Who will hold the nail while I hammer?

bloodwords: We will not be undersold!

The bum on the corner holds his sign: ANY AMOUNT WELCOME GOD BLESS. Whether he’s scamming or not he’s superior, he can toss away self-respect or dignity long enough to collect coin, and everything he makes he keeps, no tax. What good is self-respect if it doesn’t pay off?

*******

Welcome to The world’s shortest love story! I found a matchbook in the street. I ignored all of the matches still intact, noticing only the space where one had been ripped out and used. That was the match I wanted.

*******

Kayaking. Why?

*******

Frisbee on the roof, neon orange plastic bleached white by the sun. What does this have to do with winter? It’s over.

*******

Giant tortoises never write books, or maybe they do, they just procrastinate the first 100 years.

*******

Why are you surprised by problems? So much of our economy is based on people that never learn.

*******

I read the obituaries, aka People You Will Never Meet. It’s the only part of the paper promising an end to suffering.

*******

Only very still fish prefer to swim in formaldehyde.

*******

I can’t cry.

poetry cornered: “At the strip club”

Tits, asses, elbows, necks.

Women are women.

I’ve got nothing more to say
to any of them, while they have never had
anything to say
at all.

Dance around the pole, Lucite high-heels kicking through a litter of dollars.

Fat Asian loser, Fat Indian loser, Fat White crewcut loser. Bashful smiles of nerd losers, blushing redder than the hideous lights.

The vagina always looks like something half-finished and who’s to blame for that? The gaping asshole nearby.

I wonder what they clean it with.

(The pole, not the hole).

Stripper Windex?

I try to smell women over the music. Nothing.

Their skin is so smooth,
like wetsuits without zippers.

Red lights, blue lights, yellow lights, green lights, the music one big thumping seizure. Why has no one ever killed the DJ?

Too many tattoos, too many hair extensions, too many hard drugs, too many one-year-olds at home.

Souls like pancakes soaked in ketchup.

Take the fucking dollar
and get lost.

Life Explained in 6 words minus the ending

“Satan is King!”

“Sometimes He is.”

THE END

Congeniality

It’s not that I hate people

I just don’t like seeing them

or having to say Hi to them or driving on roads with them

or talking to them.

As the Poet said, I feel better when they’re not around.

As you read this you’re the perfect distance away.

Now we can be friends.

eating a mirror

She had big tits, freckles, was dumb.
Too-tall, big ass, big hips, a goofy sort of giant.

I was obsessed with her, but calmly.

Though married, she talked about her sex life with the other guy at the job.  He could’ve fucked her any time except to him she was “kind of ugly”.

I reminded her of her brother.

She moved away.  I left the job.  Life went on.

Lately I found her again, online.
Teaches 3rd grade at a Christian school in the Carolinas, still married, one son.
Signed her class home page, In Him,

Shit!  She was religious back then but not like that.

Half of all marriages fail (I hoped hers did though I had no chance) but not this one.

And now Jesus is getting that pussy!

Ah well, such is life in this world,
eating a mirror
with a hated image,
every day 12 rounds
with both arms tied
behind the back.

Love forever pissed off a cliff
and even lust’s chromium cries
going unanswered.

I’d kill myself but it seems even that
wouldn’t be enough.

In Him.

Fuck.

Your new God is the absence of Light

As the world burns green they tremble at their lost money, but it’s the end of their world, not mine. I’m already inside the Singularity where nothing matters. I’ve been here for years, numb. A handful of cake or a handful of shit, it’s all the same to me. I eat both. Stealing or giving, kissing or killing.

All the same.

Nothing surprises me for long. Death is nothing, a shift in fortunes and pale energy. A body dies, the maggots win the lottery.

You are getting exactly what you deserve. Should I rise while you fall, it’s meant to be. You believed this when you were on top and I was down.

Now we are both down.

I’m getting the last laugh and I stopped laughing years ago.

Ha.

left blank

I should’ve ended it all
when I was callous and clueless
but I didn’t have the trigger
or the gun.

I was told to wait, or not to think about it at all.

Now I have the means but not
the nuts…

Reading an article about unhappy marriages
made me mourn someone else’s unhappy union
though she wouldn’t have chosen me before the Ring
and didn’t
after.

I think she fucked death metal artists.
Now I hate them even more than they pretend to hate God,
speaking of which,
if the Buddha delivered pizza
would he guarantee
an end to suffering
in 30 minutes or less?

A long sigh in hell makes for a short poem

Fredricks finished his gig and is now unemployed.  I left a message on his website:

Employment and unemployment are cellmates in the same hellish prison.

With hooks for hands I pause to admire my typed handiwork,
a kite made from trashbags and used zen.

Nothing profound on the screen, outside, inside,
just calm, labored breaths
after eating too much peanut butter
and cursing Asshole God for another Lotto ticket
wasted.

Among the young and younger people

Doof, 19, barrel-chested with a football-shaped head. Graduated high school 2 weeks ago.

I ask him: “Did you look up what ‘brothel’ means?”

“No.”

(Another guy on the stocking crew, 19, who also didn’t know what ‘brothel’ meant wrote it on his hand and still forgot to look it up).

Cole, 33, asks Doof, “Do you know what a ‘bidet’ is?”

“No. I got a ‘B’ in Honors English.”

“So?”

“So I don’t need to know any more English.”

I pray he’s joking so I laugh.

Just then Vance the home-schooled kid walks past. Not even 21 and he’s battled
skin cancer.
His face looks like
Mars
with acne.

I begin: “Vance, what’s a brothel?”
“A bordello.”
“What’s a bordello?”
“A whorehouse.”
“What’s a whorehouse?”

Everyone laughs.

I’m the oldest among these young and younger people and a bent butterknife,
but when they laugh
I am a joyous sword.

I’m not gonna worry that Doof is the future. Vance will be there and Cole will be there and I will be there
as a butterknife under the hot breath of failure,
prelude to the
wiping away
that shows
polish.