how are your balls, bukowski?

my balls are itching,
red, sore
and haven’t
been happy
for years.

that’s all women
really want
no matter what
they say. no one

or two in particular
just lots. and you
try but they’re
so goddamned
fragile and dem-
anding. she’ll say
something like,

“you’re real nasty
when you drink
after we have sex”
and i’ll say
“then go find
yourself
a man who
doesn’t drink
or fuck
so much, but,
for chrissake,
just stick
with him.”

and then i
might call her
a whore or
something and
it’s good
to know that when-

ever a woman
gets out of line
you can just
kick her in
the face.


and i’ve always
thought of
vaginas
like flowers
and myself
a big ugly
grunting mean
sad drunk
frankenstein

and they all say
“have you seen
him? he’s the
new voice of
a new lost
generation.”
i said, “i’m
no great writer,
i can’t even
make an honest
woman”

but then,
that money can
make you
do wonderful things
and drink
the good scotch
not that rat piss
they drink over
on skid row

and i told her
that i always thought
whores were
beautiful, and
i’m not too drunk
yet, but i’m
out of money,
darlin.

i don’t
cry when you’re
gone, i put on
Brahms, sleep
with these
young strangers
who’ve read
my stuff, and

i sit at
my typewriter
and start
wishing it was
a gun.

Tournament of Champions (philosophical nitpicking is for idiots)

I hate that someday im going to die and this has severely affected the entirety of my life. The end is nigh! The end is nigh! And im watching Jeopardy! and drinking guiness. Dinosaurs. New World College Dictionary. Women of Country. Musical Instruments. If its Tuesday, this must be Belgium! I miss you for 600! What is chiraz? Who is faith hill? What is Georgia on my mind? What is gulf war syndrome? What is karaoke in the kitchen? Who is bruce springsteen? What is the end all be all of existence? Failure or failing to say the right thing is a terrible thing to undergo because there are a million other things you could’ve said that could’ve been better but there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Everything dies baby that’s a fact! Someone said that, paul or bruce, or camus, or karl marx. I cant keep track of all the things I hear. Why do you smoke cigarettes? Typically, I smoke them to kill time.

Sunday at the De Young

Ah, to be young, and alive, and appreciative
of company in the afternoon where we try
to be as non-intrusive as possible to Susanna
who is naked in Missouri with pubic hair,
apparently, which says something about the
piece, or artist, or America. I can’t recall. But
it doesn't really matter. Let’s fuck in the
middle of the gallery and confuse people
by being in the wrong section for stains, abstractions
in the midday and you said you had never seen a
Motherwell in person or a Chinese running turtle
but being young and alive is enough excuse for
anything these days. Isn’t it? I’ve never understood
these things, these esoteric declarations, hidden
semaphores like breadcrumbs or like when a writer
says things like, “the afternoon kisses the sky cold
and blushing,” or “your nose soft and wet never
forgot winter.” Without which no cohesive story
could ever manifest beyond silly things like sunsets
and cigarettes rolling between knuckles
and lips and dark clouds in the park waiting
for us to remember that we aren’t quite old
yet and there’s not so much to remember or
contemplate but there’ll be plenty of time
for weeping and such when last night tiptoes
down the hallway in the morning limping
with hairs stuck in teeth and coffee breath
from six days ago when Susanna was still
naked but I was nervous until in the next room
I realized how geometrically sound it all is! And
staring hopelessly at these shapes, I prayed there
was a kennel to put our love until the yard is big enough
and the house has plenty of wall space for stains
and abstractions that I’ll still look at with thick
brow and forehead but enjoying their company
as they stare back giggling at our fetishes
for domestication and oil paints.

Out of Breath: A Literal translation (An Ode to Owning Things)

I will not play at tug o’ war—I’d rather play at hug o’ war
Don’t leave, he says—Sounding like her now
But thinking of logistics—The practicality of rope
Legs braided in the unmade bed—And stomachs
With so much to say—So happy to see each other
They won’t shut up or settle—And we don’t get
Their sick jokes or know the meaning of—Their sounds
It’s like watching a foreign film—Probably French
Given the circumstances—Of dialogue and overt chauvinism
Soverignty spoke tender—And there’s revolution in the air but
You can never tell— With women these days particularly
Women with short hair—They’re absolutely unpredictable
Come closer just for a second—So the line is loose enough for
I—Would like to tie you to this banister and
Kill you with my kisses all night!—For if you
The— End

Sex-isms

Women are like chores,
easy ones get done.

Afterwards, it was awkward. We smiled
and she cries, “You never

take me
seriously.”

Waking up to the open refrigerator air makes
morning wishes for a carton of
milk without an expiration date—

which is pretty pointless
considering how quickly it goes,
but it’s a lot easier than
owning a cow.

I’m sorry I’m always tired.
I’m sorry for getting tired.

They say that orgasms will make you
believe in God, but, I don’t like ecstasy,
and already stomach enough guilt with the subject.

Some girls say I love you when they’re happy.
Some say they can’t come.

Both of us spent the rest of our lives
wishing that we never crawled out
of the bed;

where we made a mess
fingerpainting all night with our judgment
significantly lowered.

Other bedrooms get the best of us.

Terrified of our shadows we turn out the lights
and make love to blankets.

Your eggshell skin rolling onto the bed
with my cautious self. Who came first?

We’re both scared but you’re pretty
but you’re smart and smart girls scare me.

We drove home from the beach quiet,
grinding sand in our
teeth.

Timing is everything.

You praise the telephone and
everything that happened during the day
until the doorbell finally rings. Anticlimax.

Every man is God when he says things to get laid
and young girls swear by them and turn them in
to pillars of a faith.

Every girl is (becomes)
a planet, a country, a home.

And we’re all the bastard children of a
someone who doesn’t love us.

Le Saboteur!

thursday morning/afternoon after
the night before/ early morning
two tired bodies/ happy birthday!
cigarettes smile/ always tensed
it’s getting late/ do you like your present?!
Noon thursday? do you like

breakfast in bed/ cigarette cereal
lips still tipsy/ strawberry champagne
orgasms are okay/ something glib
spread like jam/ the toast is burning!
two toothbrushes spoon/ scrubbing ash off teeth.
Burnt toast in bed.

late at night/ early a.m.
she’s been waiting/ oh oh ohhhhh!
where’d it go?/ it’s hard to miss
horseback blues/ goodbye
until morning/ please come.
Oh! good night, are you done yet?

dust mouth/ driving south
jokes bone dry/ barren balls
rolling over/going along
skeleton bush/ sarsaparilla saloon
passive shrubbery/ shrugging passion
Tumbling tumbleweed tumbles

at the end of the day
we never wanted algebra

we’re kids, we like rock n roll
and repeating ourselves and staying
up late and other things that
don’t really exist, but we believe
with all our heart in what’s under the bed-
spread like strawberry jam over the morning

Unprotected sex is the only kind worth having

Early morning spoils
left out with last century’s milk
and all my poetry turns

into this sky broken out
with stars again itching
and burning through 2a.m.

There used to be a god for this
but hes buried in france or italy

where his mourning women are beautiful
and drunk and naked with purple stains
on their skin running wild and moaning.

Here under the western sun
we’ll lay curdled in the brush
of young america with raspberries
in our thighs and backs and
dirt in our fingernails

then burn our offering
of penicillin in the incense tray.

I spent the day in bed listening to Joshua Clover
and a good friend in Europe talking about how
uselessly American I have become over the years
of watching teen flicks and stumbling out of cars
with ash all over my pants or Southern breath.
Its dark at 5: 30 p.m. making it seem like its at
the other end of day, so right now I’m writing this
poem from China right after the genocide at
the opium dens where the weary went to
lay on the floor and look sad as hell while
the Lumiere brothers made a thirty second
movie about, well, anything that they could.
Did you check bbc.co.uk today? while I was
reading The Map Room because it’s the only
one of his poems I could find online;
Has the internet become the new moon?
In that case, ill read the horoscopes off
the freckles on your back and be anything
but a Taurus because I cant change when
I was born and I don’t believe in any of
that bullshit anyway but I want to lay next
to you knowing or not knowing that
tomorrow will be there,
laying next to me.

Review of Gran Torino

Quotable Quotes:
“And who was that
goofball guy you were with?
Was that a date
or something?”

"Get off my lawn."

The Film:
An aged Clint Eastwood does his best
to smile, or not smile, the same old
grimace. this time almost. falling off
his face. Rough life, lonely now;
since the first. scene at her funeral.
Character development, analyzed and
edited into camera angles and panning
shots, developing through swearing,
gestures, and throwbacks to outlaw
past lives. He clings to almost
antique guns from a time when shooting
someone meant something. Our hero sits in
a dark room with a cigarette and glass
in his knuckles. Decisions to be made
implode and string the audience along
until the end, which is, like the beginning,
a funeral.

The Movie-Going Experience:
I couldn’t follow the first fifteen
minutes because all I could think
about was how I wanted to move
up the armrest out of the way.
That son of a bitch cradled you when I
could have been and bumped my elbow
when I leaned. Or maybe I
was just too high. It’s hard
to tell.

Final Words:
I need to buy me a rifle.

Oh! Fuck!

Its been a week now and im tired
not of you at all i just havent slept
since Sunday but this is what happens
when you live off nothing but coffee
for a week straight sewing machine foot
and a stomach ache so heres the question
then will more help us stay awake or
give us the caffeine blues which is
pretty much just laying in bed awake
feeling like glue waiting to happen—

a horse that aint gonna be racing
because of a bad leg

a high school football injury

Whats the term im looking for?
Invariably lame?

Photojournalism

I burned the negatives. The camera
makes you uncomfortable. Coat pulled
up over your face. You turning towards
the wall. Just misses

the chance to remember you. It’s
become a game. One quick snapshot
for someone to bag. But you… you’re good. You
put Polaroid out of business, when you restarted
the Trojan war in the living room.

Arms reaching out and flashes banging
blue picture shows inside my eyelids. I dove
like secret service in front of a Nikon that had
its eye on your silhouette from behind the couch.
You were staring down the crowded hallway,
lined with stupored soldiers booming chorus;
war songs from older days.

well I’m a-walkin’ down the road
with my head in my hands,
lookin’ for a girl who needs
a worried man. only one kind
of favor I’ll ask you, just
allow me one more chance.

We made our way,
through the corridor filled with drunkards,
downstairs to the porch,
to smoke a cigarette
where the light showed right on your face.

You were wearing that hyacinth dress.
You were soaked in champagne.
You looked into my eyes.
I looked down
and dug into my chest.

Lady

You’ve gone
and shacked up with
the moon. You spend
your nights listening to
it play its stupid song on
the piano, and spilling
wine on Cassiopeia.

Truth be told (please)
on those nights when
you come to me
in lieu of sleep,
saying something to
the effect of "Let's get
a bottle and
drink alone tonight,"

I do imagine
how pretty you
would look

with your hair
wrapped around your neck
like a scarf or
necklace

laying
like a princess strung
out across diamonds.

But really, I don’t have
the stomach for

drinking anymore,
and (if

you must know)

I’ve dreamt of a life
on a floor in a blanket
with you.

I’m halfway
there.

Ashley to ashes.
Dope to dust.

I don’t even like
music anymore,
I just want to hear
harmonicas cough.

Ain’t it just like the night,
To be gone by
the time you wake up?

Peace,
Bitch.

Cobwebs On a Window Sill

Eight shaky legs tap across a dusty pane,
shuffling along thin lines like a eunuch
slowly inching across a white
rope while mustachioed grimaces
and mascara eyes burn red.
Sometimes, I wish
that everyone forgot
everything I’ve ever
said or done. Then
I remember that
they probably already
have, and I bury myself
under as many blankets
as I can find and curl up
like a dead spider.
I long to be hanging,
as if by
a thread of your skirt.
Oh! How you set
my heart aflame!—it quietly
crackles in your fireplace
while you curl up with
a book (maybe the Subterraneans)
on that cushy chair and footrest
that was our bed
on the one night when
we never slept closer.
Let’s make love right here,
On this tangent.

Three-way With Dorothy

Oh, hello good friend! Yes,
yes come in. Of course! You
know you’re always welcome
here. What brings you to the
Lake District? Ah, I see, Leiden’s
not so far from here. You say you
met a gyspy gal in France?! My
word! And you traded her
your heart for a harmonica?
“Yeah that’s right, though, I
don’t think it was a fair trade.
I mean, it sings beautifully, but
the damn thing only plays the
blues.” Sounds like you’ve had
quite a journey in B-minor.
Tell me all about it over
tea and swirling smoke.

Believe you me, I know exactly
what you mean. And yes,
Audrey Hepburn is a babe. Let’s
take her to Paris, and reenact the
first chapter of the Dharma Bums
underneath the Eiffel Tower.
Hot damn! Would’ya look at that,
the sun is coming up.
We’ve talked clear through
the night, and greeted the
dawn with fireflies. What
now then? A morning walk
through time and space? That’s
a lot of ground to cover, thank
Buddha we know the shortcuts:
Follow the rain on empty streets,
Turn left on Columbus,
Run, make your lungs
Scream for mercy.
If you hit middle-aged,
You’ve gone too far.

I guess it is true, after all;
we seem to be made
to suffer, it’s our
lot in life.
Laugh!
It is a joke!

Remember when
we were sixteen,
and we plotted
to take
over the world?
Surnames from Native
American ghosts and
MacBeth’s battle dress.
If you’re gonna’ go
balls out, you might
as well wear a
skirt, aye?

Oh, you said it friend—
No one tells a dirty joke
like Shakespeare.

And me and you,
we know answers
don’t mean shit. We
know the real importance:
all our questions are
the same.

We share it all together,
Drinks ands dreams, laughs
and lusty wenches.
What’s mine is yours,
and vices versa.
Any wise man or
fool will tell you what
nirvana is.

A Very Stupid Poem by A Very Stupid Person

Eruption!
Splooging from
its throbbing core,
trickling down
from its peak,
flowing over
your curves.
If only it
would preserve
everything it
touched, like
the flood that
seeped through
every crack and
crevice of Pompeii.
With these columns
fallen over and temples
turned to ancient ruins, you
become an armless effigy
holding me at my waist.
And we will be known only as
this statue, entitled:
“Young man and woman in rapture.”
And they will ask
Were they in love?
Was that typical position?
Did she come?!
Did she come?!

But no, you

Just wipe me
Off your thigh and
Get dressed to
Go back to him.

Still, I take small
delight in knowing
that he cannot have
all of you, because
you left your

panties underneath
my comforter—a treat for
some lonely archaeologist.

Prelude to a Hangover

She looked up at me,
“You’re so different now,
I wonder, what’s changed.”
I searched the skies
From her eyes and back

I liked you too much
Then
“and now...?”
Now,
I know better.

She rested her head
On my chest, and
We took turns breathing
Until we fell
Asleep.

Immaculate Conception

My head lying in your lap,
listening to your tummy talk.

Can I cradle the
idea just
a little longer—
while it’s still
kissing belly buttons and
cute little cramps in the
small of your back that
my fingers softly knead?

You crinkle your nose
as if to say sympathy
pains don’t sweep you off
your swollen ankles.

Come along, darling, we’re
already late as is.
Missed carriages,
leave us stuck
waiting
for the bus.

The throes of labor
make you push and
push, and in the
chilling breath of life,
a tiny heart beats still.

Our First Date: An Abridgement

We sat drinking coffee and
smoking cigarettes at a table
outside of Starbucks and
pretended it was Paris—ignoring
the overweight latina woman sitting
nearby whose night was, “Crackalackin!”
You told me that if you
put your thumb over the
butt of your cigarette while
you hold it, it’ll keep it from
burning down. Then, we sat
on a curb and made toasts
to carelessness, clanking our
two dollar bottles of André
with bubbles in our eyes.

It’s funny, the things one remembers.

We spent the rest of the day
in bed. The red fuzz from
your sweater made my sheets
softer for weeks. You told me
about some poor sap who used
to tell you that you were
kindred spirits. We laughed,
but even then, I felt sorry for him.


5 a.m.—sick from
too much coffee. I’ve been
pressing my thumb to the end
of endless cigarettes, and the ashtray
just becomes a mountain.

I Want To...

Flesh collides with affection.
Clammy and wet warm grip.
Fingers feel their way to their place,
and, ah, a perfect fit. You might say,
we fit each other like, ah yes, a glove.
Knuckles whisper secrets like lovers
in sheets, as sweat blurs our lifelines into one.

Oh god, sometimes
I’m so corny
it hurts.

I'll Be Your Ton-ton

Watching The Empire Strikes Back on Valentine’s day,
I can’t help but think of love. Hallway crescendos in
A bleak, virtually uninhabitable Ice planet—
Almost like some winter romance
On a bench in the Petersburg countryside.

They say the chances of survival
are seven hundred and twenty-five
to one, but to hell with that!
I’ll don my parka suit
of armor and valiantly charge
into white nights, on my
ashen grey mare. The smell is
less than kind, but I so rarely
get to play the hero.

A whole moment of bliss! Is that not sufficient
even for a man’s entire life?...

Then again, one might find himself hanging
upside down with cold feet frozen
to the ceiling, and a faint feeling
from blood rushing to his head, watching a
snowy-white monster tearing flesh from limb.

A humble reply restores the innocence
of the tired phrase it leaves unsaid—
Two lovers’ farewell cemented by certainty.

Ah Nastenka, Nastenka! If only you knew,
the loneliness I endure now!

And oh, the wise wisdom that
too often comes backwards:

Looking for someone…
found someone,
you have!

Yes, it’s a cold, cold place, but know that
I’ll be your ton-ton. I will cut myself
Open spilling my guts, heart, and all
To protect you from the piercing winds,
To keep you warm within my hide.