when we’re done having sex, he asks me to blow his cousin in the adjoining room…
greyhound racing life of a side piece
ice cube tray
two bottles of vodka
four bottles of beer
a few eggs
a bottle of mustard
filling up on emptiness someone’s leftovers
Dear Citizen in Violation (CIV),
You have received this OPR notice as a result of a complaint filed by the Minister of Perpetual Admiration (MPA). He has provided us with screen captures that indicate you are in clear violation of CODE #336-/1. Namely, you have posted online material in defiance of the recent decree regarding The Czar of Everything (CZAR).
Additionally, we have in our possession multiple YouTube videos in which you impersonate The Czar of Everything. All those who impersonate The Czar of Everything, who continually repeat his name mockingly, are subject to severe reprimand, so The Czar of Everything has decreed.
You will be visited by two Officers of Redaction (OR). They will assist or complete your Departure.
The loyal staff of The Czar of Everything thanks you for your past patriotism.
The Minister of Professional Responsibility (MPR)
native birds outnumbered
some people leave you in odd ways. they just disappear from your life. like that.
the absence of malice
of an owl
The best time I had was when I forgot myself. I don’t know why I ever came back.
the subway car window
shows only darkness . . .
and my reflection
I can’t figure out if mysticism is ecstatic or a sham. I go between Sufi dancing and wanting fame. Not everyone can sleep in the sand.
our first name
I have never been on hard drugs, but it seems like I am. The cacophony of conversations in the cafe melds into my thought process and my mental silence. I thought I was high on meditation this morning, but I guess coffee can cut through inner calm, despite our idealism.
rain or snow?
I remove myself
I read somewhere that an as-yet-undisclosed brand of artificial sweetener is manufactured by Oompa-Loompas, captured and enslaved by the U.S. Government in the heart of an as-yet-undisclosed location (but I’ll bet my Monopoly salary it’s Area 51). They say everyone is paid in packets, with a few cacao beans here and there as incentive for overtime. Even the little ones labor 18 hour days. They say the Oompa-Loompas are overworked, sleep-deprived, and so strung out from snorting their crystalline rations they can’t even wiggle free from their infant-sized shackles.
And all to compete with the coconut sugar industry. Those poor little Loompa babies. For shame. Won’t someone please think of the children?
intelligent design –
does my wallet look fat
in these jeans
By the next evening, it was undrinkable. The heat wave had done its work. I flinched and turned my head. Yes, I thought. Undrinkable.
Still, I fancied, as I stared into the mug still three-quarters full with mushroom coffee, that I could see a new civilization of fungi forming islands on the surface. The coconut oil was nutrient-rich, dense, but of course, limited.
I wondered: might the life forms sprung from this brown ocean be intelligent? Might they walk, dance, sing? Fall in love? Write poetry? Build homes, have jobs, families? Tell tall tales of their heroic ancestors’ deeds around a campfire? Might some fight for rights to the oil as others strike and strike back in protest? Might they slaughter their own without mercy on dark, decaying streets? Might they be the instruments of their own destruction?
I hesitated at the sink for only a moment and sniffed the moldy coffee again—allowed the unique, dank smell of life itself to wash over me one final time—then dumped the mixture, resolutely, down the drain.
this place between
atoms & eve