I’m not really much of a ‘joiner’

 

Don’t worry

We’ll tell you where to be

And what to read

And I’m waking up to the reality

That somewhere

Something went horribly awry.

 

An unsuccessful suicide

Keeps the pharmaceutical companies happy

And strippers still qualify as royalty

In them there parts

 

Just show up so all the shitalkers

Scenesters

Poseurs

And leeches

Fucking stare at you

And invade your body space

And ask way too personal questions

And I guess I asked for this

 

But I’ve left the goddamn building.

Love poem to a guy on my “sure thing” list

We drank tea

The warmth and

The sound of rustling clothes

And clicking glasses

 

It was great to see you smile

 

Later she said

‘what a nice happy little guy’

And I said

The thing is

He’s like that all the time,

That’s the most beautiful thing

About him.

 

And then I thought that

The last thing I said to you this morning

As you were leaving for work was

Shut up and let me fucking sleep you faggot

And you giggled out the door.

 

It’s a trap

It will all end horribly

EVERYONE IS GONNA FUCKING DIE

 

But it’s nice that people

Like you and I

Can have those brief moments

Of not having to try.

I didn’t move back to the West Coast to be part of any elitist poetry or other scene.  I didn’t move here to rub elbows with pretentious fucks I hate to get published. I’m done with that. In fact, I’ve been done with that.  I’m meeting real people whose readings are very inclusive. I moved here to finally go crazy, relax, not have drama and because of my undying love for the beach.

It’s ridiculous to ever say “I’m retiring or quitting from the small press” although we’ve all said it once or twice. You can’t quit a job you don’ t have. Maybe I’d feel a little better if I randomly called some retail outlet, asked for the manager, and told him I had to quit because I could not handle the pressure.

Sharks in the small press, are just boring now. And I hear their names and see them printed over and over and it dosent affect me. What does affect me is when people think I myself am one of those assholes.  I’m on the fence about even doing readings for a bit.  I just want to enjoy my life. I love to write and paint. People who want to read it can do so for free online.   But I can tell this is a place I will make home.  I appreciate everyone wanting me to come do all these readings everywhere with big names, but if I had a dick it would just make it go limp. I know the real dirt on the small press players, fucking shittiest group of people ever.  Nothing genuine or interesting.  I’m workin on the anthology at my own pace, writing at my own pace, and I really have no desire to be published anywhere much. In fact, I get solicited daily and just dont send cause its a hassle. I might just be in a funk.  But I will continue to write. I like it here. I like the people I have met. I like the simple easy life and I like the beach.

I never did like all the attention my writing brought me. Well, maybe for the first year. Then it was like “I see why famous people go crazy”

I have a new book coming out any day, which I am proud of.  But I’m a real person. I enjoy normal shit. The rumors about me are funny and unique, and after awhile I don’t even discredit them. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Except I’m enjoying not having the pressure of being Debbie Kirk.  And I intend to enjoy my life.  The writing will come and go.  But if you write to me because you want to know me because of my writing or whatever, you’re really wasting your time. You have no idea who I am or what I’ve done. I’m the most guarded person I know.

Now, I’m going to meet some friends from SF on the boardwalk to play skeeball!

To the Pretentious Dick sitting who sits in the balcony at poetry readings

Your lines are like webs

Only spun to catch prey

And for a brief period

You had me

 

I figured out it was you

When the silk smelled like old soup.

 

And, Viva La Insanity

And all that

And we should all do our own thing

But I just think that if you are going to come to public places

To commune with humans

You could do us all a favor and take your meds.

 

I can’t count how many times

You told me you used to be a priest

When you were trying to fuck me

 

And when you realized I really just wanted to TALK

About things

You kinda fell behind in the conversation

And sorta mumbled to yourself.

Kinda like now

 

Glorified on the balcony

 

And I CAN get how you could begin to feel superior

To some people even in second hand shoes

But the rest of your gig dosen’t add up

 

We are all fashion victims

And sensitive artists

And you think you are untouchable

 

You obviously don’t know me well.

 

These people opened their community to you

And you came in and shat on the floor

 

You told me you were scared to read

Your poetry

 

And you could say you are suffering in your own solitary way

And all that other bullshit

But eventually the whole façade disappears

 

The guy who grows up to hate and rape women

Because he couldn’t get a date

And that time in 7^th Grade when you were the fat kid at the dance

Couldn’t get a date

And cried and cried

 

To each his own

In fact your mediocre poetry

Kinda makes me look like

I can actually write.

 

I realize this may sound harsh

To the listeners

But the second you found out

I had a man

You threatened to kill me

So, I feel like we’re about even now.

 

You claim that your being anonymous is the biggest form of anarchy

And in theory I could agree on some levels

 

But tell me man, How many cards to you leave laying around

The last reading with your website on them

You know,

The ones on really nice cardstock?

Just a ballpark figure will do.

 

So, if you could go ahead and write that poem

About how much smarter

And more talented you are,

I’m sure we’d all love to hear it.

 

Enlighten us father.

 

I can toss a few bucks your way to read it

Sorry we don’t have craft services as you requested.

 

Just because you’re looking down on us

Dosen’t mean we don’t see right thru you.

I only hope this poem makes you squirm

About as much as I did when you went

5150 on my ass.

 

But seriously, come back any time

My poetry is free for everyone

even those who don’t deserve it.

P.S. How’s stealing from the donation plate at your AA meetings working out for you?

To the stalker with longevity

So,

how you gonna do it?

How are you gonna tell everyone

that I fucked you over?

First you gonna

gain their trust?

and them maybe

make them smile

even giggle?

I can look dirty for you in a camera

if you look guilty to me in court.

You gonna offer em candy?

Perhaps show them your trophy case

Seriously dude,

this whole long term stalking thing

just isnt working out for me

it’s not that fun

and you know me

all about fun.

So,

If you could just go ahead and give this shit your best shot

(Really, Don’t hold back now)

to even try to fuck me

of course its not the way you wanted to fuck me

But make a move,

I’ll end this.

So you know

peace out

and when you go to tell them

how fucked up I am

how crazy I am

how evil I am

how mean I am

Maybe it would help

if you cried, just a little.

every day at the beach ends the same. I come home with a smile and a bunch of poems to type up.  I cannot describe how the beach soothes me BUT I just found out the Dwarves are playing next month in San Jose. OH YEAH.

untitled

 

Actually you drooled on my shoes

As I was walking away

An ace up my sleeve

Some magic perfume

But I saw when you hit the deck

 

You were beautiful.