You know the phrase
*I go where I please*
well it ain’t about me
life is a pirate ship
found in a junkyard
and it’s more like I
get swept from side to side
by the turbulent and violent sea
and the sea monster knows my tax ID
and the boat is circled by a loan shark
and the crew-mates are buffoons
and I’m not sure the captain exists
he might be off getting drunk in the cabin
and I’m more of a maid than anything else
cleaning shit in a hurry.

And I write and I write
when I ain’t sweeping the wet floor
or when I’m not breathing, eating, shitting
and doing other useless endeavors
and when I have the time I
read things old and new
things I wrote, things I like
but I like to read the palm of those I aborted
most of all
and I giggle like a madman
and I know what’s happened
and I know Bukowski ain’t never coming back
and I know the three fingers I put in the fire
don’t mean jack, when my hand is still intact
but I guess it’s enough for now
I hit publish and I pull my pants up
typewriters are ruled out.

Marauder was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Doing art is about as important
as having regular sex
and if you do neither
you know you’re fucked.

But you can wank it
and you can read literature
some of us just
don’t carry the package
required to star in an adult film
and some of us just can’t handle
the abstract nightmare of creation
which is why we
pour it out
on paper
and on canvas
on bed sheets and on toilet paper
as it is no less important
to wipe your ass
than it is to sign your damn name
on that horrid work of yours.

You Ain’t No Porn Star Honey was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Joe from 742 Street has a shit-eating grin
and likewise, his wife Alice
has a painfully average face
I wish she were either
ugly or beautiful
so I could decide whether to
try and stick my cock up her guts
for fun or sport
so that I can create a diversion
from the late-night shows
and sprinkle their boring lives
with a bit of the old
extra-marital affair.
I reckon it’s a plot point
in one of her favorite TV shows
that I’ve never seen
even though I’m such a Samantha.

I simply wish to observe, on my morning cigarette
when he finds out about us
as I’m scratching my balls
laughing
unshaven, unkempt, unbothered
terminally disgusted
because I’m totally better off
without a ledger of stability.
Well, irony aside
I might be
at least no one yells at me
when I forget to take out the trash.

Ordinary people was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My friends
on paper
my band
dismantled
my painter
is at the prestigious gallery
and fingers that drew
and wrote
and played the guitar
cold and stiff
and the golden voice
is silent
and the page is empty
and the instrument of passion
is out of tune.

What a familiar tragedy
their ashes were sprinkled
from a cannonball
and I see it through a spyglass
from the Sandman
and he took my eyes from the eye sockets
and there’s coins in them instead
and I catch a fragment from the explosion
like at a wedding ceremony
and everyone is
shaking their heads
in unison
at me
and I don’t see them
and I can’t speak much
through the incense of a cigarette
burning my throat
and my head is dizzy from drinking
and the world is spinning
and fireworks are too loud
and I’m stiff in shock.

I’m sorry mother
and I’m sorry father
I’m an artist
please forgive me
I’ll do nothing
and then I perish.

All Worthy of the Mantle Blew Their Goddamn Brains Out was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I hate all my friends
and all my friends hate me
and I’ve been in situations when
I needed a friend, and no one showed up
and close friends had funerals, and likewise I
never showed up
and they died in all kinds of ways
but they died all the same
some in tiny cubicles, from cardiac arrest
from lack of
living,
some in some shitty apartments
noose around a vein
some in some
bad bad life situations
when life had picked a card for them
some died in strange ceremonies
married to a harpy, married to a cunt
married to a bastard, married to an abuser
married to an idea of a ’90s rom-com
in today's economy.

And I’m much younger
and I observe and I say
how exciting
how amusing
how far removed.
But I’ve overexposed
and now I’m
missing out
and I found a grey hair
and the hair fell out
and doctors found a lump
and I have a bad cough
and my back hurts
and I feel like reproducing
and I took a loan out of the bank
and oh fuck, it’s over
all over
I have a cemetery
hedge fund.

Time to join the crowd.

All My Friends Hate Me was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I spent my early days in a local library
with my father
he’d have a book in mind
related to history
and he’d speculate and he’d debate
with other relics of his time
and wonder about the past
and turn me loose in the adult section
once I begged him enough
and I read just about everything
worth reading
from Verne to Boyle
and my imagination
was about ripe for picking
and a little grit had to be introduced.
I believe it was raining outside
when I stumbled upon
Hemingway
like a bad omen.

Later on in life
the catholic inquisition
had their way with me
and I was scoffed
when I turned in my school papers
and they never believed me
that I could write so well
and my brother, who didn’t live with us
was accused of writing my essays.
And I threw desperate tantrums
for many reasons
and professionals said I
had a problem with authority
and a fat priest was called
and public exorcisms were performed
and I skipped mass like one skips school
and I kept my agnosticism a secret
and I only just recently had my revenge
when I was stuck in a cabin with no toilet paper
and now a few pages from the official Bible canon are missing
I believe it was John 1:42 and Matthew 16:18.

My schoolmates didn’t like me
so, I made friends with the kids who
drank cheap vodka
in a park behind one of the many,
many churches in my town.
And I stopped writing for a while
and I went mad for a while
and by the time I was 14
you could lock me in an AA meeting.
I had two part-time jobs
thanks to family connections
and I would make a few bucks
and I would invite my friends
to a bar
next to a police station
and a balding guy
who wore a beer-stained white tank top
even in winter, just under a jacket
who always creeped out my girlfriends
would give us a splash of something
here and there
when the cops were too drunk
or too busy
looking at adolescent drunken girls.
And we went a little crazy
sometimes
some of us stole prescription pills
from our parents
some were taught how to cook
an art in and of itself
a study of impurity.
And we loathed life in the purest form
and when we came home
some of us were good kids
who respectfully hid the debauchery
so that nobody else
had to deal with us.

And it went on and on
until some of us had
jumped off a window
in a paranoid frenzy
some of us have
gone under SUV wheels
some have simply moved away
some were locked up
some went mad
and some still talk to our dead brothers.
And some of us have picked up writing
writing and the arts
and we are the most dysfunctional
picking up the pieces
and inviting back the demons
that were exorcised from us
so long ago.

Kid was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Hey there, traveler
your message has reached my
end of the world
a few days ago
I guess, I’m sorry
I read it
and then I read it again
and only now I
finally
got my thoughts together
drunk, of course
feeling like I’m
writing a formal letter.
Just picture me
in a suit or something
hunched over the computer
like the first job interview
I screwed up
over the internet.
You remember, right?
You were there…
In the next room
I probably
yelled at you before
I’m sorry
I can’t quite remember
but I thought you might.

I went back to the old house,
how does that one song go?
I thought I might
restore a few things
but there’s a thick
layer of dust
on most of the equipment
and I thought I heard
mice squealing
somewhere
and I got spooked
by some old furniture
casting a shadow
in that creepy light
you know, down in the basement.

Yeah, I still write
here and
there
I don’t exactly
have an audience
but you know I like to share
my sorrows.
Yeah, I drink
on occasion
still
hell, maybe
even a little more
than I used to
but it helps me
creatively
and
spiritually
and
not that you need it
but believe me
no better cope
than some Bukowski
and a rum
with coke and ice
and a cigarillo
and music
to top off
my existentialism
shared between the greats
Camus, Sartre
maybe there are some
similar habits there
worth
looking into
but I’m probably just
creatively and
ideologically
and biologically bankrupt.

Anyway,
no significant developments
as always
I haven’t tied the noose yet
but maybe keep checking in
just in case
since
I have a gift for you
beautiful
but
caged
wild, like an animal
maddened
untamed love
but only my
cold dead hands will
open the lock.

Letter to a Friend was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You know there’s this thing this weekend*
and I’m not going
but it’s gonna be fun!*
Oh love, but I’m still not going
I have a thing
I have a schedule
bed&breakfast at 3pm
cold beer in the afternoon
and a slice of leftovers.
I want to loathe life
quietly
it’s clinical
and I love going out
and I love you
and I love our friends
but I’m still not going
not today
not in the next century
I’m waiting for
virtual reality
to get really good
and then we can
see each other
while we watch porn
and I’ll be playing games
and a robot you can command
gives me belly rubs
and doesn't ask me
where it hurts
and in return
I won’t bother asking
if it can feel anything at all.

I’m Not Going Anywhere was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Blue light flashes me
in the middle of the night
connects me to somebody
who doesn’t like who somebody else is
and twists and turns
reshapes words
into packets
that carry a distorted message
from Middletown Indiana
across the ocean
from west to east
that lands in a landlocked country
smack-dab in the middle
of a commie block
with drunks and writers and students and geeks and progressives and all the other scum
who loathe the assignment of survival
and get wasted
and pour emotion
out on the internet.

I turn in my bed
lazily
and win my argument
by stealth
and I disappear
from a discussion
that could’ve solved world hunger.

Just as I start drifting away
a new flash changes my life
for about half a minute:
“Hey, I was thinking about you, and how it all ended… well, you know…anyway, how u doin??”
a girl
who left
a classic comeback
I can practically
smell the guilt
and in medical terms
the trauma
but
I’m no doctor
to help with this
I’m a shark
in terms of
personality
as stated
by labcoats
and my nose
for blood
in the muddied waters
of shitty relationships.
So I simply
flip the light switch
I like visible detail
and I snap a picture
and I send her
a defacto portrait, of a man
who’s
clearly unwell
like on one of those
true crime shows
showing
true crime scenes
of some obscene
crime or treason
against
human decency,
society at large,
general well-being,
or perhaps theology
and humanist philosophy
that manifests through
eight or nine
cans of beer
scattered throughout the room
some bottles, of god knows what
some hidden, some not
half-rotten dinner
well, mostly just a meal that
sustains me through the day
not quite breakfast, not quite lunch,
not quite dinner either
since my day is
barely structured.
There’s a towel
there’s some tissues left over
clothes, scattered all over the damn place
an old, squeaking chair
some more snacks
some more leftovers
just about
everywhere
my lovely room
that is expecting visitors
from the adult health services.
I will not be hearing from her
ever again
but just in case
her number
I deleted
and stretched
and tried to sleep.

Just as I’m trying
to drift away
sleep
sleep
sleep damnit
sleep you bastard
I received another notification
someone had
shot a politician.
I chuckle and grin
and smile and laugh
for a little bit
then I stretch, yawn, turn over to the left
and sleep for about 12 beautiful hours.

New E-Message was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m just about done
losing my mind
and I’m just about done with work too
now I’m just hungry
so I’ll have my lunch
at full moon
howlin’ with the werewolves
and I’ll have my dinner
with a ghost at noon.

I live my life
among the spirits of the night
ghastly and ghoulish
uptight and sick
thankfully
no one ever sees me like this
none who fare better anyway
and the sun shines on different planets
none that I orbit
so I stopped believing in it
and became a moon worshipper instead
living in a different time zone
my reservations ready
late into the day
way early in mine
no wonder they call it the graveyard shift
only a vampire
would put up with me.

I have some complaints
about earthly spirits
loud out there in the dark
somebody, please
for the love of the dark lord
shut off those damn birds
shoo them away
or shoot them
or stop with the light pollution
their circadian rhythm
is fucked
they are up late
and in the morning they’ll be exhausted
no children of the sun
can enjoy their song.

I just wanted to say
that it’s too late to send help now
I’m stuck here
with mad birds
we read the future to one another
chirping
and click-clacking away at the keyboard.

Night Shifts was originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.