Thursday, September 17, 2015

The Mexican Carnival

The Mexican carnival
creeps overnight
onto the empty lot
next to the dollar store,
across from the storefront church,
miles worn,
paint chipping.

The smell of
sickly sweet
deep fried pancake batter
wafts over the
loudspeakers blasting
Adriana Grande
y las bandas ultimas,
enticing the crowd.

The rigged games offer
plush prizes,
faded by the sun,
mutant knock-offs of
Spongebob Squarepants
and slightly misshaped Minions
made in Viet Nam.

It’s only when
night falls,
and darkness obscures
the spit smears,
overflowing trash bins,
with the music blaring
from invisible demonic speakers,
the red, white and green twinklers
give everything an
ersatz showbiz glitz.

It's pretty,
even inviting.

I stand in the middle
of it all,
every sense engaged,
quietly smiling,
feeling very much
like Bukowski,

an unassuming witness
to the unlikely pageant
before it all packs up
and is gone.

[For and - come along and play!]

Tuesday, September 08, 2015


I see you there
staring back at me,
wondering if
or where
or how
I’m going
to touch you,

and there are
infinite internet nodes
in between us

so, here I go
trying to connect
my thought
to your being,
trying to elicit
a goose-bump,
a curious blush,
an elevated heartbeat,
a chuckle,

and I await
your reflection.

Tuesday, September 01, 2015

Hate Poem

I hated the
greeting cards,
love notes,
and ticket stubs
I kept as reminders
long after you left,
so I unceremoniously
dumped them
on the trash heap
with the spoiled milk
and used kitty litter.

I hated that
you had to hide me from
your racist parents
for five years,
I hated how
when I tried to learn
their language,
your family made fun
of my pronunciation.

I hated those
Michael Bolton concerts
(yes, plural)
I took you to,
and I want those hours

I hated how much
I tried to demonstrate
my faithfulness,
my love and dedication,
and that it still
only came down
to my paycheck,
and even that
wasn’t big enough.

I hated my weakness
for giving in to intercourse
that one last time,
and I hated
that I intentionally
hatefucked you
with more anger
than I ever knew before.

I hate that
someone convinced me
not to throw out
every single picture,
and that I still have
two snapshots of you,
hidden away,
proof of my failed
seven-year experiment
in self-debasement.

I hate that 21 years later,
I still remember
that September 1st
is your birthday.

[Written for RealToads at]