The Inspiration Issue

knowing I’m into poetry
a friend
gave me a copy of:
Poets & Writers Magazine
I flipped through the pages
a nice looking magazine
a real pro
the fucking big time, but
all I see are ads
low residency MFAs
blah, blah, blah
an interview with a graphic designer
more bullshit
seems like this is made for
the left liberal elite
the hipster kid
blindly listening to her dubstep
doesn’t know an ounce about
his pseudo-politics
I flip through the pages
all I see are ads
more ads
not a single
not one
I’ll use the pages to clean
my windows

only an asshole
would pay 100,000 grand
to go to poetry


Pain and loss inspires stories of pain and loss
Happiness inspires no creativity
Strange experiences somehow never quite inspire
Accomplishments inspire you to want more accomplishments
Girlfriends and boyfriends inspire stagnancy
Because of this
The only lover a real artist must have is his craft
One may even look at it this way:
When extremely creative, going the real distance
Staying up all night, manic
Downing adderall to stay awake,
He is doing the same as what people call “fucking”
Except happy little couples go to the bathroom after
Clean up, cuddle, make food, go to bed
The artist critiques his work, exhausted, tired of his
Old bitch, maybe time for a new one
Maybe she’s tired of her old bastard, kick him the hell out
Start with the new one, make her kick and scream
Bite his neck, arms and face;
Embark on the new poem, the new painting,
Collage or short story
Dysfunctional we are, drug users we are
Chemicals to cope with the reality
We look through the world fundamentally different;
You want to play doctor for the rest of your life
We want to kick down the doll house
Burn in, and mix the ashes with water to add
Contrast to our next painting

Your Retro Career Melted

I was on my way to the store with a plastic bag full of change

The idea was to go to the CoinStar to get some cash to buy a sandwich

As I went West on Santa Monica Blvd

A hipster girl with big tits

And thigh

And ankle

And calf tattoos

Slid easily by astride a swank fixie with purple rims and useless handlebars

This is why she didn’t use them

As she used her long legs to pedal and steady the bike

Whilst she texted on her iPhone

Oblivious to the world

This snapshot whizzed by an out of my mind as I continued on

Then: WHUNK!

Up ahead she ran into a the side of a Prius that was pulling into the Ramada

She lay sprawled like a spider in the gutter

As men rushed to help her up

The Toyota driver and girlfriend got out panicked

And looked at the car to make sure it was fine

As I passed, I saw the hipster girl was OK physically

But in her eyes you could tell she was in agony

She had never been completely vulnerable before

I momentarily wondered if lessons would be learned from this

Then continued on my way

Flowy // Poem

The string prophecy is true

Always seemingly connected

Fleeting in and out

Souls intersect in some odd fashion

Unexplainably complicated

But unexplainably simple


Mean to each other at times

Down for each other always


Changes still occurring

Realization life is vast

Realization of

Profound respect

Rage once had quickly

Melts to smiles

And stories

Listening to

Gucci Gucci, Fendi Fendi

Laughing, Joking

Will I see her again, I’m sure

When, who knows

The Raccoon Dancer

Editors note: Although this story is entirely true, some names have been changed to protect the innocent!

Last night I became very inebriated; I had drunk red wine, Ancient Age brand whiskey, and a couple of IPAs. I had a nice good buzz going after I had spent the night hanging out at a couple dive bars with my friend and his girl, and a couple other people. The night hastily wrapped up right around 2. As my friend was getting text after text from his anxious girl waiting for his rod, I waved bye to him as I went my own way.

Two thirds of the way home I encountered a raccoon, not particularly an uncommon site in Sacramento, the “river city”. This one seemed different, it seemed curious, also it reminded me of my old cat “Mr. Booker.” In my mind this somehow “sealed the deal.” I got on all fours and started to crawl towards my new wild friend. To my surprise he started heading right over towards me. At this point my mind started racing, what if he had rabies, what if he clawed the fucking shit right out of my face and tears an eyeball out? I used my animal-profiling skills and decided that he was “safe.”

I was in the front yard of a Victorian house which are all over the place here in Sacramento, if any casual observer would have seen me, they would have immediately called the cops. I was in many different position(s); I was thinking what would be least confrontational stance to my new friend. I decided mainly with the low-head-crawl technique that I once learned when reading a book I wrote titled “How to Greet Wild Animals” We at times came very close to each other, almost to the point where I could reach out and pet him, it was climaxing to a point of no return. Would I be the first person I know of to actually pet a wild raccoon and live to tell the tale? As we “hung out” in the front yard and the side yard of this bountiful house, I started to ease up; the adrenaline was beginning to subside.

Just as we started to really connect (I was making clicking noises at him, in some primitive attempt to communicate) he started to venture off. My guess is that he or she had some kids at home to feed, or he was out looking for a quick fuck, and when he realized I didn’t have a ready raccoon pussy he bounced, but either way I walked with him slowly as he headed to his favorite tree to roost. I waved at him as he slowly walked up. He gave me one last look and scurried on up out of site. Bonds were made that night, although I didn’t get to pet him, I indeed feel much closer to nature now.

Rock & Sand // Poem

Little nineteen year old
Maybe 20
Or 18
Are you doing?
Lost and
Confused and
Happily in love
Joy time like division
Not yet incensed with the
Emotional breakdown
Or real
That what you had
Was in your mind
depressed mode
Depeche Mode
new mode
Your rock
Was sand to her
She was built on solid foundation
To you
Built on concrete
To her
Sand dune foundations
You were willing to wager
It all
The whole time was
Carnival Rides
Was along for the
How fun
Up, down, around
In, out, about
The sand dunes you thought
Were concrete
Her teen mind
Knew those mounds were
like Legos
like Playdoe
Play hoe
She knew that her way
Would indeed
Be the higher
She just wanted to
Be a part of that
So she could
belong if she wanted
She showed herself
She is now
Looking for
Sperm donors
Cum suckers

There Goes The Neighborhood

It used to be just the queers here

And us

We were the odd men out

Queers amongst queers

But they accepted us and things were good

Then the people moved out

And rents went down

Aspiring actors and various other shit-bags moved in

And took over

Half naked girls appeared by the pool

But this was somehow worse

Now couples and groups of friends

Scream and argue in the street

About jobs

And love

And auditions

I hear them through the window and I hate them

Every day

The sky is queer and gray at night

I’m sure it’s always been this way

But I notice it more now

My Bucket List*

*Reality-based “fiction”

  • Drink an ayahuasca and tonic.
  • Throw a frozen GoGirl at someone’s head who’s wearing a “livestrong” bracelet.
  • Foursome with hot disenfranchised former Soviet Bloc girls.
  • Literally ride a tiger (under humane conditions of course). I refuse to think Ronnie James wasn’t on to something major.
  • Free baited bears and help kill their keepers by pulling out their teeth and nails and making them fight dogs.
  • Accurately define “Neohyperpostfuturism” and teach it at Harvard.
  • Take a bullet (non-lethal/debilitating).
  • Build a Mandroid and teach it to drive.
  • Go semi-pro in the bumfighting circuit.
  • Witness munging.
  • Scuba up to an oceanside party wearing a tux under my wetsuit, then join the festivities with a “no biggie” attitude.
  • Hang out with Len. I wonder what happened to him/them…
  • Heroin in the dorsal, n.q.a. (not to rip off Mitch J)
  • Shine a lazer into the cockpit of Air Force One.
  • Travel through time.
  • Learn Majick

I think that might be it.  For now, anyways.

My Bucket List*

*Complete Fiction

  • Do some gay shit (Just to see if it’s all the hype)
  • Do needle drugs, injecting into my penis vein
  • Get raped, and collect SSI
  • Walk in on two of my buddies’ dads butt-fucking
  • Run a meth lab using child labor
  • Buy a bride and resell her on the black market
  • Buy dirty bomb materials on the black market
  • Be a black market salesman
  • Be part of a federal investigation
  • Be a part of an electronic band that lip-syncs all their material
  • Own an Island
  • Make the island a sovereign nation
  • Do that shit where you kidnap people and let rich old men hunt them (on my island)
  • Have a near death experience, do DMT, see if DMT and NDE are similar
  • Do PCP, get naked and be on an episode of COPS
  • Visit North Korea and attempt to “go undercover”
  • Do that thing that other people can do on the internet, where they can stick their own penis head in their own asshole (tried, not long enough)
  • Bring things back to the way they were in 88’
  • Shut down the internet and make people get a fucking life

To Be Continued…