Thank you! Thank you!
What a wonderful audience!
There am nothing more beautiful than
the sound of rotting flesh slapping together!
That’s what she said!
Me kidding, me kidding!
Me eat own penis long time ago—
Cuz that’s where’s men’s brains are!
Am me right, ladies?!
Speaking of fairer sex,
ever notice when female zombie eat brains,
she sit down, but when male zombie eat brains,
he stand up?
What am up with that?
On to current events,
remember when we stormed Washington D.C.
thinking we would find brains?
Last time we did something that ironic
was when we ate George Romero’s brain!
Me time almost up,
but let me know leave with this —
Me may not be the funniest zombie comic
you’ll ever see — but it’s un-living!
Whale Song for my Bastard Son
When that asshole knocked me up,
I slapped that bastard across the face
and thanked him for planting another
worthless seed in my bleeding field
of broken dreams.
When the greedy little fetus parted
my beef curtains and spat out
on the hospital floor the doctor
kicked me in the tits and said
Thanks for bringing another worthless life
into the world. I hope he gets murdered.
As I gathered my latest mistake
into my bruised and tattooed arms
I wondered how many packs
of cigarettes he might be worth.
I hated him. I loved him.
As he grew up, I let him know
how he burned me every time
he touched me with his rusty
needle fingers. Once, he brought
me a broken baby bird he found
on the sidewalk. His leaky radiator
eyes told me he was afraid of death
Don’t be afraid of death, I whispered
into the mush melon head, Embrace it.
My son peed on the floor as if to say
I understand, Mommy.
When my son turned five, he brought
me a necklace made of bullets he found
next to an old, dead wino who smelled
like an exquisite merlot that had been
uncorked too soon. Keep these, I whispered,
You may need them someday.
My son, my baby boy, kept the bullets
in a shoebox with the word FREEDOM
scrawled on the lid in crayon, next
to a faded picture of his sister who was
shot twice, then stabbed, then hit by a bus.
I almost remember her, like a whale
remembers the salty kiss of the ocean
on its baleen.
When my boy turned 16,
he told me to go fuck myself.
When my boy turned 17,
he text messaged me
Go fuck yourself.
I knew then that he meant it
When my boy turned 18,
he murdered me. And yet,
I’m the one who went to prison.
A prison made of cigarette butts,
bullets and baleen.