power

magazines: they are a medium
to provide the information necessary
to
educate the public, swaying their
opinion one way or another.

They also are funded by
Advertisements, plastered with
poses of celebrities so that
we feel obligated to purchase
the product they are pushing
(like the drug game).

Who wouldn’t want to buy
makeup that Gabrielle Union
wears, CUZ I know those
brush strokes
will transform the face
into hers.

But forget about all of that
for a moment. The perfume
Advertisements are the
gamechangers.

Strolling through the aisle
of endless reading material:
men mags, workout mags,
female mags, garden mags,
cat mags, dog mags,
government mags (boring),
economic mags (more boring),
cooking mags, Oprah mags,
celebrity mags, rumor mags,
entertainment mags, regional mags,
farming mags, religious mags,
cigar mags, sex mags,
so on and so forth;
but coming from where I come from,
this provides an opportunity:
free cologne–tear the pages of
perfume
Advertisements
out of the magazines
(with their free samples)
and you have yourself
a year’s worth of good
smell.
Directions: Rub page onto skin.

Straight ballin’.

one-click therapy

My problems,
wrapped in all their
glorious mystery,
can now be solved
with
one
click.

And then I wait, anxiously,
nervously, and finally,
with a tinge of irritation,
I wait some more.

I check the tracking:
It’s in process.
It’s in route.
It has arrived.

My problems are solved
because it has arrived
and all I had to do
was
click.

the novel

I’m going to write a novel
but it will only consist of one page
for you see,
I don’t have the energy
or concentration
or belief
or creativity
to construct characters; much less a story
that will make any sense beyond the first page.

For this, is my novel:
I drank. I smoked. We fucked. I came.
She didn’t. I smoked. We smoked.
I slept.
I woke up. She was gone.

I loved her. I don’t believe the love was reciprocated.

I died..alone. As we all do in the end.

annoyed

your eyes are fixated on me,
with no sign of life; pure vacancy,
except, I also notice the vague hint of an
insane thought
of usurping my self-introspection
to correspond with your
emptiness or rather, your
one
and
only
desirable goal that evening,
which I cannot decipher,
but seems to be either
fucking
or
killing.
Again, I can’t tell which.
But my curiosity
tells me to listen, follow, and
participate
in whatever adventure lay ahead.

turns out, after a beverage,
laced
with an excessive amount
of liquor,
that this lady/woman/crazy bitch,
had nothing to offer–emptiness.

I mis-interpreted. I’m annoyed.

But I fuck anyway, because I
don’t have anything else to do
and plus,
I put in all this time
to
listen to her philosophical (?)
bullshit.

Oh yeah, I also killed someone,
but that’s an aside to the main story.

I retreat to my bed.

Remind me to wash my sheets in the morning.

blank

Another night of
haunted dreams;
you’ve left me,
but you won’t leave
me
alone.

alone and trembling
without your warmth,
I am an ice box
waiting to be
either
hacked and sculpted
into your desired piece
or
melt away to nurture the
garden.

I am certain that
peace will never
find me again,
and
how could I
even
begin
looking…

Grumpelstiltskin

How stupid is this
mother fucker…is
what I keep asking
myself every morning
as I retreat to my
personal
bathroom.

(the thought of him shitting,
shaving his pubic hairs, and
combing his thinning hair
before I have the opportunity
to enjoy a moment of peace
and quiet and solitude,
infuriates me, setting the tone
for the remainder of the day)

“Honey! Baby!” he yells,
through the cheap bathroom
door
he purchased for a “steal”
and installed himself, with
apparent disregard to
proper measurements
and quality:
“Can you bring me a roll
of toilet paper?”

What I really want to
do
is bring him a roll of dynamite
to blow his hideous bathroom
to pieces,
and, with any luck from a
Just god,
HIM (not his brain, since
that’s already shred to bits).

Oh, why did I marry this man?
Why have I birthed his children?
Can I not cash in a takeback
in this lifetime? A return to sender?
(even though the sender wouldn’t
want him
back).

The traits that I once
recognized as manly
were completely
imaginary; apparently
concocted in my brain,
which makes me think
I may need stronger
drugs
to last another day.

my sanity, my sanity
is what I desire,
but instead,
I chose the dick and
a nice vanity
rather than
a brain and a slice
of sincerity…but cursed,
I received the hilarity,
like most men-
the normal kind
and
not
the rarity.

In the end and at the conclusion
of life, we all receive
a big ‘fuck you’ of what
we’ve been missing–
a big chunk of hindsight
clarity.

psychiatric office dating

The waiting room,
chilly and slightly dimmed
from dead lightbulbs,
has the peculiar feeling of
impending suicide.

The chairs are tightly
packed together and
the people are herded
in and out of offices,
as life problems must be
solved in a capitalistic
Timeframe.

A number of attractive
Women
are also part of the herd,
which confuses me a bit:
And that may seem sexist,
but a woman with good looks
can get almost anything they might
Desire.

Perhaps the drugs are the
desired object; to dull the
absurdities they must face
on a daily basis; old men
slurping down Viagra’s like
pez candy, constantly gawking,
staring,
and vulgar bumbling attempts to flirt
with them.

But perhaps this is the
place I should meet the
woman of my dreams
as we most likely have
A
thing or two
in common.

We could share drugs,
mix and tests the effects,
naked or not, but preferably
naked. If anything, she most
likely fucks like a majestic
trap queen.

Or she’s here because she
doesn’t know how to please
a man sexually, and now,
I’m
Stuck
with a crazy woman.

I guess that wouldn’t
be any different than my
historical choices.

Lest we forget, I am
crazy too.