my half of 'sex in the city' chapbook

“The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.” I don’t have a problem. She tells me I have a problem, and my not  “admitting it” is a problem—not the problem but just a problem. But it seems to me that the not “admitting I have a problem” problem causing a problem is not my problem but her problem.

 

I don’t keep any old pictures or love notes. They are given Viking burials in an ashtray, and stomped out with a cigarette fresh from my lips.

 

He doesn’t say “ex”. He prefers “my last girlfriend” because in all reality it very well could be his last girlfriend.

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I have no mother or a lover. The woman that kisses me every night sits on the moon at the neck of my bottle.

 

I will eat your hair, your dead ends, and all things in your way, your anchors. I will mow a path with my teeth and tongue for you and who you choose. (my stomach full of all this and booze.)

 

For she is the devil, and no one should care if the devil cries.

 

 

So sad to see that out of pillow talk that boomed, nothing will bloom.

 

old works

easter feast

the icebox is tapped, just a few beers left, decorated in blue ribbons, hidden from last nights crowd. we drink to fill our stomachs and our blood; i'd almost prefer a hard-boiled egg.

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In her small bathroom he realized that this was the closest place to heaven; plenty of time to reflect, encased in a bright glimmering white, naked, he finally grasped "cleanliness is next to godliness". But, he thought, I can't stay here forever, and sometimes all a man can do is slip back into that dark conjugal bedroom, and smell the sulfur at the tip of his match. 

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when between a rock and a hard place, line your ceiling with various lengths of string. tie bells to the ends of the strings. each afternoon when you wake, walk through the bells, and when they ring, an angel will get its wings. then hope that one of those angels knows who the hell you are, and is flying toward to give you some sort of assistance.

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if you live in basement drink alot of beer, because it sucks to live in a basement, and if you have to piss, don't go upstairs. you're roommates will yell at you about all 'the dishes you are hording down there'. instead, piss in the 'dirt room'. its the room that doesn't have a 'real floor'. it's just dirt, so, its kinda like pissing outside. but, in the summer the sun will bake your piss and cause an awful stench. when this happens, buy a bag of lime and sprinkle it across the 'floor' of the dirt room', and pretend you are covering up something much more sinister. threaten your cat not to tell any one, and he won't because he loves you, and cats can't talk.