Mr. Saturday says, please, call me Mandatory

rising runnels of

scorched coffee smelling bullshit.

my Cuban heels besmirched on a 

Saturday morning at school.

 

the halls are forked with effluvia,

we erect battlements around

our shitty disciplinary tributaries

 

that meet briefly

to renounce the sin of throwing

grips of cash at

carpetbaggers

who arrange what they do into digestible units

who mistake  loving the Houston Astros for

foreplay

 they

tag team

brain fuck

us all by powerpoint,

 

from the comfort of their home offices.

 

they want our shoes back

but i guess If we have one weakness

its they just love too much

 

exciting new solutions

a cure  for test scores,

neck lines, and expectations.

 

the district is smitten.

my inbox is wet.

 

the real challenge here is

how to navigate

embarrassing public displays

of explicit personal/political animosity

from a disgruntled faculty

when you’ve got a piss stain on your khakis

confession of a shitty kid

I used to wish Ben Miracle was my dad.

He looked like a JC Penney ad, with a woman who died

and left him my friend Justin as a backstory.

he wouldn’t look at you but when he did

after a couple of beers (because we were young

he’d rather have

us drink with him)

when he did look you in the eye, you felt discovered

because he could barely believe that

a couple of middle school burnouts

was all he had to talk to

 

coming off the road to wash up

scrub down

and fuck off again,

my dad hogged the

wild flowers on our pink couch

and drilled me to catch him up

on General Hospital

 

at the perfume counter I told her it was a mix of old spice

cigarettes, sweat and cut grass,

hint of yeast,

twist off spritz from a freshly cracked Blatz,

a puff of gasoline and

catfish bait

that i was looking for

 

Larry got to know the neighborhood so good

before he was shot blind.

if ya’ll were drunk

you’d slide over and let him drive.

at a stop sign you'd tell him left,

but watch out for this one crossing the street, Larry,

you wouldn’t believe it. They don't look the same

as when you could see

 

you left your extra teeth in a glass on the sink.

Just for Men,

Alberto Vo5 hair oil. that’s one

area where you

spoiled yourself.

 

brother randy slipped me a bill

at the bus station in exchange for a

mercifully short conversation

about my drinking.

my last hundred

you took from me.

Ok, you won.

with a shit hand.

which I described to your little sister when

the lights burnt out

in her chandelier.

she sent me home with a box of Little Debbie's

and tried to pay me for the bulbs.

the sadness is a permanent fixture.

Aside the constant pain 

that 

is the thing she notices

most about getting old.

Icebreakers at Speed Dating Night Under the I-35 Bridge

I burglarized a van last night

it was unlocked.

I suppose it was asking for it, right

forgive me, his words, not mine,

but,

did you “fuck” her? 

yes, but I saved them

so much on car insurance

by leaving the window intact. 

a pair of mockingbirds dive on a

gray stray hauling 

substantial testicular heft,

one of their own in his mouth.

his, the unbroken stride of  

a former senator going in for a handshake

with BB King during the Clinton Administration.

outraged at this senseless routine

they bang their beaks on kitty’s rib cage

over and over again

I curse relative comfort

upon the cardboard that protects my skin but sucks for fucking.

survey the land underneath the bridge

offer my wrists 

to the patrolman in exchange for help locating his mind.

he declines and proposes,

without walls,

I don’t exist

So. order of business #1 

since time is either what I’m doing wrong 

or not doing enough of, I propose 

Gods,

judge me not as a God.

who could even pass this test:

Stand up if you’ve never touched an uncircumsized penis. 

Stay seated if not. If so, 

Turn 7 degrees until your left is east if you’ve ever “tongued” anything:

envelope, Jello Pudding Pop,  et al.

slap your knee until standing still if you give and receive in wrong ratios. 

from the squatting position, slow trot 

and sheepshank your neighbor’s chukka

if and only if you’ve never, ever,

stuck your finger up your own ass.

Now turn again

say amen.

time’s up,

you’re done.

don’t forget to rate your date

(and follow us on Instagram)

I miss you Betty Sue

on the state route connecting

the shitty little towns

where all my loved ones live

I pump and pump the pedals of my baby blue

10 speed

towards the light

at the top of the hill

 

by day

I’m the only lefty on the team,

fat with good arms

so coach Larry puts me in for the king,

Mark Bing, who meets me after practice

dragging monkeys,

one of whom has a harelip and the last name, Yunk.

this is not an abdication

or a coronation but a declaration

of my fate should

I pretend to the mound

 

at night

I wear black to distract the eyes of the law

and old men

under porch lights

begging to be vandalized

as I work that bike uphill

 

behold! on my ass

the halogen lights

of a diesel downshifting,

grinding in for a kiss

i hold out my hand (as I am spoken for)

and go tumbling down a ravine

dotted

with bush hogged saplings.

one of which goes through my knee.

the only thing

I could think 

before the knee dawned on me

was,

mom’s gonna fucking kill me

for riding after dark.

A Really Good Landscaper Named Edward

he loves history but he doesn’t know shit about movies

He didn’t know he was in a car with the Minotaur

who was going to kill him--

that he might be thrown off a cliff,

he might get shot in the back

or he might have a job.

it was a ford taurus for fuck sake.

straight off a cliff to the end of the world

when he realized he did not have to be like Coyote.

all he had to do was use the cue--

 

when the music swells

and the weeds move in,

its time to cry

Helpline

after 37 minutes an operator,

determines she's found the perfect person,

is happy to transfer me,

she's happy to remind me too,

that, 

as always,

they have a website.

 

after 20 minutes anticipating the perfection

due to me,

I give up.

But there you go.

we wait, don't we?

for the things we want.

on the things we don't want.

In line, on the phone, wringing our hands,

smoking our cigarettes.

We wait for good bound,

finally, to shift bad unopened 

to the corner of the table

(we're expecting company tonight)

waiting on what didn't exist

until we produced 

the children who we anticipate 

will make us proud.

We wait for them to stop looking through us

for something they can't even see.