Life isn’t about
what you can
it’s about what
you can live
I think laying in
bed at 11am on
a 6 hour early
the sun shining
and my stomach
groaning for food
thinking about the
girl at work that
recently got on the
I always wanted to
and one night nearly
though she’s fucked
and I know there’s
nothing I can do
buildings growing and
birds talking in the
telling me things I
wish I could understand
while the old men sit
on milk crates under
and the children ride
imaginary horses to
far away places
and I keep telling myself
everything will be alright.
Hot off the bumper of a winnebago
Ouija reads market quotes with a practiced
slide, desperate looking for payoff
to vacation—but all she gets is
sale paper sanity brainwash—
we bought big & are selling
cheap—all you save is
MONEY—promise of a lifetime—
best time to get fingers in the till
up to the elbows and play the slash
& burn game of capital weed whack,
leaping on board bull wagon
for a revolutionary way to clean,
World Bank giddy with pleasure dough
like wrestling naked in a bucket of ice water,
a skip in the step and a cell
phone in every pocket–yes!
I want it! I love it!
I’ll take it!
Behold, you are gentrification,
you are American Dream–
you are poverty’s pick pocket,
the marked man on the other
side of Zorro’s midnite—
but Ouija predicts collapse of shapewear
revolution, reading letters on the big board
that spell shit for bull, reading
“In strikes are dreams,
in capital, only desperation”—
Ouija flips down the paper &
gets hell back to
He’s learnt to laugh insanely… quietly.
Bites his wrist and winces his eyes
when his own cleverness gets too much.
Removed the right-hand pocket lining
from his unfashionable, dribbly trousers.
Armed with 13 sheets of toilet roll
and a damp beige face flannel
he sets off giddily upon his nightly rounds.
‘Well, someone has to tuck Mrs. Jenkins
who lives in the old Victorian vicarage
into bed now her husband’s up and left’
he chuckles to himself wickedly
as he WD-40’s the back garden gate.
He shimmies with half an erection
to the spare side bedroom window.
Where at an extremely awkward angle
he manages to catch her flossing hard.
The full moon sheen upon white buttocks
sends him squirting lucidly
and reaching pathetically for his inhaler.
Drainpipe clinging desperately
with just shins and ankles,
he momentarily blacks-out
and then catches himself
just before slipping and falling silently
upon his very own freshly made wet patch.
He said he was into hardcore
and I asked him if that meant Viagra,
he seemed a little young for all that
but you never know
and he laughed and said he was a punk
which explained the leathers and
I had thought him one of those performance artists
that drink warm animal piss from recycled juice jars
to old Donna Summer
but he reassured me
he was not that,
and that hardcore was more
of a lifestyle
like eating organic
the habitual arms dealing
of half ironic war
ensuring the poor
have more bullets
The rebel writing professor tickles his kitty
and sips his tea of the month
in his gentrified safe-space studio bungalow and sighs
the sigh of the high minded.
He performs his sunrise pose on his yoga pad and rolls
his do-goody eyes
at the dirty-fingernailed world
What is going on with all these arse-hats
who don’t care about justice or equality or the earth
who never read Gunter Grass
or sat in a meditation garden with Wai Lana?
The rebel writing professor composes a letter to the editor
at Whole Foods
regarding the dearth of face protection
in girls’ softball camp
so erect and dapper in his Tibetan cap and so comfortable
in his slipper shoes
yet still feeling powerless
that others are vain
and have the lower emotions.
The rebel writing professor putters his Volvo home
to social media and herbal bed
trims his Just-for-Men face-hedge
smears sunscreen on his yin yang shoulder tattoo
mounts his fixy bike and he’s off to the park
to strike a haiku
The rebel writing professor presses
the WALK button at the street intersection
a dozen times
like a paranoid harlequin
escaped from the loony bin. perhaps
sensing how the plebeian traffic fantasizes
about flattening his truffly, virtue-signaling ass
onto the palm-shaded Boulevard.
Oh how the poor writing professor has sacrificed
to teach the filthy illiterate masses
the errors of their ways.
It’s not easy trading a soul
for the privilege of giving out
A’s and B’s and C’s
punctuated with pinched notes in one-inch margins
smug with his “hmmms” and “are you sure?”s
giddy with his finger pyramids
referring to himself as “Doctor”
because he wrote a 60 page paper
on Byron’s bunions
and knows how to properly insert a foot-
He takes a certified pride in his choices
of vacation spots/writing retreats
gets 6 “pomes” published per year in his student-run zine
all the while maintaining a semi-regular blog on how to write
and how to publish what you write
(comments must await approval.)
The rebel writing professor drinks his 2 and a half microbeers
on Saturday night
nearly daft trying to craft
his neo-modernist novella
thinking up new ways to cat-knife and butt-lick himself
so he can tilt into his Ikea podium
until some janitor literally
has to dolly him away.
Against the dark night
and the dilatory commoners
the rebel writing professor raises his textbook high
prudent not to sprain an elbow
bawdy cad winking at co-eds
and skipping in the rain
(but only after he’s had the flu shot.)
Whom else but such as he would have the guts
to hate the president
to take a stand
against Stephen King’s last two novels
to call into question the humor
of The Big Bang Theory
to rally against ticket price hikes at the Loft theater
and the racist eponym
of Illegal Pete’s Margarita Hut?
This will be his legacy, well, this plus five
of flamboyantly garnished word-borscht
a hushed-up sexual lawsuit
and a single grainy Youtube video
with bad sound
and a virus.
You can Google.
You can amazon.
Bitch is still alive.
That isn’t polite.
I’m sure she’s terribly kind.
I’m just bitter because I’ll never
be Jessica or Elizabeth Wakefield.
California girl functioning oh so fine.
With all her talent and money
and two houses in two different countries
Francine Pascal could not write my kind.
Not even under the influence of
Advocare and mescaline.
Not even with a hot yoga fluent
ghost writer whose chakras are balanced
because at forty-three I’m still
tongue fucking the binary
in my Dollar General donut pajamas.
I only cum with my dolphin vibrator
and I can’t keep a man in my Android
for longer than three weeks.
I’m surviving San Antonio
on less than $800 a month
but when in San Francisco
I always remember to tip the maids.
Men fuck me then say
DAMN THAT WAS GOOD!
I guess that means I should bake a cake
maybe blow up some balloons
and send up prayers of thanks
to Dana Plato and Laura Ingalls Wilder.
If Francine Pascal were to encounter
the likes of me
in the fertile wilds
of her moneyed imagination
I’m sure I’d be dismissed with
Um. No. That Would Not Sell.
So I remain in bargain bin purgatory.
Defying capitalism and its glittery
Hello Kitty boxes.