I fucked the poet

He was there at the mic with a glow behind his head like a literary god, so I fucked him. Me, two other women, and this bisexual guy named Frank. It was five-bod-fuck and very poetic: Frank got the whole thing on tape for a project he was doing on bisexual poets and...
I stood in a parking lot and I breathed evenly through my nose as the sky passed slowly over head and the nauseating machines pumped juice out of the ground and I had my arms spread like Christ against a fence. "I really can't stand this place," said a voice in my brain like a...

World Class

I. Substitute Teaching In America, acting is frowned on. People are looking for passion. People want to know how much you care. They expect burn-out. Two years of hard work is all anyone can manage. You give your all; you’ll be a star. They want you to put yourself at their mercy. Then crash and burn. Everyone understands. The...
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. The recurring theme of the 'plasti' poets. Millions sitting in ill-fitting poetry sites, and vacuum-laden forums making hydrogenated-fatty comments broadcast through a dispassionate, torpid ether, or stuffed into serpentine fiber-optic cables emitting lard laden signals that slow down and clog ever-bored photons grudgingly carrying this vacuous data to burned out screens just to display sent, read,...

The Exxon Poems

I came there because nothing was happening so did everybody else and this is what transpired... seeds praying somewhere in the hard gravel of Exxon like quicksand ex cons they got away with most of their shit the cops could never figure you out which one did what because they had the same name The fuzz would show up at...
I need to fall asleep to the thought of a pretty girl the world is gross and doesn't care the TV mutilates my vomit comes out before I can get to the toilet it's always time for my pills people get out of their cars like assassins but the pretty girl brings toasted English muffins...
I don't know if the guy sitting next to me heard me try to apologize for accidentally moving his car magazines and taking his spot obnoxious hrrr of the espresso machine I had to talk over one at the books a million reading with Dennis who showed up drunk right in front of my grandparents Hershey zinging sunlight and...

Poems of Germany

In 1984, I went to Germany for the first time. Not knowing much German, I became homesick quite soon and, largely bereft of companionship, settled in with my notebook and resigned myself to composing the following poems. Thanks, Germany I have not yet had a poem accepted by The American Poetry Review, but...

Peggy

had a tooth missing in front, and when she talked, it made a whistle. Peggy Whistle was 43, loved Scotch, and worked nights at the D&J Diner. she also loved her little dog, Blue. Blue came to work with her and slept on a ratty old pillow in the back, lifting his head up every time the door opened and the bell above it rang. Peggy never whistled any tunes, although you can’t say she didn’t...

Blank Verse*

I’m asked to ignore too much…look the other way. In fact, I should call my poems empty poems. “Never-mind poetry,” that’d be a good name. I’ll write poems about nothing. Poems that say absolutely nothing but say it well. I’ll write poems like Rothko’s paintings of voids, great hollow, pulsating works of art, undulating existential...