the women are strong and beautiful
and relentless
the women can withstand pain
far greater than any man
113 pounds of meat walking the streets
they don’t need your muscles
they have their voice
and before you know it
you’re tossed out on the streets
or left alone with roaches
or thrown in a jail cell
or taken to court
or put in a madhouse
after they got inside your head
and tore you down psychologically
or played with your emotions like a puppet
and left you to the point of suicide while
they ride around town with younger men
113 pounds of meat walking the streets
the power they hold
the magic they perform
the voice they use
they can take you to heaven
or send you straight to hell
they can clean the **** stains
from your underwear
or have you sitting on the edge of a bed
in a hotel room, penniless, with the bottle
tilted towards the stucco ceiling,
wondering where it all went wrong
they don’t need your muscles
save them
for whoever or whatever
might be coming next.

words that hang like shutters
from broken hinges.

words that hover like nurses
after surgery.

words that splatter like
thin remorse.

I heave with sickness
when they arrive.

I spring with ebullience
when they leave the ** dunk
parts of my mind.

these words
these ******* words
that show up in Pontiacs,
in Plymouths, in Pintos

these nonsensical,
satirical,
antiquated words.

they charge at you
like a dead bovine
swinging from a meat hook.

they crawl towards you
like a silverfish
out of the sink drain.

they creep up on you
like an old ***
rattling a change cup.

why? I ask myself.

why does this happen?

I don’t want this kind of ailment;
give me
bee stings
or bedsores
or steam burns
but not these words,

these words that linger like shingles
across the ribcage of burning torment.

I pray without ceasing
towards a signified God.

I pray for simple sacrifice;

I want suicide rather than poetry.
I want a cow without milk.
I want a statue without structure.
I want a woman without grace.

I can feel the floodgates opening soon
and I think I’m going to puke my guts
out all over this page again.

I choose my battles wisely
I choose my words carefully
I know when to retreat
I know when to be quiet
and my silence says everything
but it’s her lack of understanding
that will not listen yet she continues on
as all sense and logic goes out the window
I watch the lips move frantically
I watch the chin quiver like an earthquake
I watch the inferno eyes flare up wildly
as sour tears roll down sullen cheeks
I remain unresponsive and copacetic
which drives her into total madness
more and more she continues on
as my nerves grind down to sulfur
and my worth gets skinned alive
she has stripped away everything of mine:
happiness, joy, dignity
there’s nothing more for me to do here
but sit and wait in my own mind.
I wait for the energy to deplete
I wait for the useless rancor
and rage to die down
I wait for the flustered face
to release the stress and fear.
better days will come, this I’m sure of
but not right now, right now I’m thinking about picking up my daughter from trick
or treating while she slams doors and hyperventilates over things
I couldn’t quite possibly
comprehend.

I lie
and
I lie
and
I lie

I hide my behavior
to keep you safe.

I keep quiet
not to offend you.

I agree with you
to keep you happy.

I walk on eggshells
for you and
it’s never enough.

I lie
and
I lie
and
I lie

but when the truth
arrives at that
final moment;

jaws will drop
plates will shatter
dogs will growl

and
you’ll be long gone
after seeing what
a ghastly beast
I am

but for now

I lie
and
I lie
and
I lie

to keep us
together.

I am the same man
in a different bedroom
where the walls are painted a different color
and the furniture is different
and the items are different
and the style is different
and the mirrors are different
yet, I stand before them
and I look the same
and the bed is different, feels different
and the woman is different
and the *** is different,
and I stretch out on the bed
hands behind my head
elbows pointed outward
looking up at a different ceiling
where sometimes
there’s a ceiling fan
staring down at me
and I think about all my little women;
some were so sweet when others were so bitter
yet each one had changed my life in many different ways
either through experience or by mistake
but, like the ***, it’s all the same in the end:
finished.

go home to your big house
sleep in your big bed
next to your big wife
and wait for the big sun to rise.

then get in your big pickup truck
and use your big bumper to
plow through big traffic jams;

sittin’ up tall, lookin’ intimidating,
feelin’ indestructible and wavin’
your big American flag proudly.

then park just outside the big yellow lines
taking up two parking spaces and return
to your big job
at your big desk
with your big title
making your big executive decisions
as those petty words come frothing
from your big mouth.

then sit at your big table,
up in your big high chair
with your big fork and big knife
and feast upon your big dinner
of other people’s shortcomings,

afterwards, place your big belly
upon your wife’s big ***
and put your big boy member
into her big gaping hole
towards the heavens
stroking your big ego
up and down
back and forth
in and out

feeling bigger than the sky
looking bigger than the ocean
sounding bigger than the sirens of hell

broadening that big imagination
inside your big deluded brain;

you’ve defeated the champions of perfection
you’ve dethroned the delusional king
you’ve won against no competition

the greeting cards,
the love letters,
the blessings,
the yes sir’s,
the no sir’s,
the thank you sir’s
were all said to warm your tiny heart
but said
without meaning
from the big heart of another.

and I was left alone with their screams
and my imagination
and the pines were full of sap
and the wind blew gently
and the clouds did what clouds do
and the houses were there
and the cars were parked
in the driveways and on the streets
and the people walking by looked more affable
than the ones I grew up with
and I imagined myself
living in their houses,
riding around in their cars,
taking walks with them on their streets
because when the beer can snapped
I knew a beating was waiting for me
over something I did or did not do,
it didn’t matter, it was just my time
and when it’s your time, it’s your time
and after the streetlights came on
everything went black
and the cicadas were silent
and I walked back into the house
because now it was my time
to scream.

I was barely 21
when I ran with this older crowd,
(they were between the ages of 30-35,)
and I thought it was something cool,
something special,
I thought I was someone
real grown up and mature,
I thought age had something to do
with sophistication
so, I tried to impress them with Bach & Beethoven & Mozart
while drinking rotgut whiskey out of cheap tumbler glasses
because that’s what I thought grownups
were suppose to do
but instead they’d say,
“this isn’t that kind of party,”
and then they’d exercise their drinking prowess by guzzling down a whole bottle
of Rumplemintz and chasing it with a case
of Icehouse while blasting Screeching Weasel so loud that my neighbors couldn’t exist.
my forethoughts of adulthood had been marred by the stench of reality
and despite the headaches and hangovers
that paired with the morning sun,
I continued on anyhow,
matching them drink for drink
like it didn’t phase me
because I had something to prove;
I wanted to show them
that I was cultivated,
that I could hang,
that I was tough,
that I could run with the big dogs,
that I was all that was man,
(whatever that means)
all I wanted was their approval
that I was something
after so many years of being told
that I was nothing
and I wanted it to be known that I had endurance and stamina
but those addlepated simpletons were too vapid and clueless to notice the ****-stains
in their pants let alone what I was doing.
we were an odd pair, different yet the same;
we shared the same desirous need for intoxication yet our levels of class
were on a parallel universe.
but as time went on,
the framework of realization took shape
and I began to see they were just a gang
of losers with no place to go.
they used up my living quarters
as their party sanctuary:
people getting tattooed in my kitchen
people snorting coke in my bathroom
people ******* in my laundry room
people throwing up in my closets
people ******* in my living room
and it grew tiresome after a while.
so, I had to kick them out of not only my house but out of my life for good.
decades went on, I reached my 40’s,
they reached their 50’s,
and most of them are dead
but the few still living are more dead
than those buried in the ground.
they’re out there now,
enduring a midlife crisis
with bed-wetting regression;
peering down from the hills of nostalgia,
sprinting towards their
social media platforms,
losing their minds over
things they can not control,
smearing opinions around
like **** as if you asked for it
and gnawing away at the bars
of their enclosures for one last taste
of the honey, the pleasure, the folly, the glory
because they’ve become
embittered with world;
a world they hadn’t envisioned
a world they weren’t ready for
a world that’s changed forever
and after all the wild and lawless nights
and after all the rebellion against authority
and after all the broken glass & cigarette holes
they’ve became like everybody else:
unable to face the inevitable.

all those doughy-eyed, snot-nosed, putty-cheeked, frog-mouthed, bull-headed, cowardice faces: they were born
without sorrow
until they hand over their lives
to someone they truly don’t know
and they do it with a smile
and a gleam in their eye
and then they get sandpapered down
and polished in something
they did not choose,
their freedoms get capsized and
they don’t know what they’ve done
or why they’ve done it.
they become enraged and frustrated
with themselves
but they do not know where
to project their anger.
they can’t do it at home.
they’re too afraid of what they might
lose: their own self-made agony
so they take it to work with them
or to the supermarket or to the restaurant
and aim at anyone over any little thing.
they can’t do it at home.
those poor deluded fools careening towards
the only elusive dream that matters: happiness.
some of them are regretting decisions,
some of them are stewing on mistakes,
some of them are plotting their escape
all that sacrifice, all that pap
all those easy words
whistling like stream;
“I love you.”
“I miss you.”
“I want you.”
“I need you.”
all of it: for nothing
all those droopy, sullen-glared, turkey-necked, warthog faces everywhere;
laying in cold beds, coddling empty blankets,
****** in sorrow, contemplating the error of their ways,
alone with themselves, alone with each other.

I rummaged through the cabinets
opening and closing
the cupboard doors,
sliding plates aside
and lifting up each coffee mug.

then, I checked underneath the sink
moving the cleaning supplies out of my way
when finally she asked,

“what are you looking for?”

“a girl who doesn’t think I’m ugly,” I replied,
“it seems to be impossible to find.”

she stood there silent.

it was the first 5 seconds of peace I’ve had
since I broke it off with the last one.

after that, I double-checked the oven
for good measurement,
found nothing
walked out of the kitchen
and back into my rumpus room
where I give up my endless search.

smoking a bag full of memories
over the flame of your past
you get high on a girl
you no longer love
but can’t stop thinking about
and there’s nothing you can do
to change the way it went down,
only imagine what could’ve been
if you’d done things a bit differently
which somehow hurts more yet makes
you chuckle on the inside
and now’s she’s out there
with other people,
in other places,
doing other things
that don’t involve you
while you sulk in the corner
with the useless bottle,
the useless tears
and the useless fantasies
that you’ve never lived in.
I say relax kid,
if you look back on the entirety of yourself,
you’ve made it through drug overdoses,
car crashes, untruthful rumors, utter loneliness,
suicide attempts and the impeccable timing of bad luck
I’m fairly certain you’ll make it through this too,
it’s only heartbreak.

alright, alright, the records sound good
and the mulled wine tastes great.

everything here is tidied up;
swept, mopped, vacuumed, wiped down
to an immaculate degree

it matters very little though
when your utterly alone
on Christmas Day
in a clean house
without anybody
to ***** it up
again.

all I have are these thoughts,
these tiny flashes,
you appear,
then disappear,
then reappear
once more.

I can only imagine you bringing us a drink
while we laugh at the same movie
we’ve seen for the 400th time
and the kids are playing at our feet
with their new toys and board games
and eating oranges or chocolates
or walnuts on a white cozy afternoon

but looking around now
while dipping into the 5th scoop
of wine from out of the ***,
there appears to be
nobody here.

I add cranberries, an orange slice and a cinnamon stick
as I switch the record to Leatherface or Joy Division
or The Shocking Blue or Black Sabbath or
the collected works of Richard Strauss
but it doesn’t help my melancholia,
only suppresses it
for a while

and as the dog stares wide-eyed
and the cat leaps out wildly
and the gloomy clouds roll by
and the poem writes its obituary
to a silent response,

the music grips my heart
and squeezes it like the
blood of an
orange

and I am
utterly alone
without
you.