Adam was perfect, right?
God stretched out his big finger,
warned him directly about the Tree.
So Adam knew better than to indulge
in Forbidden Fruit.
Of course, it seemed so unfair--
the tree's resplendence was blinding.
Adam was weary with pacing,
shielding his eyes as he stared,
salivating as he said to himself:
“Adam, be strong; don’t give in.
You eat it, you die.”

And then here comes Eve-
her perfect ******* hanging out,
forbidden sugar on her breath,
nectar trickling down her chin.
Adam want to pounce,
lick the sinful juice of her body;
but he remained resilient to his God.
Except, when Eve turned to strut away,
her fine *** swayed sensually.
Adam just couldn't say no to *****,
indulged in sweet flesh.

And they were being watched.
Angels, in their great celestial domain,
got a glimpse of naked-*** Eve.
They looked around Heaven inquisitively
and pondered bitterly:
“We are divine, **** it.
Why does a silly garden get such fine *****?”
So the angels clawed off their halos,
ripped off their wings,
hurled themselves to Earth.

And that is why I quit reading the Bible.
Genesis told me all I need to know.
Your *** is better than Heaven.

This is not the first time
but it always feels as such,
always feels like the worst it could ever be.

It’s been so consistent lately
that I go to bed with the light on
just so I can see Death coming.
I stay up expectant of his arrival
like a child waiting for Santa
except I didn’t bake cookies.

It’s not that sort of visit.
But he’s not really coming, is he?
I’m not really dying am I?

I just don’t know anymore.
Logic has taken a vacation,
my heart has been left to the helm.
But he’s so preoccupied
banging furiously on the walls of his enclosure.
This ship is behaving erratically.

And then the alarm,
that **** infernal alarm.
A new days begins
when the previous never ended,
they just overlap, blur together
and I don’t know what’s really going on
or if I can continue living like this.

Don’t interpret that to mean I want to die.
But isn’t that what’s so awful about this?
You are just ripped from nothingness,
birthed into creation, never
allowed to make the choice to exist
but on days like this
you have to.

Let them commence
feasting. Plates overflowing with
potato salad, meaty hot wings, bones
****** dry;
mugs overflowing with beer
as they revere the TV like a pole
and dancer

Let them commence
exhibitions in masculinity.
Colored banners flying ostentatiously
as they beat their chests, grunting,
shouting with near ****** fervor
other men’s names.

Let them commence
fantasizing, to lust
for the field beneath their cleats
as the old pig skin is tossed around,
jersey worn proudly
as they pile themselves on top of
other men

**! **! **!
Just look at him sitting there, waving, wishing everyone a merry Christmas as if he's actually some sort of magical deity seated on a golden throne. It’s a marvel how many mothers migrate to this mall en masse, endure ridiculous waits and wasted gas circling the parking lot over and over and over for the perfect spot closest to the entrance only to stand in yet another line full of all the other mothers with screaming children just to get a picture of their rotten progeny sitting on this man’s lap.
A stranger’s lap.
At least he got into character and grew a real beard. It wouldn't be surprising, though, if he's a ***** ******* or some other sort of ****** predator and his suit is extra-large, not to cover his corpulence, but to conceal his raging *******. Or maybe, just maybe, he really is the kid-loving grandfatherly type who never had kids of his own because his wife is barren or he's shooting blanks or something. Sure- they could adopt, but you can't raise a kid making minimum wage working as St. Nick in the mall. For the children’s sake I hope the truth is innocent. But I bet this bearded behemoth of an old man has pictures of every kid that ever sat on his lap lined up like wallpaper in his room and every night he beats off to them.
Oh, Timmy; oh, Billy; oh, Susie; oh, Patrick.
Oh, Oh, Oh!  

Hey, don't give me that look. I work in this mall and every day I see the rudest of people push, shove and insult their way through crowds like rabid animals frothing at the mouth ready to rip off the face of anyone daring to get in their way. While waiting in long check-out lines, these people complain that Jesus was even born because they had to go out and buy gifts for friends and family they don't even like. All the while, children are lied to about why they shouldn’t lie and instead behave all year long. Remember to engage in good deeds, not for the good of the deed, but in hopes of finding bigger presents under the tree. This is what the holidays are about, my friends. Christmas brings out the worst in people…

and I'm sure Santa's no exception.

There’s Batman, Superman;
a herd of Deadpools, Rorshach.
There’s a Borg, Darth Vader.
There’s Master Chief, a little sister, and Ryu.
There’s a ******* clad big breasted anime character I know nothing about
but would be open to learning.
From every universe, there are characters galore.
This is not Halloween, though.
A wonderland saturated in smiles and so much joy and cheer.
Yet, it’s not Christmas; but it is indeed a holiday—
a celebration of all things geeky.
The almighty comic book convention.

A sea of fans flood the floors,
locusts ready to devour every morsel of entertainment.
Everyone from casual readers
to those with a superhuman ability to retain every panel,
every iota of detail about their favorite hero universe.
There’s little boys and adults alike dressed as their hero;
the fan who wanted to join the Empire so badly
that he jumped out of his Death Star sheets and spent the last 8 months
painstakingly recreating storm trooper armor.
There’s women who like to dye their hair, cram cleavage into tight vinyl
and wield a sword so comic book geeks can drool over a fantasy.
You can find the rare print comic you’ve been scouring eBay for–
like Amazing Fantasy #15 that first features Spider-Man.
You can thank your favorite writer for issue number 29,
page 7, panel 3 because it changed your life.
You can shake the hand of the man that drew
the ***** belonging to your first crush;
catch the first preview of your favorite character
moving from small page to big screen.
Booth after booth after booth is a yet another world to get lost in.
At 4 o'clock is a meet and greet
with the actors from your favorite show based off a comic
Forget mouse ears and kiddie rides-
this is like ***, maybe better.
This is where dreams come true.

I came in costume, myself.
Before I left the house, I paced tracks into the carpet.
back and forth, back and forth in front of the mirror.
My hair needs to be perfect,
My smile perfect,
My clothes perfect.
Everything about my appearance needs to be perfect
The convention is the chance to be a work of art,
a way to be the most super of heroes, the most vile of villains,
or the most obscure.
A chance to be someone
you’re not but wish every day you could be.

It’s like I’m the invisible man,
no one recognizes this costume.
But I did this for me.
Today I get to be different.
Today I dressed up as someone you’ll never let me be.
I cosplayed as your lover.

In a DVD case but we only stream;
wrapped around a fork in the kitchen drawer;
in the cereal box;
in the pocket of a jacket it’s been too warm to wear;
in a sock;
floating in my water bottle;
trapped in the button release of my car’s sea belt;
snaking its way through the letters of my keyboard at work—
I find strands of my lover’s hair
everywhere, always perplexed by their travels.
Sometimes, I even find strands in my **** crack.
It’s always unnaturally long
embedded unnaturally deep
and I pull and pull like some magician
with his endless length of tied together handkerchiefs.

If I had trichophobia, these little surprises
would be unpleasant, jarring encounters.
But even in food, my lover’s hair is not cause for panic.
And while these appearances can be baffling,
I’m less perplexed about how they got here
than about how we got here.

Sometimes love is a hungry wolf,
I was the sacrifice to its appetite.
I cannot deny the despair of a heart broken
just one too many times. I was shattered.
Doubting my worth, I traveled to Vegas,
placed bets on never finding love again.
I don’t believe in gods or fate
but I cursed them as if they were listening.
I gave up.
Loneliness was my only partner.
I’d walk him to the park, push him on the swing.
There was tar over my eyes,
I saw only darkness and despair.

Against all odds,
someone with long hair wiped my eyes clean.
She made me lose by bets and I’m okay with that.
My loneliness wanders the park wondering where I went.
While I still don’t believe in gods or fate,
daily I thank them, anyway.
When strands of her hair present themselves
unexpectedly, I can only smile, gratefully.
Someone wants to be around me enough
that parts of them sneak into all facets of my life.
I still do not know how we got here.
But like a stray hair, love
can be found in the most unlikely of places.

Only when steam encroaches upon
my reflection, do I undress
making a ***** pile of underwear
and esteem at my feet, this ugliness
just a sweating blur in the mirror.
I break a nail trying to scratch you
out of my naked skin
as I step into the shower.
Against raw wounds water is acid,

burning like your scathing indifference.
Just an hour ago,
I had put my hand to my chest
but before I spoke, you
just unbuttoned my Levi’s,
said, “Never mention it.”
You took me in your mouth
feeding your hunger with my body,
****** me empty.

I cough up my disappointment
as the steam strangles me;

unlike your hands, leaves no bruise.
These tears were not joyous
yet you lapped them up, thirstily.
This is never the me I want
to give; it’s all you
ever take, laughing as you
spit
me
out

Black water always spirals
down the drain after being with you.
What is it that keeps bringing me back—
your filth
or the catharsis afterwards?