4.11 / November 2009


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The condom looks like
what a sea serpent miscarries
in the gymnasium’s bathroom
during Junior Prom.

After naming it Carl,
I use the toilet brush
like a priest to give him
last rites.

I put the casket lid
of the seat down,
watch until the burial
gargles, rinses.

True Story

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The biker’s forehead acted
like a mother hen against
his father’s skull and out
he sprang.

His mother strapped used needles
to his ankles, taught him to walk
like an abandoned circus.

His teeth were a gas chamber;
poverty piled kisses into the pyre
of an empty steel drum.

He wore leather belt bruises
like a report card.

At his wedding, tissues
held the tethers of his tears.

He worked until his hair
drank from dye, offered
hand jobs for peroxide.

Mourners were bribed
with tap shoes
to attend his funeral.

Mandatory Father’s Day Poem

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When I don’t pay child support,
I’m really investing in you;
disappointment pays
high dividends.

As you talk with G.I. Joes
about kissing, seducing
pillows, you will write letters
to the editorial desk
of your daddy issues.

This is what you’ll get back:
dear mistake, avoidance
is my ballet; it’s the only thing
I’m good at.

Do What You Want Me To Do

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I am the greatest male hobbit stripper
of all time; many engagement rings
mistook my g-string for Mount Doom.

In the champale room, you will pay me
for the privilege of slaying
the giant spider of your horniness.

For private parties I will put sod
and rocks on your back, demonstrate
the distances I’m willing to walk
for something worth believing in.

For an extra twenty, I’ll show you
the pornography of sacrifice.

Thanks For The Memories

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I will sift through our photos,
sever the smiling heads.

I will tape them onto shot glasses,
sell them to teenaged boys
as diaphragms.

I will bring back videos of cheeks
becoming construction paper
for the angry turkeys of open hands.

4.11 / November 2009