Eccentric Blend

You told me once

that when you were little

you would pray for the people

that passed you by in ambulances.

I thought about that when

they lifted you into yours.

Then I ran around with your shoe

thinking of how much I love you.

Do you remember the day I came into your room

and we smoked cigarettes while talking about

old flames and new flames

old cities and new cities? 

Well, a friend’s room 

a friend’s bed.

Then you brushed your teeth and

we went to the porch, 

only to do the same thing

You read Pancake’s Trilobites to me while

I sat back smoking in the sun like a sleepy cat. 

I wish we could do that everyday

I’ll try to convince you to make me books on tape 

and I’ll hide on porches to listen to them

in new little pockets of sun

after you’ve gone back to the city.

Four shitty poems for a cold shitty day.

Opa’s fur is so soft

like velvet against freshly shaved legs

and I just know

some Chinaman would be proud to

drape it across his fat wife’s neck.

Opa’s fortunate to be an American, yet

unamused by my racist observation.

I ate six pieces of chocolate

You only had two.

Somehow, this is a point of contention for me. 

We both have bad dreams

And you said, ” We have to stop eating so many pickles so we don’t have these nightmares anymore.” 

I listened to you

although I didn’t want to. 

I know the pickle rumor is true, but 

I think you just want me to be fat. 

You’ve been looking for a new way to belittle me.

I was running too fast in my slippery bottomed boots

Of course I fell

I always do

We laughed and you tried to help me up

Only I fell again

I’ve never claimed to be gifted with balance

Neither in body nor in mind

Bolt thrower

Bottle opener

Dog whistle

Milk thistle

Gross urge

Black lung

Stale weed

Torn rug

Cashmere sweater

Drywall dust

Cold winter wind

Freezing blood

Things I have 

Things you don’t

Things you have

Things I don’t

Paperclips

Stuffed black cat

Shitty art

Leather bags

Cardboard box

Meatbone couch

Candlewax clumps

Empty smoke detector docks

It is not uncommon for me to get dreads in my hair. This is due to the facts that: 1) I don’t brush my hair. 2) I don’t wash my hair. 3) I sleep rough. 4) I live rough. Before today, I had a dread the full length of my hair and about one inch wide that I’ve been unable to work out and settled on just cutting out eventually. It’s been there for months now and it grew to become quite a gnarly head accessory while on tour. Last night, everything changed. I have a major fear of roaches and all it took was one dream that I had a roach family living in my dread. If I shook my head, baby roaches would fly out. Unacceptable. This morning I woke up and decided that the dread was coming out. It was so close to the scalp though that my options were either have a random bald spot on the crown of my head or work it out and deal with the split ends. I decided to work it out seeing as how I also have a fear of going bald and looking like Gollum when I get older. 

This process took around three hours, almost half a bottle of conditioner, crying as I saw wads of dead hair coming out and my cat sitting on the side of my bathtub with his paw on my shoulder to offer me emotional support. 

What have I learned from this? Roaches living in your hair when you can’t even get a fine tooth comb through it without tons of conditioner is irrational. Other than that, I give it another few weeks before a new dread comes to get me.

((( Dear Miranda )))

I always wanted a pen pal. When I was 14, still went to church, more specifically, my “alternative” youth group, I had a Chinese pen pal assigned to me. I didn’t like her though. It sounds shitty to say probably, but it was shitty writing to someone from so far away and only talking about ways to improve her english. I kept her letters because I thought her handwriting was pretty, but I don’t read them (I don’t even know where they are) because I have no interest in reflecting on bullshit “how do you say…” informal english assisting letters. What I wanted was a pen pal from somewhere not so close, someone I didn’t know. I wanted someone that I could talk to about my thoughts on wasted time or something stupid I saw happen that upset me like some dude throwing away a half-eaten slice of pizza. It pisses me off to see someone waste a perfectly good slice of pie. I wanted a written friendship with someone from far away in which I could share all my thoughts on everyday mundane occurances that some people overlook, but that I observe like a mouse in a wall watching someone’s food crumbs fall, waiting on his opportunity to snatch them up. Apparently, this is somewhat unreasonable. 

I am now 26. I’m still annoyed that this is so unattainable. It’s even harder now that I’m not as naive as I was then about the creeps of the internet world. I’ve done my fair share of browsing potential mystery pen pals online. There’s too many complications with this now though. Everyone is hesitant to give out their mailing addresses. Understandably so. I only have a home address so I know I’m all scared to hell about it. One must be extremely critical and a judgemental dick to all prospective candidates at first. If someone bites, then there are questions that should be asked. Well, these are a few of the things I consider anyway…

- Am I actually talking to this supposed “Anne” or “Eddie”?

- Is this person going to show up at my house and try to eat my dog and me? 

- Is this a child molester that is just fishing to find out if I have kids or not? 

- Is this person going to be as boring as the Chinese pen pal?

- Does this person listen to Green Day or Insane Clown Posse and has a blog of them playing with clown makeup and various weaponry? If I am too harsh when turning them down will they send juggalo riders after me like they did that idiot Tila Tequila? (Note: I realize this one is unreasonable. What juggalo or juggalette really wants a pen pal when they’re too busy having clown sex and posting videos of their original juggalo anthems on YouTube? Let’s be real here.)

How do I find that right person that will appreciate my weird ” I saw a cat eat an old burrito on the sidewalk of the Planned Parenthood beside my house today” letters? How do I find someone that will like my awful(ly hilarious) collages of bad politicians and shamefully famous celebs giving each other hand jobs or my poems about how the Bosnian lady that sells me cigarettes at the convenience store up the street is probably the only person in my town I genuinely look forward to seeing and talking to? 

The world is only so big. I know I haven’t met all of these people yet. One of these creeps just like me is looking for a pen pal with all of the same qualities. I already know how I’ll find them though. One day, when I’m visiting some other city, hanging out on some street laughing to myself about how funny some stuck up slut’s tutu wearing tea cup pup looks taking a shit on the curb, I’ll look up and find my pen pal soul mate on the other side of the street doing the same exact thing. It will be write at first sight.

His Mass

She’s levitating lifeless in her harness against the wall.

He stares at her in anger- she stares blankly at the floor.

She has no soul therefore no desire to care

And his regret and anger resonates through the whole house like

potent sound waves that make him throb to his core-

a feeling she does not know.

He becomes overwhelmed and jolts from his chair,

hurling it at his “Michelle”

Her stiff, heavy body rocks from side to side with aftershock from the blow,

Yet her expression is unchanged.

This sight angers the man even more.

He never realized how important it is to be with someone that will fight back,

someone that can give him some kind, any kind of reaction.

He brought her willingly into this home.

He thought an agreeable, quiet partner would create a fissure in his failures

of social interaction.

Not as needy as a dog, not as despondent as a cat.

“I was wrong, this is all wrong, I was so wrong, I can’t…I don’t know how to fix this!”

He screams in a rattled voice as he shoves her and pulls at his hair in frustration.

(He has a tendency to rip it out)

He has made a regrettable decision,

one he won’t feel satisfied with anytime soon.

He’s falling apart,

feeling the weight of his shame for all the money spent on something he can never speak of

A mannequin of silicon and plastic,

draped in silk and satin,

She’s only a mannequin,

a doll, a con. An over-sized knick- knack.

She will never be a rightly desired companion.

For him,

she serves a single purpose.

A 5’1, 70lb, anatomically correct aide memoire

that he cannot become mere acquaintances

even with this mock mate

And so, annoyed, he understands his future.

Living without his cloying isolation will never happen.

Sticky Summer Stimulus

It’s hot and humid as we sit on your porch,

drinking cold beer and taking bites of orange in between our cigarette drags.

The heat causes my can to perspire wetting my hand,

helping me with my sticky orange fingers.

This perspiration makes my bad habits tolerable in the heat

Still, I cannot stand the watery juice mixture running through my fingers and dripping onto my thighs.

Some sensations just make me sick.