before i die, i want to fight a dog.

my mother and i were driving on the highway on my 11th birthday when we picked this dog up off the side of the road. someone had apparently left him there for a reason, he was always shitting puking and pissing on himself. so we named him grandpa. grandpa lived with us for about a year then grandpa died.

i have as of yet never been shot, stabbed, mugged, jumped, struck by lighting, engulfed in flames, contracted a venereal disease, or cancer. so, until my track record suggests otherwise, i am currently invincible. 

"i gotta go my friend is in trouble."

"what happened?"

"i don't know he just texted me 'S.O.S', and i'm real worried cause we don't know anyone with a ship."

you know when a lady sound all sweet on the phone? she's got a nice cute voice then you see her and she's all weighing like three tons, and looks like she sings Oprah. you know Oprah, she's all mi mi mi feegaroh feegaroh feegaroooooooh.

I dream of a kitchen where the sun shines through the window, and where me and you could eat breakfast. Coffee and toast, the toaster on the kitchen table. And we would live at least on the second floor, because after living the last two years, height is a wonderful luxury. Bright white walls and tile floor, yellow sunlight, your dark hair, and our summer colored skin. All soon. In time. In time. I can hardly wait.

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.