Poem read at Weeds 3-9-09 "A Change of Life Comes Suddenly and Without Warning"

A Change of Life Comes Suddenly and Without Warning

hot flash news flash cold cash in the pocket of my jeans you don't know what I mean you don't know what I've seen come clean I wish I could

doe ray me fat sow la-di-dah language in the freezer far to cold to hold to measure ice-cream suitcases melting away postponing travel for another day

come up and see me sometime come please me sometime anytime day or night make me feel right there's something I'm trying to learn only you can teach me

she's hiding in the doorway she hears him singing I did it my way she's wondering what part she has to play in a solipsistic song of love

she's listening for her cues looking for clues trying to discern different hues of meaning but what she's gleaning isn't gleaming merely convoluted scheming

will you stand tall through it all pondering what you're seeing and is it worth keeping is it worth knowing or would it be better to keep throwing it all away

jesus christ saved my ass tonight saved my life tonight though I am never believing it's just convenience what to go on without any evidence or anything else to hold onto

tatterdemalion ragamuffin foresight penchant for dynamite ask not don't tell there is a well of silence only the guileless are fearing or hearing

come all ye merry gentlemen may nothing you see dismay our whore was born before time went still and she's here to steal your mind away

light up the night embrace your plight as on your way to hell you go it's never too late to repent but you might as well be proud you put on one hell of a show

Poem read at Weeds 3-9-09 "I'm Coming Over to Your House to Play"

I'm Coming Over to Your House to Play

I'm chopping off the heads,
chopping off the arms and legs.
I've got the china and glass knickknacks
set up like bowling pins and I'm using
the severed heads as bowling balls
to knock them down to hear them
crash and shatter into little sharp bits.
I'm going to use the limbs like hockey sticks
to push the family pets around the room
and then to beat their skulls in.
I'm going to do this in every house I visit
until I'm tired and go home to sleep.

Murder is freedom
Politeness is pain

If you hurt me, if you get in my way,
I'll take what I want from you,
and after I fuck you up,
I'll beat in your brain.

You think I'm angry.
You don't know.
I'm filled with rage.
I'm putting on a show.

Madness is brilliance
Conformity is shame

I'm not following
the rules anymore.
Now everyone is going
to remember my name.

What's this about you ask?
You haven't got a clue.
Fear and stupidity keep you stuck
as if you were slathered with glue.

Have I made you gag yet?
Come on, what's taking so long?
I'll shove my strap-on dick
down your throat until you throw-up.
Spewing chunks makes such a
comforting sound.

Where's your Mommy, you ask?
Oh don't you know?
She never really existed.
Sister and brother left
as soon as they could.
Daddy was just a clown.

Family is folly
Death is relief

Torture will make me jolly
Complacency is a thief

Any final wishes?
You don't know what to choose.
What you want is so far from what's possible
you might as well take a permanent snooze.

Poem I read for the slam at Green Mill 3-8-09

I’ve Got a Hard-On for Jesus


I’ve got a hard-on for Jesus.

Early, early on in my childhood
psychosexual development,
before Shaun Cassidy
and John Travolta,
even before Davy Jones and
wanting to be a live-in
housekeeper/ sex-slave
for all The Monkees,
there was Jesus.

He looked so cool in the pictures
with his long chestnut hair and beard.
And he was such a genuinely nice guy, too.
The first famous anarchist-feminist,
yet so misunderstood.
And who wouldn’t go for a guy
helpless and pinned on a cross.
S & M, here I come.
Hey Jesus, I’ll wash your feet,
and suck your cock, too!

Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell
are my porn. I could come watching
a 20-something Victor Garber
dancing around and singing
in a Superman t-shirt.

I would get up early
to go to Sunday school,
even in the coldest Chicago winters,
and my daddy would take me,
so I could learn about Jesus and
read the bible and write poems and
do projects in papier-mâché.

I’d fantasize about meeting Jesus
in real life on the street.
I’d invite him in to have hot chocolate and
John’s frozen cheese pizzas.
I really thought this could happen
since Jesus looked a lot like the guys on Clark street
my dad would point out to me as heroin addicts.
But this worried me, too.
What if my folks wouldn’t let Jesus come over
because they thought he was a long-haired, hippie,
freaked-out heroin addict?
I was really worried that I would come across Jesus
and that he would be turned away.
Especially since I knew that we were soul mates
and that I really understood Jesus and
we were destined to be together forever and
just the thought of him made me feel all tingly
in my special place in my underpants.

This was probably the beginning of my realization
that adults were hypocritical liars
with reputations and property to protect.
They didn’t really want me fucking Jesus,
even if, in a way, they said they did.

Jesus loves me!
The bible tells me so!
He loves all the little children!
I love Jesus!
The bible tells me to!
I want him inside me!
So I’ll never be alone!

Poem I read at the Green Mill open mic 3-8-09

Porno Movie

We’re gonna make a porno movie,
me and all my friends.
Gonna make a porno movie
‘cause we’ve got credit card debts
we’ve got to pay.

Why should we work
when we can get paid for getting laid?
Better than working shit jobs:
telemarketer, waitress, maid.

We’re all feeling so hot.
It doesn’t have to have a plot,
just the right lighting and decor.

Johnny’s got the props:
some whips, some cutlery,
some mayonnaise.

Julie’s renting the hotel suite.
There’s a pool and room service,
a game room and a soda machine.

Lily’s doing a handstand.
Billy’s got her by the ankles.
Jody’s wearing the dildo.
Cindy’s in shackles.

Ben’s got the paddle.
Margaret’s going to get a spanking.
We’re all having such fun.
We’re not even acting.

Ours will be the best porno movie ever
because we like each other so much.
We’re all so sexy, witty, and clever.
We swoon at every touch
and melt in each other’s mouths.

We’re gonna make a porno movie,
me and all my friends.
Gonna make a porno movie.
‘cause we’ve got credit card debts
we’ve got to pay.

Poem from LSfP I read at Trace 3-3-09

I Like to See Men Kiss


I like to see men kiss:
mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue,
comradely, yet personal,
tenderly like lesbian lovers.
It makes me feel good—
vicariously I suppose:
a big sigh of relief,
as if everything could be
all right with the world,
instead of feeling the inevitable doom
I feel when a woman,
telling me how
her husband hit her
on the head with a pistol
and the blood spurted out
and she had to have fourteen stitches
and she’s never been the same
and she can’t remember
sometimes, can’t think clearly,
has migraines and cries
for no reason,
when she says,
“And then I thought
to myself, ‘This is
what I get for being
so nice to you
and staying married to you
for nine years
and giving you two children?’”
You see, he had been sent
to Vietnam,
and after that he was never the same.
And in July he shot his girlfriend,
and then he shot himself.

The new poem I read at Trace 3-3-09

I Fall in Love with Difficult People

I fall in love with difficult people.
I can't help it. Anyone who is easily
angered, easily bothered, quick to fight,
quick to hold a grudge, I find
utterly fascinating, charming.
Maybe it's because they're mysterious
to me. I wonder, why get so riled up,
why pick a fight, when you could just
as easily let it go, be at peace with the world.
It must be because they can't, and I know
their anger, their frustration is righteous,
that their difficult personality is a symptom
of their intelligence and sensitivity. And
somehow I must think it's my job to love
these people, who cringe at every
imperfection, mistake, faux pas, falsehood,
injustice and rail against all the general
ugliness and stupidity of the world,
domineering and emotionally needy at the same time.

I Talk to You in My Head

I Talk to You in My Head


I talk to you in my head.
In my head you understand everything I said.

We share the same political views.

You know the words “propaganda” and “ideology.”

You’ve read my anarchist critique of minimal state libertarianism,
my defense of eliminative materialism,
my papers on French feminism and Lesbian ethics.

You understand why I hate my mother.

You know the revolution is not imminent,
and the horrid compromises that ensue.

When I’m riding the red line on my way to see your show,
the other passengers see that I’m engaged in passionate conversation
with the voice in my head—the voice that is you.

But when I see you,
I don’t want to talk.
I just want you
to fuck my brains out.