Monday, February 9, 2015

I'm Just Kidding

At this month’s “Alchemy,” I decided to do something different. Instead of reading a bunch of depressing crap like I have been these past months, I went for poems and shorts that were a little more humorous and light. I will say that not all of these pieces started out being funny. In fact, with some of them I was trying to be very serious, but didn’t quite hit the mark. Anyways, I’ll let y’all be the judge of whatever you find in these pieces. And if you find them to be just plain pieces of shit … well … consider the source :)

The Worst Poem I Have Ever Wrote

I’d like to know this creature
He’s a funny sort of deal
He wears his clothes inside out
But freaks when people turn him on
He lets the water see him naked
But not those of his kind
He likes to kill
He likes to fuck
But when it comes to making love
He’s as sour
As a duck


The Greats

It seems that

In the past

To be the greatest living writer

Meant you were one of

“The Greats”

But in this age,

Where the real poets


And prose-men

Have been sucked from the landscape

Like old dust,

Being the greatest living writer

Means nothing more

Than outdoing the schmuck

Who pens the instructions

On airplane




Baba Broomstick

I sat with my sister on a big couch

In her big new house,

We sipped green tea from big mugs

While a big screen TV flickered in front of us,

My sister flipped the channels with a tiny remote

 “Which show do ya’ wanna watch?” she asked

“I don’t know,” I said. “Something about travel.”

She put on a program about an idiot

Who farts around in other countries,

In this particular episode

He was in India during Kumbha Mela –

The largest gathering of people in the world,

He walked around the filthy streets of Allahabad

Gawking at the meditating Babas,

There were many and they were strange and wild

With powdered bodies and dreadlocks and eyes like onyx stones,

The most interesting of the bunch was a skinny one

With a broomstick in his hand,

He stood bare naked

And his penis hung from his crotch

Like a baby elephant’s trunk,

“What’s your deal?” the host asked him

Without answering

The Baba flipped his broomstick over

And put it to his crotch,

He grabbed his giant penis

And wrapped it around and around

Till it was good and tight,

When he finished

He smiled and released his hands,

The broomstick hung there horizontally,

“Sweet Jesus,” the host said,

The Baba blinked twice and continued,

With his cock still tied

He kipped his legs over the broomstick,

Bent his knees

And went bouncing up and down

Like a basketball,

On sight of this

I threw my head back and roared with laughter

My sister just sat there, puzzled

“What kind of message do you think he’s sending?” she asked



The Alchemist

We sat in the bar

And drank craft beers

And my old buddy Roy

Asked who I was reading,

I dropped a few names




Roy sipped his beer

And leaned in,

“Have you read Coelho?” he asked.

“Jesus Christ, not this again.”

“Haha, OK he’s not for everyone. But there’s one book of his you have to read.”

“Lemme guess, ‘The Alchemist’?”

“Yeah! Hans, it’s an excellent book. And true too. I mean, if you follow your dreams, the universe
really does conspire to help you.”

“I’ve had the opposite experience.”

“How do mean?”

“Well … every time I sit down to write, a dog barks or a car beeps or a shithead snores, so I stuff wads of toilet paper in my ears, but before I know it a jackhammer goes off in the next building or a smoke alarm blares overhead, and I’m forced to deal with that bullshit instead of my writing. Then there’s the rent to be paid and the teaching to do, and my students and colleagues and bosses are always trying to rip my time apart like a hundred hands on a bank note, and just to deal with all this I have to blaze trees and pound booze, and this puts me in a spot ‘cuz it burns half my money and gets me into close contact with shitty women who wanna burn the other half, so now I’m outta cash, outta time, outta patience, and the only thing keeping me from swallowing strychnine is the thought of my mother weeping at my funeral,  so I keep pushing, and keep working, and keep trying, but my teaching never goes anywhere and my poems, short stories and articles, all come crawling back to me like wounded crickets, and I can’t help but think this whole fucking planet is one big gun barrel pointed straight at my retina!”

Roy thinned his lips

And grinned

 “But you write about all that stuff,” he said.

“True …” I replied.

… But Coelho still blows.”


Nimrods and Garbage

There’s nothing worse

Than forcing your way

Through a crowded rest stop

Only to find the Men’s Room

Loaded with grizzly characters

Who have taken up all the stalls

And left none for you


When you finally get in one,

To find that some asshole

Has pissed his way around the toilet bowl

And another before him

Has left a turd floating on the water

Like a dead frog


When you finally get into another stall –

One that’s somewhat clean,

To slip your skivvies down,

Crap massively

And go to wipe

With toilet paper that’s so flimsy

Your fingers literally punch through it

And dig right into

Your shitty asshole,


This world is filled with such

Nimrods and garbage

That even the simple pleasure

Of taking a dump

Is ruined by it all


Note: I reserve the right to occasionally alter the character names, descriptions, and/or event details in my posts for the purposes of identity protection and “fluidity of story.” If this puts a kink in your panties, read someone else’s blog, homey.

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