Poinsettias wait for me
somewhere in Mexico
or maybe in a flower shop
somewhere near the border
red and green pointing at my chin
as I rise and thump
the rocket away
up to Heaven
down to Hell
waiting for the consolation
from the milk of the poppy
when it comes — be ready baby
give me all that swoon
those Aphrodite curves
laying on a bed of autumn leaves
your welcoming mat greets
the mud on my boots on December 24th
Portugal's knocking at the door
darling, give me all that I'm owed by the gods
I'll give you your due as well
my body craves yours
but not for the reasons of the hook
hanging by a chain and holding meat
as blood-soaked white apron butchers
chop ***** on metal tables with meat cleavers,
and clean the sweat off their foreheads.
No, not for those reasons at all
I'm beyond all that, I'm beyond ***.
the reason I crave your body
it's because the raindrops
fall from the sky and elope with the earth
filling the grass where crickets
drink and get drunk holding their mugs
cricketing their songs of better days to come,
bird nests soaked in eggs
that are required to be sat on
huevos demand to be nurtured by heat,
Tupperwares fill to the brim
left for stray cats to dip their whiskers in
and dry food becomes wet food
revealing all the whispers that they leave
on that makeshift bowl.
all things that should be left alone
yet aren't — rain won't let them be
that's the reason
love.

I never liked Brenda.
She's manipulative,
likes to ******-analyze people,
and she gaslights Nate.
Oh, and she's a *** addict as well
she has cheated on Nate
more times than I can remember.

I never told Nate about her
he found out on his own.

Nate isn't much better though
he got another chick pregnant
so he cheated on her as well
but as a person overall
he is likeable— unlike Brenda.

Nate has a condition
it's called AVM
it's a malformation
in his brain arteries.

He is currently under the knife
he has a bleed in his brain
they are trying to fix it.

Before the surgery
I saw Nate crying
in his mother's embrace
he kept saying he didn't want to go
and his mother said
he was going to be ok.

I cried a little.
I hope Nate has a chance
of being a dad
I think he would be good at it
and I don't think
I'll ever see Brenda again
but I hope she finds someone
and she recovers from her addiction.

I don't know what's going to happen
I hope that in season 3
of six feet under
Nate doesn't board the bus
that took his father
into the after life...

You know, I hesitate
going in season 3
no, not because I'm afraid
that Nate is going to die
but because I know
that would never care as much
for an actual friend
the same way I care for fictional characters
and that says a lot about me
I only allow myself
to empathize —
when it's fake.

I died yesterday.
I will die today.
I've been dying
since I was born.

Every memory I have
lies six feet under me
a dead man lived them
not me.

Everything I've ever experienced
all the tooth ache,
heart ache,
even the smell of my arm pit
when I didn't shower
for a week.

Everyone I've interacted with
everyone I will interact with
has and will be talking
to a dead man
although I look forward
for tomorrow's black tea.

The person who just wrote this
is about to die
but don't you tear up now
because that person has changed
even if only
a little.

I've got an acting gig
coming up
in a couple of weeks.
I'll either play
Joe Goldberg
or some other serial killer.
I recorded myself
to practice
for when I get
the real deal.

My woman said
the first take was better
I also thought
It wasn't bad.

After that I went to the kitchen
I picked up an orange.
I have a strange way
of eating oranges
I slice it up like a plus sign
into four pieces
then I peel the bottom,
and then I put it in my mouth,
and do the rest with my teeth.
But sometimes I just
go in straight with my teeth
and I don't peel it at all
the juice from the orange
drips down my chin
makes its way through
my beard, it softly scans
the back of my hands
until it finally hits the counter.

I eat oranges
like I should eat
at any restaurant—
with no table manners.

I eat oranges the way I write
the way I make love to you
how I know you can be delicate
but I still take you
with my teeth in bed.

Even in the way I act.

I dedicate passion
in all that I do.
I give you all—
the ugly, the good,
God forbid
you admit
that the way I live
is *******
beautiful.

I told someone:
I believe people
should write
from their gut—
and maybe their
gut was an atom.

Then I laughed,
while my dog
was laying on my chest,
and went on
with more comments.

An hour or so later,
while watching a show
with my girl,
sharing my screen,
I decided to check on AP.

"That guy who was
a **** to you
on your awesome poem
gave you a 1-star
on your comment."

I read my comment again,
looked at the 1-star review,
and we laughed
even harder
than I did by myself
an hour before.

My dog spun around—
his *** turned to me
as he decided
enough was enough
and the world
had done him
no good deeds today,
and that warranted
sleep by my socks
much like guts
that are the size of atoms.

After that,
we continued to watch:
Six Feet Under.

You are the butterfly
that softly whooshes
between my ribcage
and that flutters
around my heart
aiding in its job
of moving the carcass
that is my body.

Even if you oddly
revert your
metamorphosis
and stay still
next to me
and rest in a cocoon
allowing silence
to rule for a day or two
perhaps
I've hurt you
and that's your way
to regenerate
from my unintentional
hurt.

As I lay in bed
I do the same
I go back
to my own cocoon
I shelter myself
out of site
but I'm no
butterfly.

I walk the dog
after he's done
with his dog affairs
I walk back home
go to the kitchen
and give him water and dry food
he starts eating.

Then I head to the balcony
and do the same
to my bunny
as he hops back and forth
until I feed him.

Then I feed the hedgehog
(wherever that antisocial
ball of ***** spikes is hiding)
I never see him.
I only see trails of ****
and empty bowls.
then I feed the hamsters
and circle back to the kitchen
and it commences:

      oin oin oin oin oin oin oin
                          oin oin oin oin oin oin
     oin oin oin oin                                
                             ­       oin oin oin oin oin
                  oin oin oin oin oin oin

"So you ignore me all day
and then cry
when you crave
veggies, huh?"

oin oin oin oin oin oin o—
"alright, alright!"

I grab his bowl
clean it as best as I can
as he continues to cry
in the back ground.
I sprinkle some salad
and wild arugula in his bowl,
grab a knife
curve my fingers,
slice some cucumber,
and dice some
green pimento
and shove it all in.

oin oin oin oin oin oin —
" I heard you the first time, *******!"

I go up to his cage
and there he is.
holding the bars
still crying for veggies
I place the bowl
inside the cage and he bolts
towards the veggies,
and finally shuts the **** up.

If I knew a Guinea pig
would be this demanding
I would've taken my driver's license,
quit my job, find another one,
got to a bar, have a pint,
smoke a cigarette, join a band,
write a novel, ****** someone
and burry the dead body
somewhere those **** cries
would never reach me
even if their cute.