you are the
you are gone
from my skin
like a mist
or a phantom
you rose out
left some stains
the clouds are red-black
and the wind
cools me down
i haven’t felt
send some more pics of your
stumpy pink dick while you
hold it at the base with your
unwashed sheets and empty
walls in the background and
the the tv tuned to some
sports channel that
shit gets me so
wet i just
I cried for you in the kitchen last night
before I remembered
I live alone,
just like I wanted.
in the summer you said you didn’t want to be
another one of my guys that I write about
so let me keep this brief:
you have a horse mouth (neigh!)
and horrendous taste in music
you are small
yet the biggest coward I have ever known.
I could mention your pecs (I admit
they were nice)
or the way your half-assed chimney beard just
didn’t sit right on that horsey face (though
sitting on it was just fine)
or that awful tattoo you got when you gave up
all your dignity as a person (I guess)
but all that just makes for shit poetry.
just in general
you as a man, you make for shit poetry
not because you’re short or weird-looking or because you think it’s hot to shave
your entire body
“para que se ven mejor los músculos”
but because you’re boring and you just kind of
speaking of sucking ass:
you fucking gave me hemorroids with your mouth before I left
(one last gift, he said —
I will remember you always
especially for that
burnt alive and limbs twisted
back like gnarled oaks counting
hundreds of years with the same
shoving roots. too aggressive
he says, and we say eat shit
bring on the chainsaws for our
slaughter, splay our needles out
like blood and bile for we’ve
always more to lose but still
a clear-cut in the children’s
park, church parking lot, public
private old-growth stands, the
silent heaving wombs that
made you now under your fire
fight back, he cries: the grasping
child swinging fitful little hands,
his mother laughing rises. time
again to teach him what is right
and what is wrong.
in solidarity with the women’s march against the Trump inauguration and the anti-Trump resistance movement
Bukowski thought women were durable creatures who abstain from beer as it’s “bad for the figure.”
I’d better choose the seat facing out, I think, instead of hiding. Observe the white people.
The flock of shuffling girls all dolled up and traveling together, how fun, wonder if the fatter ones hate themselves compared to their friends, wonder how much envy is the meat of their relationship, then I lose interest, can’t care.
But those fucking red Starbucks cups.
I’m told not to tear other women down, it’s not right. We’ve got to build each other up. That’s probably true but it seems unfair to only tear down folks with dick. They were born idiots and there was never any hope. Women had hope once but chucked it out, cashed it in for red Starbucks cups and studded bags and Sorel boots to go grocery shopping in. I hate them all equally. I am no better, and so I hate myself.
I guess now I’ve reached an “attractive” stage of my life. It might be the way I look but I think more likely it’s the stench of my apathy. The men sense that I’d watch them crushed under the wheels of a Greyhound bus on the road to nowhere and would maybe smoke half a cigarette to calm the nerves hoping for a reasonably short delay, and they like that. I like that too. It’s sexy.
It happens a lot lately. People stare and stare. Men hold eye contact and my mother always notices. I give a light smile, I don’t necessarily mind the staring, though I should. I just want to do the same thing back. Brush my breast and I’ll honk your sack. Fuck mutual respect. We’re all dying anyway. So you undress me with your eyes and that means this “space” isn’t “safe”? I’ve got you nailed to a pole with a broom up your ass and a blindfold on. Your mouth is mine. There was never such a thing as safe space.