FOR DIRTY SCRAPS OF PAPER AND PROMISES OF A
BETTER LIFE AFTER THEY DEAD AND BURIED.
i just stare, open-eyed, slack-jawed, hands limp at my sides, my
scalp tingling danger, danger.
108
this sadness you feel will be with you forever.
“what the fuck?”
i actually say this aloud, i interrupt the murmur of the temp
lobby with a full-on, “what the fuck?” i don’t even have to look, i
know everyone is staring at me again, boring holes in the back of
my head, pummeling me with golf-ball sized question marks, they
answer my “what the fuck” with a corresponding “what the fuck is
wrong with that guy who keeps talking to himself?”
i don’t turn around to look, but i hear one of the agency reps
say, “uhhm, sir? is there anything you need help with?”
i don’t turn around, i just think, “it’s actually ’is there anything
with which i can help you.’” i clear my throat, cough, and say, “no,
i am fine, i just need a drink of water. can i get a drink of water?”
i turn and see the lady with the phone pinched between her
shoulder pad and her cheek. i can see foundation caked all over the
back of the handset, lipstick streaking the mouthpiece. i can smell
her five pack a day habit from across the room.
she nods toward the water cooler, then continues with her
conversation. i feel the tickle of a thousand imagined stares as i
slowly walk to the cooler, slide a paper cup from the stack, press
down on the light blue spigot, and drink lukewarm water. i crush
the cup, turn, and walk back to my computer.
on the screen, the computer says:
ARBEIT MACHT FREI.
i turn to the guy sitting next to me shaking his head at the
microsoft word simulation and nearly ask him if he’s fucked with
my computer, but i don’t, i just turn back to my own, finger the
mouse, and click on STRONGLY DISAGREE.
IN THE LAST THREE MONTHS, I HAVE FRATERNIZED
WITH DRUG USERS, HOMOSEXUALS, DEVIANTS, GOTHS,
SATANISTS, FEMINISTS, AND/OR HEATHENS.
my head really hurts, and my brow is harvesting greasy balls of
sweat that drool down the crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes and
mingle with my uncried tears. this is fucking weird. i don’t know
109
i wanted her to spoon me, but she ended up knifing me instead.
why i am even bothering with this fucking test. i don’t want a job
this bad. i just want to go back to hilary’s house and sit in her warm
queen size bed and pull the pale green comforter up to my chin
and look at the plants swaying in the breeze of her overhead fan.
i click on SOMETIMES AGREE.
IT IS RIGHT AND GOOD TO WORK MY WHOLE LIFE
FOR A SERIES OF CORPORATIONS THAT CARE NOTHING
FOR MY HUMANITY, THEN DIE QUIETLY WITHOUT A
STRUGGLE SO NO ONE GETS UNCOMFORTABLE.
gotta get that gold watch, get that retirement plan set up while
you’re young, get those gold clubs out of the garage and get those
tired bones in the suburban and head for the course with the other
cast-offs, gotta watch “matlock” until your hand clutches at your
chest and your wife says, “honey, you okay?”
the american dream is simply a means of keeping you numb
while you log into the hivemind and keep busy for 65 years. after
they unplug you, they don’t give a shit what happens as long as you
don’t make a scene, don’t embarass us, don’t make us think of our
own mortality.
i click STRONGLY DISAGREE.
I BEAR ONLY A PASSING RESEMBLANCE TO THE PERSON
I THINK I AM, AND NONE AT ALL TO THE PERSON I
COULD BE IF ONLY I WEREN’T SO AFRAID.
like i need a fucking outdated computer program to tell me
this shit, like i need anyone to tell me what i already know, what is
so painfully obvious. how could anyone in this society do anything
but click on STRONGLY AGREE?
i click on STRONGLY DISAGREE.
WHAT I CALL LOVE
IS ACTUALLY FEAR
OF BEING ALONE.
110
i open my eyes. i stare at the van ceiling. i go back to sleep.
fuck this. i am so out of here. i don’t even read the questions
anymore, they’re all a blur. i just lay my clammy forehead on
my palm and click the mouse in the same spot, hovering over
STRONGLY DISAGREE. i don’t care what the questions ask, i don’t
care what my answers reveal about my inner workings, i just want
this fucking horrid test to be over, i just want to go home, i just...
“sir?”
i lift my head and look to the sound of the voice to my left, and
there is the employment agent with the five pack a day breath so
close to my face i can see the little red veins squiggle at the corners
of her eyeballs.
i say, “hmmm?”
she says, “sir, your test is over. you’re all done.”
i look at the screen, it says”
TEST COMPLETE
i ask her, “uhmmm... how’d i do?”
she says, “well, let’s see.” she walks back to her desk to the
printer near her terminal and pulls a sheet of paper from it, looks it
over, then walks back to me smiling.
“looks like you did great!” she says, nodding to the paper in
her hand. “says here you qualify for just about any job we have.
congratulations! check in with us on monday, and i am sure we can
place you in a job.”
i stand up, shake her hand, and walk toward the front door.
111
mantra: i am a magnet of love and friendship. blather, wince, repeat.
how i escaped my shitty town a true story (1997)
My friend Brady was a bone-hard daddy with a mile-long dick
and a wallet so thick with old porno movie tickets it took him a
full minute and a half to pull it outta the ass pocket of his acidwashed jeans. Brady liked to say he’d slept with more women
in high school than I’d sat next to, but the only woman I’d ever
seen in the company of Brady was the 99-Triple D cup Dungeons
& Dragons wet dream tattooed on his arm with stainless steel
coffeecup titty armor sitting astride a snarling white polar bear and
waving a 13-foot long battle axe in one hand and a bloody viking
head in the other. Brady had an encyclopedic knowledge of every
porn star who had ever stepped off a Greyhound bus in downtown
Hollywood looking for a big break and ended up in movies like
“Edward Penishands” and “Bright Lights, Big Titties” and “Das
Booty.” His collection of Hustler and Playboy and Penthouse and
Fat Nasty Nekkid Biker Babes on Crack lined every free bit of
wall space in his room and spilled out into boxes and crates and
bookshelves in his garage. Brady said he would never get a hotlookin’ chick to work his weenie like a performing seal works a
bicycle horn without the cash, Slash, without the mean green, Jelly
Bean, so he was itching, he was ready, Brady was primed for some
shit to go down.
And then there was Tony Baloney but everyone called him
Grape Ape but not because he was big because Tony Baloney was
a little scraunty bastard with big-assed radar ears ó had more ears
than a methamphetamine addict got no teeth ó and the funkiest
looking head... looked just like a grape seed, so we called his goofy
almond-head shaped ass Grape Ape. Tony had been fucked with
all his life and completely ignored by girls and teachers and his
parents ó hell, everybody except for me and Brady ó and he was
ready to kick the dust of this shitty town off his Converse Hi-Tops
and see the world. But, he was poor and he was stupid and the
only job he could find was sweeping the parking lot after the minor
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7.95. cold bagel. cream cheese. small coke. i hate airport food.
league games out at the baseball diamond at the edge of town and
he never had enough money to get ahead. Tony was itching, he was
ready, he was primed for some shit to go down.
And then there was me, Plan Boy 2000, with a hand full of
Martin Scorcese videos and a head full of bad ideas. I was always
the smart one who was gonna work my way through two years of
community college as a teller in the very same bank where my dad
was the CEO. The very same bank that had big oil paintings of my
grand dad and my great grand dad on display in thick old fashioned
mahogany frames. I was the one with the pretty girlfriend already
picking out china patterns and planning backyard barbecues and
looking forward to squeezing out puppies like a baby factory. I was
the one who had it made in the shade, Roller Blade, and had my
future all planned out long before I was a twinkle in my momma’s
eye only I didn’t want any of it because I hated my parents and I
hated the banking business and as a matter of fact I was starting to
hate my pretty girlfriend but there was nothing I hated more on
this entire planet than this shitty little town and I was gonna get the
hell out of there even if it was in the back of a police cruiser with
the lights blazing and the front pages of every newspaper in the
county shouting my name in large capital letters. I was more than
itching for something to happen, man, I was breaking out in hives.
So, I hatched a plan and decided me and Brady and Tony
Baloney were gonna get the hell outta Dodge only we weren’t
gonna slink outta town with our tails tucked between our legs,
no, we were gonna go out with style, with class, with a bang that
people would still be talking about for years to come. And as my
two accessories sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, I brought
Exhibit A from beneath my bed: a fully loaded semi-automatic small
calibre solution to our problems. As their eyes went wide with
“What the Fuck?” I told them my plan. It would be an inside job,
see, with me working the drive-thru teller at my dad’s bank and
Brady and Tony Baloney coming up in the drive-thru in a borrowed
car. I say, “Can I help you?” Brady shows me the gun and Tony
Baloney says, “Show me the money, mother fucker!!!!” The bank’s
got a policy written in stone, you see, that says, “If they ask for it,
you give it to them. Your life isn’t worth the money.” Boom boom
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11 p.m. the alaskan sky is blue as my lover’s eyes.
boom, I fear for my life, boom boom boom, I put the money in the
cassette and put it in the suction tube, boom boom boom, Brady
and Tony slowly and calmly drive away and I wait a few minutes
before I report it because I’m so nervous at having a gun pointed at
me. Hell, I’ll probably get a month’s free counciling out of it and be
proclaimed a motherfucking hero and my comrades will be waiting
for me in a hotel room in Las Vegas with three girls who look just
like the tattoo on Brady’s arm! And my friends are down with this
caper, brothers and sisters, they are ready to dig in on my shindig
and little dollar signs light up in their eyes and Tony Baloney says
to me, he says with a shaking voice, he says, “You know, I’ve got
a monkey head mask I could wear and nobody would even know
it was me.” And I say, “Goddamn it, Grape Ape, you show up in a
monkey head mask and nobody’s even gonna know the difference,
you big goofy Cantina scene in Star Wars looking motherfucker.
Besides, I’ll take that gun from Brady’s hand and shoot you with it
myself! Just stay cool and try not to drool, Fool, and I’ll serve up
the money like pastafazool!”
The big day arrives and I am cool as a cucumber, slippery as
a snake in the green green grass and I’m working the drive-thru
teller like I always do and everything is fine as fine wine and the
appointed time comes... (dot dot dot) and goes (period). Click
clock click, the clock ticks, and my eyes be picking out every white
sedan that comes gallumphing through the drive-thru, but not
a damn one of them is carrying Brady and Tony Baloney. Click,
clock, click, sweat’s beading on my lip, and still no Brady, and still
no Tony Baloney. Click, clock, click, goddamn it, my hands are
shaking, where the fuck are they, my nerves are quaking, where the
fuck are they, I’m feeling the tickle of a thousand imagined stares,
click, clock, click, I drop two $20 dollar bills on to the teller booth
floor and bend over to get it and bump my goddamn head on the
table on the way up BAM! and as I rub my head I look outta my
window and what should I see?
A white sedan being driven by some dumb motherfucker in
a goddamned monkey head mask! And the silly motherfucker in
the passenger side is wearing a Casper the Friendly Ghost mask!
Believe you me, brothers and sisters, my hands were shaking
114
the howls of gossip reverberate against the high school hallway walls.
more with rage than with fear as I pushed the intercom buttom
and hissed through clenched teeth, “May I help you?” And the
monkeyhead just looks at me and I’m looking at the monkey head
and I say it again, I say, “May I help you?” and the monkey head
turns and looks at the Casper the Friendly Ghost head then back
at me, then nods it’s head up and down, so I clench my teeth so
tightly the windows in a thousand counties could shatter into a
bzillion tiny pieces and I punch the intercom button and I whisper,
“Take off the goddamn monkey head mask...” and the monkey
head looks back at the Casper head then back at me and shakes it’s
fucking monkey head, ëno.’ So, I hit the intercom button with the
palm of my hand and snarl, “Where’s the gun, peckerhead?” and
the Monkey head looks down and brings up the gun holding it like
it was a dead fish and he shows it to me, so I pound the fucking
intercom button four or five fucking times and I say, “Where’s the
goddamn note?” and the monkey head is still sitting there showing
me the gun and looking over his shoulder at the Casper head and
I say it again, I say, “Where’s the goddamned note?” and I hear
them muttering to themselves back and forth and I see the Casper
head climb into the back seat while the Monkey head opens the
glove compartment door and I take my knuckle and jab it into the
intercom button and say, “Do not tell me you forgot the fucking
note, you fucking monkeyheaded motherfucker, DO NOT TELL ME
YOU FORGOT THE FUCKING NOTE!!!” and then I feel a tap on the
shoulder...
“Is everything alright?”
...the muffled sound of screeching tires blends with the creak
of my neck as I turn to see the shift manager standing there behind
me, his eyes darting from me to the teller window then back to me
again. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can’t breath.
“You’re all white... and you’re forehead is soaking... do you
need a break?”
...and I manage to croak, “Yes, I need a break.”
And as the shift manager presses his head against the glass of
the teller booth and looks at the black tire trail engraved in the
drive-thru pavement, I slowly walk out of the teller booth and walk
through the lobby and walk out the front door and I walk down
115
for sale: one childhood. mint condition. hardly used. free, or best offer.
the street and I feel something in the fist of my left hand and I look
down and it’s those two $20 bills I’d dropped on the floor so I take
a left at the used clothing store and march toward the Greyhound
Bus Station with a brand new plan and I never look back.
116
alone... bad. friends... good. that frankenstein knew what he was talking about.
microwave (2005)
the stage is set up with a table and two chairs. BRYAN is at the
table chilling, reading a magazine and drinking something. in
walks EIRIK with a huge fuzzy lump on his neck. he walks in and
sits down in the chair across from BRYAN, pulls a magazine from
his backpack, begins reading. BRYAN looks up casually, then reacts
when he sees the huge fuzzy lump on his neck.
BRYAN
dude!
EIRIK
what?
BRYAN
what the fuck is on your neck?
EIRIK
dude, chill...
(makes like he’s trying to cover it up with his collar, looks
sheepishly around to see if anyone heard BRYAN’s outburst)...
BRYAN
dude, it’s fucking huge.
EIRIK
i know, i know, be cool, man... my microwave oven is all fucked up,
and i think it’s gone and infected this pimple i had on my neck.
BRYAN
that’s not a pimple! that’s a fucking big-assed radioactive tumor,
and it’s got fucking hair and teeth!
117
the hardest question in the world to answer is this: baby, what’s wrong?
EIRIK
i think it’s got a pulse, too.
BRYAN
a pulse? you need to get that shit, removed, man! it’s only going to
get bigger. jesus! i’m sick to my stomach just looking at it.
(beat)
does it hurt?
EIRIK
no... it’s actually... it’s actually kinda... warm... and soft... kinda
like... kinda like a cat.
BRYAN
like a cat? jesus! you need to get that thing removed! it could turn
into cancer! it’s worse than cancer! dude, it’s got teeth and hair and
a pulse! you gotta cancerous siamese growing out of your neck,
man! you think it’s hard to get a girlfriend now, wait until she gets a
load of your tumor kitty!
EIRIK
jeez, man, it’s not that easy... i’m really light on funds right now. i
think i’m just gonna wait it out and see if it goes away.
BRYAN
wait it out? what, are you gonna wait until your tumor’s using the
goddamned potty box? man, get out of here with that thing, it’s
grossing me out. jesus! god! get out of here before somebody sees
you and calls the tumor police!
EIRIK
fine, whatever...
(slinks off trying to lift his collar to hide the fuzzy lump on his
neck)
118
think kids are angels? just try working at the sears portrait studio!
BRYAN goes back to reading his magazine, then lifts the card from
table. the card says “TWO WEEKS LATER.” he puts the card back
down and continues to read. EIRIK walks onto the stage and has
ZARA curled onto him with her face buried in his neck. she does
not walk, but merely hangs onto EIRIK as he walks for both of
them. EIRIK walks up to the table where BRIAN is sitting reading
his magazine. BRYAN slowly looks up and reacts very violently.
BRYAN
what the fuck!
EIRIK
dude...
BRYAN
holy fucking shit, dude, is that your tumor?
EIRIK
yeah, i think it’s getting worse...
BRYAN
getting worse? getting worse?!? it’s not only got teeth and hair, but
now it’s got eyes and... and... fucking... boobs... what the fuck, man,
you’re turning into some kind of freakshow! you need to find a
doctor right now and get that shit cut off, because... because... fuck,
dude, have you looked at yourself in the mirror?
EIRIK
yeah, i know... but... it’s weird... i don’t think i want to have it
removed anymore.
BRYAN
you don’t want to have it removed anymore? dude, you have a
tumor growing out of your neck shaped like a human being! you
either have to get that shit removed or... or... go on... fucking...
tour... i don’t know... teach your tumor to play piano and sing like
karen carpenter or something... take up the banjo or... accordian...
119
i will always believe our love was supposed to be the one.
EIRIK
you see, that’s just it... we really do have a lot in common...
BRYAN
well, yeah, like blood flow!
EIRIK
no, i mean... when i play my favorite music, it kinda starts... i don’t
know how to say this... it’s kinda starts purring... i think it likes the
same music i like... and when i was watching “the godfather” the
other night, i could’ve sworn i saw it smile. i’ve been dressing it so
people won’t stare as much, and i think it likes my style.
BRYAN
it’s a tumor! granted, it’s kinda cute... i mean, as far as tumors go,
it’s kinda... well, it is kinda hot... but you see, it’s not some girl you
picked up in a bar, it’s a TUMOR GROWING OUT OF YOUR NECK!
EIRIK
be cool, man... i don’t want you to hurt its feelings...
BRYAN
it’s feelings!? it’s a... it’s a fucking tumor!! i mean, it’s kinda sexy for
a tumor... i mean... it’s kinda... does it play videogames?
EIRIK
dude, it totally kicked my ass at “Guitar Hero” last night.
BRYAN
this is... this is really... really... say... how did... you say it was your
microwave, right?
EIRIK
yeah, i think it’s broken.
BRYAN
could i... uhm... could i... uhm... borrow... your microwave...
120
mosquitos attack little kid’s ankles as he licks his ice cream cone.
EIRIK
what? why? (suspicious, holds ZARA-tumor)
BRYAN
well, i don’t know... i was just thinking...
EIRIK
well... i guess you can... just be careful... and don’t blame me if you
suddenly have a ferret growing outta the side of your neck. just go
over to my house and pick it up. (gives BRYAN keys)
BRYAN
thanks, man... don’t, uhm... don’t mention this to... uhm...
EIRIK
don’t worry.
BRYAN leaves. EIRIK remains at table reading a magazine with
ZARA sitting on his knee. EIRIK picks up card and shows it to
audience. it says “TWO WEEKS LATER.” he puts it back down and
reads magazine. BRYAN’s voice can be heard offstage.
BRYAN (off stage)
dude.
EIRIK (looking around)
dude?
BRYAN (off stage)
dude, over here.
EIRIK
dude, what are you doing in the bushes?
BRYAN (off stage)
dude, is there anyone else around?
121
red stain on roadway. could be paint or blood. biker tightens his helmet.
EIRIK (looking around)
no, it’s just me. what are you doing?
BRYAN enters stage, and he’s got DAVID attached to him like a
tumor with his face buried in BRYAN’s neck. BRYAN drags himself
over to EIRIK’s table and stands there. EIRIK is horrified.
EIRIK
holy fucking shit! what the fucking fuck?
BRYAN (practically crying )
dude, your microwave is totally fried.
EIRIK
i’ll say! goddamn, it’s huge! and... what’s that horrible smell?
DAVID the tumor lifts leg and farts really loud. EIRIK is horrified.
BRYAN is mortified.
EIRIK
oh god! it’s horrible!
BRYAN
i know... it ate all the butter last night while i was asleep.
EIRIK
while you were asleep?
BRYAN
i think it’s figured out how to walk, and it just drags me behind it
and does its unholy deeds as i sleep. the other night...
EIRIK
yes?
BRYAN
man, i am so sorry to say this...
122
homeless man watches krispy kreme donut machine through foggy window.
EIRIK
yes, yes, what is it?
BRYAN
i woke up at about three in the morning... and i was... dude... i was
in your bed. IN YOUR BED!
EIRIK
what?
BRYAN
and my tumor and your tumor...
EIRIK (stands up from table in shock)
what?
as they stand there, DAVID and ZARA slowly raise their arms
toward each other in mute yearning.
EIRIK
dear god!
BRYAN
dude, it wasn’t my fault...
EIRIK
i am SO going to return that fucking microwave!
EIRIK storms off stage leaving BRYAN and his DAVID tumor alone.
BRYAN stands there for a moment, then slowly puts his arms
around his tumor, who then puts his arms around BRYAN.
the lights fade as “close to you” by the carpenters plays.
the end
123
man watches teevee. ad pitches frozen pizza. man fondles keychain.
seesaw (2005)
BRYAN wakes up on stage with a big chain around his leg. he grabs
at it, tugs it, he screams, he shouts.
EVIL GUY voice is heard in a computer voice like the one stephen
hawking uses.
EVIL GUY (voice-over)
hello, mister johnson. let’s play a little game. let’s say that i have
your wife and children held hostage, and let’s say i have a gun
pressed to their foreheads, and you alone can save them.
BRYAN
you bastard! where are you? what do you want with me! you’d
better not hurt them or i will kill you!
EVIL GUY
ha ha ha... your loyalty to your family is very touching, mister
johnson, now let’s see if you can use that loyalty to keep them
alive. behind you, you will find a backpack.
BRYAN scampers around and finds a backpack just off stage.
EVIL GUY
inside the backpack, you will find a slice of cherry pie. you have
exactly three hours to eat that slice of cherry pie without using your
hands. if you cannot do this, mister johnson... your family dies.
how much do you want them to live? ha ha ha, muah haa haa...
BRYAN dives into the pie and eats it voraciously as the EVIL GUY
laughs a cruel and wicked laugh. BRYAN finishes the pie in mere
seconds and throws the plate across the room.
124
black cat stretches on hot summer sidewalk. man waits for the bus and sweats.
BRYAN
there! there, you bastard, i finished it! now let my wife and
daughter go!
(pause)
EVIL GUY
so... uhm... you finished it already?
BRYAN
yes! it’s all gone! all of it! now let my family go!
(pause)
EVIL GUY
did you use your hands?
BRYAN huffs and raises both hands over his hands to show that
they are free of any cherry substance.
EVIL GUY
very good, mister johnson, well done, well done indeed. but that
is only the first test of your loyalty, the first test of how badly you
want to live, how badly you want your family to live. behind you is
a small brown paper sack.
BRYAN
you promised! you said if i ate the piece of cherry pie...
EVIL GUY
silence! you do not want to upset me, mister johnson... my trigger
finger tends to twitch when i am upset, and i am sure your wife
would not appreciate the consequences. now... the brown paper
sack...
BRYAN reaches off stage to pick up the brown paper sack, which he
opens to reveal a rubick’s cube, which he stares at in wonder.
125
moisture beading on mason jar of cold sweet tea next to brown house plant.
BRYAN
what the fuck is this?
EVIL GUY
it is a rubick’s cube, mister johnson.
BRYAN
i can see that, smart ass, what do you want me to do with it?
EVIL GUY
you have exactly two hours to solve...
as EVIL GUY is talking, BRYAN is flipping the rubick’s cube around,
and he solves it in no time.
EVIL GUY
... the rubik’s cube before i...
BRYAN
there! there! i solved it! i solved your stupid rubick’s cube! now
keep your promise, you son of a bitch, and let my family go! if you
hurt one hair on their heads, i will kill you! i swear to christ i will
kill you!
(pause)
BRYAN
hello? are you there?
EVIL GUY
you’ve already solved it?
BRYAN
yes! see! it was easy! it took, like, two twists and a turn!
EVIL GUY
i don’t believe you. hold it up so i can see.
126
dented chevy grill. matted hair, blood, teeth. driver remembers nothing.
BRYAN holds up the solved rubick’s cube, twisting it back and
forth to prove that it is indeed solved.
EVIL GUY
damn...
BRYAN
now let me go! you gave your word!
EVIL GUY
silence! let me think for a moment...
(pause)
EVIL GUY
okay... behind you, mister johnson, you will find...
BRYAN
no! this is bullshit! i keep doing everything you tell me to, but
you’re not keeping up your end of the bargain! what happens when
i do this next stupid little test in five seconds? huh? what then?
EVIL GUY
oh, mister johnson, i hardly think that will be a problem. behind
you, you will find a dufflebag...
BRYAN
yeah, fine, a duffle bag, and now i’m opening it, are you watching
dick? and what do i find? oh, look, it’s a riddle! let me guess, i
have three fucking hours to solve your fucking riddle, or my family
fucking dies, right?
(BRYAN reads note dramatically with arms outstretched)
“A box without hinges, key, or lid, Yet golden treasure inside is hid.”
you stole that shit from “the hobbit,” you little bitch! it’s an egg! an
egg! big fucking deal! oh, let’s see what else you’ve got behind me...
127
man chews hamburger and scowls at homeless man, thinks, it’s not my problem.
BRYAN dives backstage and pulls out several boxes, bags,
backpacks, and containers, and spreads them out for all to see. He
solves each stupid little puzzle in mere seconds, mocking the EVIL
GUY as he does it. one is a magic eye 3-d thing, another is a maze,
another is one of those truck stop puzzles with the twisted nails. in
the end, the remains of all the tests are strewn about the stage.
BRYAN
there! i solved them all! all your stupid little puzzles! you are the
saddest excuse for a psychopathic serial killer in the whole world!
who did you plan on kidnapping and testing with these stupid
fucking tests? a blind seven-year-old with no arms?
(pause)
BRYAN
huh? answer me!
(pause)
EVIL GUY
you don’t have to be such an ass about it.
BRYAN
oh, I’M being an ass? YOU kidnap ME and chain me to the fucking
wall and hold my wife and daughter hostage, and I’M the ass?
EVIL GUY
look... i’m just trying to do my thing, you know... this is my first
time, and i’m just trying out some new things...
BRYAN
well, fuck man... your tests were fucking lame! i mean... a rubik’s
cube? i didn’t even know they sold those any more! i haven’t seen
one of these things since eighth grade. if you had only bothered
to... i don’t know... mix it up a bit, i might still be solving it, but you
didn’t even try to make it hard.
128
depressed punker kid watches blind man in crosswalk and silently nods.
EVIL GUY
at least it was harder than those rubik’s snake things. remember
those? those were so easy...
BRYAN
i don’t want to fucking talk about the goddamned rubik’s snake,
bitch, this whole thing is lame! lame! you’re fucking lame! you’re
whole test thing is lame... and look... this chain? it’s not even
locked! i knew it all along, and i didn’t want to make you feel bad!
and i knew you were bullshitting about my wife and kids because
i not only don’t HAVE a wife and kids, but i’m GAY! what the fuck,
dude, didn’t you do any research?
(pause)
EVIL GUY
i was just... i was...
EVIL GUY starts to sob...
BRYAN
oh jesus christ! now you’re crying!?
EVIL GUY
i can’t help it, man. everything i try just turns to shit. all i want to
do is be good at something. just one thing, is that so wrong? is it so
wrong for me to want to be good at something?
BRYAN
well... shit... man, maybe you need to try something else, because
this whole... psychopathic serial killer thing... man, it just doesn’t
seem to suit you.
EVIL GUY
yeah, i guess not... maybe i can go back to school... finish my
thesis...
129
the smoke of burning bridges chokes out the sun and brings tears to my eyes.
BRYAN
look, i’m just... uhm... i’m gonna head out... you, uhm... you take
care of yourself, okay?
EVIL GUY
yeah... man... sorry about all this...
BRYAN exits the stage. lights go out...
EVIL GUY
call me.
130
she wears a dress of spider silk, pink champaign, and dark black shadow eyes.
lord of the breakfast club #1 (2004)
SCENE 36. EXT. - a meadow in RIVENDELL
MERRY, PIPPIN, and ARWEN huddle around a raging fire, rubbing
their hands against the heat and staring deeply into the flames.
ARWEN (to no one in particular)
You know what I wish I was doing?
MERRY
Oops, watch what you say, Pippin here is a cherry.
PIPPIN (to MERRY )
A cherry?
ARWEN (staring off into distance)
I wish I was on a swan-shaped ship sailing into the western sunset.
PIPPIN (whispering to MERRY )
I’m not a cherry.
MERRY (whispering back to PIPPIN)
When have you ever gotten laid?
PIPPIN
I’ve laid... lotsa times!
MERRY
Name one!
PIPPIN
She lives in Bree, met her at the Brandywine Falls. You wouldn’t
know her.
131
if fear is a gift from god, then my life feels just like christmas morning.
MERRY
Ever laid anyone in the Shire, or around here?
PIPPIN shushes MERRY and motions toward ARWEN.
PIPPIN
Oh, you and Arwen... did it!
ARWEN (spinning around to face PIPPIN)
What are you talking about?
PIPPIN (to ARWEN)
Nothin’, nothin!
(to MERRY )
Let’s just drop it, we’ll talk about it later!
ARWEN
No! Drop what, what’re you talking about?
MERRY
Well, Pippin’s trying to tell me that in addition to the number of
hobbit girls in the Brandywine Falls area, that presently you and he
are riding the Green Pony of love!
ARWEN (to PIPPIN)
Little furry-footed pig!
PIPPIN
No, I’m not! I’m not! Merry said I was a cherry, and I said I wasn’t!
That’s it, that’s all that was said!
MERRY
Well then what were you motioning to Arwen for?
ARWEN
You know I don’t appreciate this very much, Pippin.
132
the cats love it when i sleep on the couch, but she hates it when i do.
PIPPIN
He is lying!
MERRY
Oh, you weren’t motioning to Arwen?
PIPPIN
You know he’s lying, right?
MERRY
Were you or were you not motioning to Arwen?
PIPPIN
Yeah, but it was only...was only because... I didn’t want her to know
that I was a virgin, okay?
MERRY just stares at him.
PIPPIN
Excuse me for being a virgin, I’m sorry...
ARWEN laughs.
ARWEN
Silly little halfling... Why didn’t you want me to know you were a
virgin?
PIPPIN
Because it’s personal business, it’s my personal, private business.
MERRY
Well Pippin, it doesn’t sound like you’re doing any business...
ARWEN
I think it’s okay for a hobbit to be a virgin...
MERRY looks surprised.
133
chopped chives on counter. tiny drops of blood on knife. red thumbprint on phone.
PIPPIN
You do?
ARWEN smiles and nods.
MERRY looks disappointed and amused at the same time. He
gathers up his backpack and walks away from the fire into
darkness.
MERRY
I’m tired of hanging around here with you dildos. I’m having fifth
breakfast by myself.
FADE TO BLACK
134
i could never date someone who thought sexy meant playboy underwear.
lord of the breakfast club #2 (2004)
SCENE 39. RIVENDELL - DAY
Gimli and Legolas kiss, Legolas rips a patch off Gimli’s cloak
and climbs upon his horse to ride away. We see Frodo take off a
diamond earring and put it into Sam’s hand. They kiss and Frodo
climbs aboard the sleek white swan ship, which sails into the
sunset. We see Sam put the diamond earring in his ear.
CUT TO:
40. INT. MORDOR - DAY
We see Sauron pick up a scroll and begin to read.
FRODO ( VO)
Dear Sauron, we accept the fact that we sacrificed 13 months of
our lives marching across Middle Earth to defeat you. But we think
you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we
are. You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms, in the
most convenient definitions.
CUT TO:
41. EXT. RIVENDELL - DAY
We see Sam walking towards us as Frodo’s monologue continues.
FRODO ( VO) (CONT’D)
But what we found out is that each one of us is a hobbit...
ARAGORN ( VO)
...and a ranger...
135
if you dress sexy to go to the mall, you are probably fourteen.
GIMLI ( VO)
...and a dwarf...
LEGOLAS ( VO)
...and an elf...
GANDALF ( VO)
...and a wizard...
FRODO ( VO)
Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, the Fellowship of
the Ring.
We see Sam walking across an open field outside Rivendell as he
thrusts his fist into the air in a silent cheer and freezes there.
The strains of “Don’t You Forget About Me (Elvish Remix)” swell as
Enya’s voice is joined by a children’s choir and lots of pipes and
flutes and fiddles and drum loops provided by Moby.
136
when i was a kid, i got caught humping the couch in the living room.
albuquerque penance (2003)
hatch chiles roasting
over apple wood fire in
a backyward oil drum.
the skin blackens then
crackles as chile juice bursts
in bright green bubbles.
submerged, the skin slips
easily as banana
peels on a sidewalk.
thick home-rendered lard
protects hands while unsheathing
the hottest peppers.
new mexican stew:
potatoes, onions, chiles,
and crushed tomatoes.
handfuls of cumin,
salt, pepper, oregano,
and pungent garlic.
mighty southwestern
feast worhty of poetry:
one haiku won’t do.
137
kitchen phone on floor. fist-sized hole in bedroom door. blood stains on carpet.
austin penance (2003)
couple builds fort
of carboard and newspapers
under wet freeway.
swollen lips of sky
spit rain at passing traffic.
man holds sign: need food.
toothless woman steers
shopping cart with garbage bag
umbrella overhead.
man under bridge has
four empty pants pockets and
two hungry puppies.
dirty asphalt steams.
angry car horns bitch and moan.
moist breath warms cold hands.
motorists ignore
soaking onramp veteran:
thumb pleads, “anywhere.”
election billboards
leer, if you voted for me,
you’d be home right now.
138
bright white sun-bleached clouds. waves as warm as bathwater. sand in our sandals.
sushi penance (2003)
ted the sushi chef
is a true poet, crafting
haiku from raw fish.
his poet’s palette
playfully juxtoposes
textures and flavours.
press the flesh and rice
to palate with tongue to melt
with warm wasabi.
barbecued eel and
sweet avocado mingle
in tastebud tangos.
eyes closed, head tilted,
close-mouthed smiles giving birth to
breathy sighs and moans.
cleanse the tongue with hot
green tea and pickled ginger,
then dive in for more.
pablo neruda
spent nine lives striving for what
ted does with sharp knives.
139
we peer over rail. sunlight kaleidoscopes dance in gulf waves below.
wendy’s penance (2003)
drive-thru window guy
asks, “what’llya have?” i say,
“can i get world peace?”
he says, “we’re outta
world peace. would you like to try
a burger meal deal?”
i think about it
for a moment, then say, “can
you biggie size that?”
he says, “of course i
can biggie size that. that will
be four fifty-six.”
i’m thinking of man’s
inhumanity to man...
the environment...
drive-thru window guy
hands me my order, then he
says, “have a nice day.”
hot salty french fries
won’t help world peace one bit, but
they sure do taste good.
140
it’s gas, grass, or ass. nobody rides for free, man. not even your mom.
war penance (2003)
let’s get all the chairs
and blankets and make a tent
in the living room.
we’ll order pizza,
make crank calls, and talk about
our very first kiss.
you can kick my ass
at scrabble. i’ll kick yours at
trivial pursuit.
we’ll turn off the lamps,
get in out sleeping bags, read
comics with flashlights.
we’ll fall asleep with
foreheads touching, faint traces
of smiles on our lips.
you will wake up to
the smell of fresh-baked orange
rolls and ground coffee.
it will almost be
like the whole wide world is not
sliding into hell.
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car window kid stares. i stare back for 60 miles. neither of us blinks.
road penance (2003)
1,500 miles
from st. cloud to las cruces
for our monday gig.
matthew and i have
seemingly endless supplies
of dick and poop jokes.
i drive. matthew sleeps.
cold coke. punk rock. blurred landscapes.
take a piss and switch.
matthew drives. i sleep.
hot coffee and cigarettes.
take a piss and switch.
thirty bucks gets you
a tank of gas and nearly
500 more miles.
tiny clenched fists of
pain wrench the muscles along
my road-weary spine.
i’m reeling in those
miles, sister. i’ll be home by
tuesday afternoon.
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29.9. a nearly perfect poem. just like you and me.
x-rated haiku (2007)
please note: the haiku
that follow are nasty, gross,
filthy and yucky.
if you’re easily
offended by such things, please
avoid these haiku.
in fact, you have my
permission to rip them from
this book and burn them.
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face-down gutter man drowns in rainstorm waterfall. gin bottle death grip.
144
i hate mechanics. they take your ignorance of cars and fuck you with it.
x-rated haiku (2007)
you think i am just
kidding, but these haiku are
really disgusting.
there is nothing at
all socially redeeming
about these haiku.
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oak tree sillhouette against midnight blackout sky. dogs bark in distance.
146
flickering candles. cross-legged on wooden floor talking in hushed tones.
x-rated haiku (2007)
okay. fine. look at them.
but don’t you dare say i
didn’t warn you first.
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dark smoky pool hall. ozark jukebox spits ozzy. whole room air guitars.
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masturbation is sex with someone you love, at least most of the time.
x-rated haiku (2007)
perfect summer day
playing hackey sack with your
grandma’s titties.
blood from my girlfriend’s
period is encrusted
on my fingernails.
fat cocks. wet paginas.
crashing waves of jizm.
i love family reunions.
hand on my penis,
kimberly lies beside me
watching screensavers.
she said, let’s do
something different in bed!
so, i shat on her face.
baby, if your ass
were a lightbulb, the whole world
would wear sunglasses.
the wind, the trees,
the stars in the sky all whisper...
your mother’s a whore.
my cock, your mouth, the
table, the stairs, my bed, my
god... that’s really nice.
if i knew you were
coming, i’d a bukake
bukake bukake.
you giggle as my
cock does the magic mushroom,
swelling in your fist.
eat my cum you
filthy fucking whore!
i mean, i love you, grandma!
don’t hate me because
i’m beautiful, hate me ‘cuz
i fucked your mother.
i’m gonna work that
ass like an indonesian kid
in a nike sweat shop.
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
fuckety fucking fuck fuck
kittens. fuck fuck.
my cock is a soft
ball of yarn, and your mouth is
a playful kitten.
i’m sorry the load
i shot into your eyeball
burned so much, dad.
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i vaguely remember loving you, but not really.
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sweat drips from the lips of the old man with the bomb in his shaking hand.
x-rated haiku (2007)
see? did i lie? don’t
be writing complaint letters
either! i warned you!
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shaved face on back porch. next day, birds nests are festooned with bits of grey beard.
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i’ve loved you more than anyone i’ve ever loved. isn’t that enough?
CELLOPHANE i don’t know what i think about this piece, and i half think it shouldn’t even
be in this book. and so, what a perfect poem to kick off this book than this one? this is a
purely performance piece that really makes little sense on the page. i usually start the poem
while sitting in the back of the room, and only after i have been introduced and the random
clapping has died down, and there is the mumbly silence of a room full of people wondering
why the mic is just standing there on the stage with no poet behind it. and then i’ll start it,
and i’ll move around the room and reach out and grab people as a talk, place my open
palms on either side of their heads and give them a shake, press my forehead into their’s,
kiss them, sit on their laps, flirt with them, toy with them, do anything and everything other
than stick myself behind a mic on a stage behind a piece of paper. i wanted to do a
transparent poem where i narrated exactly what i was doing as i was doing it, hence the
name, and i wanted to show how much freedom an audience gives a performer, how much
power they willingly relinquish. i always make shit up on the fly and add it to this piece, so
that every performance is specific to that time and place. i like performing it a lot, although
i think the real slammers think i’m an ass when i do it. fuck ‘em. FRAT BOY creative writing
classes are something i take every now and then to stimulate my lazy writing motivation.
this one came during one such class at california state university, chico, when we were
studying different types of poetry, maybe fall of ’99, and we had just read this sort of list
poem called fast talking woman by anne waldman. i wrote this piece the next day,
cannibalizing the best lines from a previously discarded poem i’d written on napkins in a
bar once. chico state is rife with the most blunt frat boys imaginable, so i conjured this
image of some frat boy with his thesaurus trying to write a poem for his little sorority
girlfriend. he tries to be sweet at first but then is revealed to be the pig he really is. frat boys
are genetically incapable of not beating my ass. or at least trying to. that’s why i carry mace.
i wish i could carry a mace, like, the middle ages weapon? that would be cool. fucking frat
boy douchebag assholes. BOOJI BOY i actually did see some kid at an open mic in seattle
get up there and screech about the middle class and consumerism all to a hip-hop rhythm
while at the same time sporting sweat shop clothes and nike shoes. privilege is such a
convenience for those who want to be activists. it can blind you to the fact that you are part
of the problem. PARTY BOY FLY BOY no, this didn’t really happen. no, i don’t think people
should go out and do horrid things to their cats. i love my kitties very much, and i would
kick the ass of anyone who even for a moment suggested they should do something as
wretched as this to my babies. still, this poem from way way back — back before I had even
been to an open mic poetry reading, back in, like, ‘88 — can be kinda funny, especially
when it’s performed in an overwrought mock sadness. it appeals to the 7th grader in me.
12-year-old boys love this poem. girls? not so much. WORM BOY here’s a piece that has
absolutely nothing to with poetry and everything to do with simply making an audience
laugh and groan at the same time. it first started as worm girl and was meant to be a funny
variation of the i will love you no matter what poems that everyone writes, but i just took it
too far. it became so ugly and offensive that i couldn’t do it on stage anymore without
people thinking i was a misogynist pig and hissing at me. when i switched it to worm boy,
however, it suddenly became hilariously funny, especially when targeting someone the
audience knew. i now reserve it for people i really like, sort of a funny way of simultaneously
mocking and honoring them. plus it’s fun to play with people’s perception of my sexual
orientation.they are so sure i must be gay! DEAD HORSES so many slams come down to
people abandoning the idea of poetry and simply standing there one after the other and
listing their horrors — i was molested vs. i was raped vs. i was discriminated against vs. i’m
gay — and then the judges have to somehow assign scores to these ideas rather than the
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having sex with you is like addressing envelopeswithout the thrill of paper cuts.
poems used to communicate and explore these ideas, ranking one person’s plight as better
or worse than another’s rather than the wordplay and imagery and poetry used to share
that plight. i truly believe poems about these things need to be written, but if they are
reduced to mere applause points or shocking images used to guilt or bludgeon an audience
into high scores, then i truly believe more damage than good gets done. TAKE ANOTHER
DRINK i wrote this one very quickly in late ‘96 because i wanted to have a brand new poem
to use when i opened up for henry rollins when he performed at chico state university. well,
okay, i was hoping to perform with him, but they never actually let me, so this poem had its
debut at the very first chico poetry slam. i came in second place. annie la ganga came in first.
i hate that bitch. LINCOLN LOGS AND RABID DOGS this is my very first slam piece, written
around the same time as equalizer in ‘89 or ‘90, fully six or seven years before i had even
heard of slam or been to an open mic. this was my very first favourite poem, the one where
i was just sure i had something that no one else had, where i really thought this poem was
proof that i could write a good poem. it was the first one i ever memorized, and i can still
bust out an extended remix at any time. i rarely perform it anymore, but it still is important
to me. ADD IT UP this piece was rescued from one of my journals where it had languished
for a few years. i am still a little concerned about sharing it since it deals with my relationship
with someone quite a bit younger than me, and you never know how people will react to
that, but it ended up being the most amazing relationship ever, so i don’t care what anybody
thinks, to be honest. we are still the very best of friends even though we have moved on
from the romantic part of our connection, and i expect my next several books will be
dedicated to her as well. zara, you rock! CATS i love my kitties, but i don’t, like love my
kitties, you know? unfortunately, this poem too often gets referred to as the cat blowjob
poem. great. that’s all i need, people thinking i get oral pleasure from my kitties. the
narrator in this piece is obviously the one with the problem, not the girl he’s talking about.
i don’t think i’d want a girlfriend who was just like my cats, but i sure do wish my cats could
talk. you’d never be lonely with talking cats around. crazy, yes. lonely? not so much. RATS
IN THE IVY the relationship i had with kimberly was so full of angst and co-dependant
behavior... pretty much just like every relationship i’ve ever had. sheesh. anyway, we kept
trying to kick the habit, but kept getting sucked back in. the title is a reference to something
her mother used to tell her in order to keep her from playing in the ivy around her home
in san jose. don’t play in the ivy! there are rats in the ivy! it sounds so funny to me, but also
kinda crazy and weird, like some raving lunatic at the bus stop. this one was originally
started in early 2000 and filed away, but i picked it up again and finished it near the end of
dec. 2000. SCARS i know exactly when i got here to austin. it was march 7, 2002, and it was
just after 7 p.m. on a wednesday. i know this because the austin slam was that night, and i
rolled in just as the sign-up list was being distributed. on march 13, 2002, i was in the slam
master’s living room when hilary thomas walked in. it was just after noon. right then and
there, i decided to turn my visit to austin into a relocation. this poem is the last poem i ever
wrote about hilary. i scribbled it into my journal just before the very last gig of our summer
‘93 tour. the three-month roadtrip was in shambles, as was our broken relationship, and i
read this poem at our very last gig of the tour in worcester, ma. she hated it, but by that
time, i could’ve shit gold bricks and she would’ve hated it. to be honest, i don’t think i
would like shitting gold bricks at all. maybe gold m&ms or gold peanuts, but not bricks.
anyway, i think the poem is pretty accurate. WIRED i think all this technology can be used
to connect people who might never have met otherwise, but i think it can also be a very
lonely, impersonal, alienating force in someone’s life as well. the internet can’t replace the
social interaction, the eye contact, the pauses in conversation, the walks in the park. having
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scars are what happens when life carves its initials into your skin.
access to all these forms of communication also highlights the loneliness one feels when
there is still no one to talk to, even with all this technology. i wrote this in a creative writing
class in chico around ‘98 or so, then dusted it off and spruced it up while in seattle in the
summer of 2001, then updated the references for this book in 2008. THE ENDLESS PURSUIT
OF HAPPINESS #1 #2 #3 journal entry dilly-dallying during the day job, this one from
seattle in mid-2001, just before i left and returned to chico for a few months before hitting
the road again. i like the idea of multi-part poems. it’s fun to get up on a stage and announce
the poem you are reading is part one of a three part poem. and then moving on to a totally
different poem. and then a few poems later, bust out part two. then three even later on. it’s
fun. i am always sad, so the idea of finding happiness as easily as ordering a trinket of the
teevee or clicking a download now button appeals to me. i am often drunk with sadness. it
makes everything so much more difficult. i really need to get sober. i’m on welbutrin as i
write this, but all it seems to do is make my mouth dry and my poop voluminous. sigh.
MA’AMED here’s another missing poem that has never appeared in any of my chapbooks,
yet i’ve always liked it. i hadn’t read it in forever until i started putting this odds and sods
collection together, and i thought it was about time to dust it off and give it a proper place
to live. i wrote it for a girl i met in the summer of ‘96, a girl named nancy who worked at the
library of this tiny little town called red bluff just north of my college town chico in northern
california. she had this dark black bob and was tall and willowy and looked kinda like olive
oyl, and we ended up spending quite a bit of time together that summer. i have no idea
what became of her. this poem is not about lusting after young girls, it’s about the gentle
sadness of knowing you will now and forever be seen as old by someone who has no idea
how young you really are. THE MIRACLE CORNER POCKET LUCK SHOT now that i think
about it, this poem was actually first inspired by someone named cheryl battles during a
heated pool game. she ended up kicking my ass, but i wrote the poem about a guy i knew
at the time named brian, someone with whom i had never played pool. no idea why, but i
suspect it was because brian had written a poem about me “slashing through the booty
jungle with a flesh machete,” which i considered rather righteous. MINUET SEXUALITY
ROUTINE these were all written during the same creative writing class at tidewater
community college in virginia beach, va, back in ‘88 or so, probably around the same time
if not the exact same writing session. i guess i was just going through a very brief surreal
phase, something i thankfully got over. these probably suck, but i don’t care. they crack me
up. check me out trying to muddy my shallow waters to make them appear deep. it’s so
cute. DREAMS it all started with the very first line about dreaming of a fishing trip with miles
davis. that’s all it was for a long time, just this line in my head. it was funny to me for some
reason, and it had some kind of resonance, so i kept it in my head. finally, after carrying it
around with me for about a year, the whole thing just came spilling out sometime around
‘98. EQUALIZER this is one of the oldest poems i’ve written that i still like and occasionally
perform. it was written while i was in the navy, probably while on the aircraft carrier uss
saratoga (cv-60) around ‘89 or ‘90. it was during my brief write everything in a block of text
phase, which, i have to admit, was inspired directly by ogre from skinny puppy, who wrote
his lyrics in the same fashion. it was also inspired by a line in a song by foetus where he talks
about carrying an equalizer in the glove compartment. although I wrote it nearly three years
before I had ever witnessed an open mike poetry reading, it became one of my first sorta
hits once i started. you never know who you are fucking with, who is a walking time bomb
just waiting for the right series of events to trigger a mental explosion. so you should pretty
much just be nice to everyone just in case. WILSON ROAD just a little number from a
creative writing class around the fall of ‘98, i believe. and i actually do remember this. the
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i am a student of your pupils. i study their depths for answers.
poem is an exact memory. i can still hear the spoon on the side of the pot as my mom made
oatmeal. DISILLUSION CURRY this actually, really happened. this girl really did exist, and
she really did have a pepsi logo tattooed on her arm. i think i’ll get a nike swoosh across my
forehead. MOONLIGHT THROUGH MINI-BLINDS one of only three poems i was able to
write about this sweet woman named jennifer lynn o’hare before she died in a very tragic
and wholly unexpected car crash. we were having an intimate moment in march or april of
1999, and the moon was shining through the blinds and casting stripes across her naked
form, and it was so beautiful, it almost ached. so, right in the middle of this intimate
moment, i wrote the poem on the small of jen’s back with a sharpie pen from her dresser. i
am sure it ended up backwards on my tummy before our lovemaking was through. tmi.
MAP OF YOUR BODY a kimberly poem from around ‘97 or ‘98, written about that moment
when you catch yourself totally digging on someone even though you’ve grown very
comfortable with them and with the fact that you seem to know each other’s bodies as well
as your own. she caught me checking her out, and she smiled such a sly smile when i caught
her catching me checking her out. I WANT TO HOLD YOU i am still working on this poem
as i’m putting this chapbook together, so the form it takes in the end might be different
from what it is now. anyway, i wrote the very beginning lines right after i met the inspiration
for tigerlily, and i’ve been adding to it ever since, tacking on bits and pieces of haiku i’ve
written along the way. i’ve always wanted to write an erotic poem that didn’t suck, and i’m
still trying. i suspect this sucks and is probably not even remotely hot or sexy or good. I
MISS YOU the worse thing about being on tour is missing whatever sweetie i might have at
that point in time. i wrote this in arcada, california, while waiting for what would be the very
last gig i ever did as part of a quartet of poets i had formed called wordcore. we ended up
having a nasty break-up during the second leg of our tour. i think we all wanted to be john
lennon. no one wanted to be ringo. we were falling apart at the seams when we got to
arcada, and we were done by the end of the night. they went on without me for three more
gigs, and i went home to my sweetie. CATCHING THE BUS yet another lost poem that never
appeared in any chapbook, but always held my affection. i am not sure why it never left the
confines of my notebook. i wrote it as a column for the student newspaper at chico state
university, and it would go over well at readings, too. every now and then, i will remember
it and look frantically for it. now it lives here. WENDY this is a really old one, written so long
ago i can hardly remember it. it must’ve been written during a creative writing class i took
at a virginia beach, va, community college way back in ‘88, i think. or maybe not, maybe i
wrote it while in bakersfield in ‘92. either way, it’s about kelly, my first real true love in high
school. we dated for five or six years, depending on how you figure those things. it was
totally fucked. i was such an immature shithead, and she was an angel who deserved so
much better than the scraps i had to offer. it’s hard to remember what is was like to love her.
when she finally had the courage to break up with me, i was so miserable for so long. in fact,
i kinda don’t think i’ve ever recovered. kelly and i had nicknames for each other from high
school; she was wendy, and i was peter pan, the boy who never wanted to grow up. i guess
i’ve always had a problem with letting people in. STORE-BOUGHT FLOWERS after wordcore
broke up and i came slinking home to austin, i was in a foul mood for weeks, and then to
make matters worse, the girl i was seeing broke up with me and told me i couldn’t sleep at
her apartment anymore. here’s a joke: what do you call a slam poet without girlfriend?
answer: homeless. i wrote this poem right around that time. i was all bitter and shit, but we
got together again about two weeks later while watching leon, the professional on our
friend maslow’s couch. we lasted about a year longer. it was quite a challenge, and we held
on way too long. i tend to do that. i have a problem with letting people go. OUROBOUROS
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profound loneliness eats me hollow, carves my skin transparently thin.
the title comes from that image of a snake eating its own tail, which is a scandanavian
symbol for eternity. i think. it could also mean self-destruction, which is nice since it’s
handily shaped like a wedding ring. this poem was written around the same time as wendy
and was about the end of my relationship with my high school sweetheart. i don’t think it
was ever as bad as this depicts. at least, i hope it wasn’t. it was pretty cold at the end,
though. our cat ivan wouldn’t even sleep between us anymore. ODE TO A PLASTER
CASTING when my college girlfriend kimberly and i were dating, our best friend without a
doubt was vandy ham, this really cool artsy poet chick who loved julie london and drove a
classic car from the early ‘60s. for a surprise birthday gift one year, they got together and
made a plaster casting of a nude kimberly, then hung it on my wall while i was away. it was
the most beautiful thing, by far the best present i had ever gotten. that is, until we broke up,
and i had to have this plaster casting of my naked ex-girlfriend on my wall staring down at
me all the time. it was hard. i ended up giving it back to vandy. HER SMILE LIKE KNIVES i
wrote this one in the middle of a terribly dry survey class covering english lit. i was zoning
out and looking at this cute girl across the room from me, and i couldn’t help noticing how
her lips were so slender, so thin, that they were like little razors. boom, out came the pen,
and by the time class was over, i had a new poem. she ended up being a really nice girl,
though, so i could never show her this evil little poem based on her smile. god, can you
imagine? ASPARTAME someone i once dated actually said that to me, “take your cream rinse
and get the fuck out.” actually, the exact words were, “give me my fucking key, take your
cream rinse, and get the fuck out.” i was stunned. not only was i being totally dissed, but
she did it by uttering one of the most unforgettable closing lines ever. i immediately ran
home and wrote a poem about it, about all the shit you collect as you date one person then
another and another, all the pens and photos and t-shirts and cds and stuff. i could be
walking down the street with remnants of five or six relationships on my person and not
even realize it. this was from ‘93 or so. kurt cobain was still alive, but he was very, very sad.
you know, i was the exact same age as him when he died. he was born in april. i was born
in may. we were both 27. APPLIANCE ENVY this is another old one, but it was written just
as i was getting pretty damned good at performing in front of a crowd, so it must’ve been
around ‘93 or so. i still had three years to go before i would ever witness a poetry slam, but
you can tell i was already moving toward that sort of slam style with this piece. again, it’s
about all the shit one leaves behind after a relationship is over, all the stuff that reminds you
of that person. my girlfriend at the time i wrote this hated the way i performed it, which was
with this high-pitched, whiny voice, as if i were nearly insane. i haven’t performed it in a
long, long time, and i probably won’t any time soon. DEATH TO ROMANCE i wrote this
during the summer of ‘96, when I was interning at a small newspaper in red bluff, ca.
(population 13,000.) it was a dreadfully boring time for the most part, and i had just broken
up with a chick named sonia mansfield, so i was a little bitter about relationships at that
point. all those ideas they stick in your head, all those fucking songs and movies and shit. i
tell you, it’s poison, they fill your head with all kinds of unattainable dreams. romantic
comedies are the opiate of the masses. ECHO this one comes from a creative writing class
in bakersfield around ‘93. there’s a quote from the bible in the poem that comes from
ecclesiastes, hence the name of the poem. also, there is something lonely and sad about an
echo. you want to pretend it’s someone else talking to you, but, in the end, it’s only your
own voice. with this poem, i wanted to sketch images suggesting that someone had recently
left, so there’s the extra space in the closet, the square of cleanliness where there used to
be a dressor, all these reminders that someone who was once there is now gone. MICHAEL6
there was this guy named gabe in my creative writing class back at chico state university,
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there’s no pain so bad two bowls of fruity pebbles can’t fix it right up.
cool kinda quiet little dude enamoured with all things computer related. he had this piece
that contained exactly one sentence, but each word had a footnote, which in turn had more
footnotes, and it was there that he told the story. i thought it was such a good idea that i
stole it and made my own version of it. so, thanks gabe! THE GIRL ON THE BUS another
creative writing class endeavor, this one from late ‘94 when i first moved to chico. i like this
one a lot. even though it’s verse, i think it’s very poetic. there actually was a girl on the bus
who was the inspiration for this poem, a very beautiful red-haired girl named samantha who
caught my attention on the way to campus on the bus. when the story was finished, i gave
her a copy. i can’t remember what, if anything, she said in response to it. she was probably
creeped out. oh the whole wide world. SORROW and yet one more creative writing class
piece, written in the same class as the girl on the bus in ‘94. it’s just me thinking about my
best dog in the whole world named chinook. that’s a tragic story. ask me about it sometime.
i had a friend once named melinda who taught creative writing in a prison for a time, and
she told me of an inmate who had started a story with the words “harold had been rising
through the clouds now for several hours.” something like that. i liked it. so i stole it. thanks
inmate guy! DOUG, CALE, AND THE CLOSET KING this was one of the first short stories I
had ever written that i really liked, from a creative writing class in chico in fall of ‘94. the
characters are based on myself and a guy i had moved to chico with from bakersfield, a
drummer named cale wiggins. the character of doug is made up, but the rest is a pretty
accurate portrait of the first few months we spent in chico, just sitting on the couch,
watching jeopardy with the sound turned off, eating bad food, and laughing big fat belly
laughs. cale and i invented the game in the story, camper van, and it has become a crucial
part of every roadtrip i’ve taken since. THE BUTT TRIPLETS i wish i had been as good at
four square as the kid in this story, but i was still pretty good from what i remember. i
borrowed heavily from my own life moving from place to place with my family as my dad
was transferred from one navy base to another. i had gone to three different schools in two
different states just to finish 4th grade. we moved a lot, and the first thing i would do at any
new school was check out my favourite book from the school library. i still love that book.
i remember being disgruntled when i found out the book had been written by a woman. oh,
fragile little man! i used to joke that i had known these girls from school named bertha,
buelah, and bathsheba butt just because those are hilarious names, so i kinda built the story
around them. this story is my favourite thing i’ve ever written. i’ve never tried to get it
published. i’ve never really tried to get anything published. i am my own worst enemy. sigh.
TEMP HELL i hate looking for jobs, and i’ve never had a harder time looking for a job than
in austin, texas, where the job market is crammed with out of work techies who can type
faster than me, know more software than me, and have way better references than me. i
took this evil test at a temp agency, and it was very nearly as bad as the one depicted here.
i was really laughing at it, but i knew i had to pass it, so i was all trying to second-guess it
and shit. god. i passed it, though, and was put to work stuffing envelopes in a warehouse
with no air-conditioning for eight hours a day. fucking work. this started as a journal entry
but then i got all magical-realism on your punk ass, didn’t i? HOW I ESCAPED MY SHITTY
TOWN (A TRUE STORY ) this is indeed inspired by a true story, but thank goodness not my
own. i read something in my hometown newspaper about these local kids who tried to rob
a bank using the drive-thru window while one of their cohorts was working inside. of
course, they got caught, the dumb asses, but the whole thing seemed like such a desperate
act, such a cry for escape to me. this piece came out of it. i have only ever read this poem
out loud six or seven times at the most. maybe ten. it’s too long to slam, but i’ve done it in
features before. MICROWAVE the impetus for this short playlet came while cuddling zara in
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sky has had enough sorrow, pinches its eyes tight, showers earth with tears.
my tiny bed in my tiny apartment on fruth street in austin, texas. we were so enamoured
with each other, still deep in the throes of that magical time when you first start seeing
someone and already know you are head-over-hills crazy about them. i started joking that if
she were my tumor, i would comb her hair and brush her teeth for her, and we just riffed
back and forth from there. i wrote it all down the next day, and this is what came out of it.
we performed it once, too, at an open mic theatre event called no shame theatre, and
everyone really liked it. i think we both we kinda intoxicated at having made something
creative together. we still do even now that we are no longer dating. she is still my very best
good friend. i really do miss that look in her eye, though, the one that twinkles with
unabashed love and longing. i am still so very much in love with her. sigh. i think i will
probably miss that look in her eye for the rest of my life. SEESAW? this came out of my head
just about the same time as microwave, but it wasn’t as good. zara’s friend bryan and i
performed it at no shame, and it was only okay. LORD OF THE BREAKFAST CLUB #1 #2 i
have no idea from whence these came, but they cracked me up. i just looked up the
screenplay for the breakfast club and altered the dialogue to fit lord of the rings. you
should’ve seen my harry potter picture show riff with voldemort as dr. frank n. furter.
classic. ALBUQUERQUE PENANCE, AUSTIN PENANCE, SUSHI PENANCE, WENDY’S
PENANCE, WAR PENANCE, ROAD PENANCE i challenged myself to write one haiku every
day for a year, and i invited two friends along for the ride. the rules were that you could
write as many haiku as you wanted on any particular day, but once the next day came, you
had to write a new one. there was to be no writing 7 haiku in one sitting, then not writing
another for a week. if we ever did go one full day without writing a new haiku, we had to
write a haiku penance the next day to make up for it. we decided a haiku penance would be
seven thematically-linked haiku. they usually came pretty good, and i am sharing my
favourites from that time with you now. it was nice to get poetry out of failure. X-RATED
HAIKU one of my favourite poetry events in the entire united states is tourettes without
regrets in oakland, ca. it’s run by this crazy devil boy jamie dewolf (neé kennedy) who
cobbles together dj battles, mc head-to-heads, poetry slams, fire breathing strippers, serial
killer quizzes, and all manner of crazy demonic sideshow circus shenanagins into one
extremely popular brouhaha that has lines around the block. i love it. it’s like burlesque of
the damned, like vaudeville on fire with freaks and turntables. one of the main events is the
x-rated haiku battle, and every time i am in town, i bust a move on that shit and win. you
cannot mess with my x-rated haiku! don’t even try! i wrote most of these on coffeehouse
napkins about 15 minutes before the show started. they have no redeeming social value
whatsoever and are thoroughly juvenile and disgusting, which will probably gaurantee that
they will live long after i am dead and buried. what a legacy. my ancestors would be proud.
THAT’S ALL FOLKS i have come to the end of my rantings and ravings for now. i am sitting
in the flight path coffeehouse in austin, texas, as i type this on my ibook laptop while
listening to classical music streaming on pandora.com. i am trying to pull myself out of the
saddest time of my life, and i’m not doing a very good job. i’ve always been sad, but i’ve
never been so terribly sad for so long as i’ve been for the past 1-1/2 years. every aspect of
my life sucks right now, and i’m obsessed with my own mortality and can’t seem to forge
lasting relationships. i’m moving into my 2nd month on welbutrin and trying my damndest
to distract my dark thoughts by forcing myself to be social and escape my stuffy kitty-littered
room as much as i can, returning only when i’m so tired i’ll go right to sleep, which i never
do. the internet site that sponsored my last tour went bankrupt, so i’ve had to get a sales job
until i find something better, and i can’t bear to be alone for long periods of time. this is my
proof that i existed (however briefly) and had some small impact on this lonely rock. bpe.
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the empty belly of my skin growls with hunger and licks its cracked lips.
BIG POPPA E is a spoken word artist and three-time alum of HBO’s Def Poetry who
melds rhythmic verse, stand-up comedy, and dramatic monologue into explosive
works that skewer pop culture, politics, and the pain and beauty of relationships. His
musings have led to appearances on BET’s The Way We Do It sketch comedy series,
National Public Radio, and CBS’s 60 Minutes (although, truth be told, he was only
on for about three seconds... but still...) Recently, his viral video Why I Got Fired
From Apple Computer was viewed over a million times on sites across the Internet,
including YouTube and Google Video, garnering links from hundreds of websites.
Big Poppa E burst onto the slam scene as a member of the ‘99 San Francisco Poetry
Slam Team, co-champions of the ‘99 National Poetry Slam in Chicago and the only
undefeated team out of 48 that year. The piece he performed on the finals stage
— ¡The Wussy Boy Manifesto! — has since become a rallying cry for outcasts, dorks,
dweebs, and feebs everywhere, leading Ms. Magazine to proclaim him “an icon
for effeminate males” and The Los Angeles Times to declare him “the leader of the
new Wussy Boy movement.” The piece is now one of the most popular slam works
performed by high school and college speech competitors across the country.
Big Poppa E has toured relentlessly on the spoken word highway since 2000, when
he did 65 gigs across 27 states in just under four months. In the summer of 2003
alone, he logged over 21,000 miles on his ‘99 Ford Windstar mini-van, which has
since been retired after 200,000 miles. He has headlined at more than 70 universities
and colleges and performed 150+ poetry slam features in 40 states (including
Hawaii and Alaska). Along the way, his tours have generated over a hundred stories
in newspapers and magazines in the US, Canada, England, and Australia, including
such publications as: The New York Times; The Washington Post; The Ottowa Citizen;
The London Daily Express; The Sydney Morning Herald; Bust Magazine; Poets and
Writers; and The Utne Reader.
Big Poppa E is the author of six books of poetry, two collections of haiku, two CDs,
two DVDs, and a bunch of T-shirts and stickers. He has been published in Poetry
Slam: The Competitive Art of Performance Poetry on Manic D Press, and his essay
Slam Your Way Across America was included in the Poets and Writers magazine
collection The Practical Writer: From Inspiration to Publication. He has two tuxedo
kitties named Aretha and Thelonious. He drives a little red scooter called “The
Strawberry” and calls Austin, Texas, his home. For now. That might change.
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thank you.