Scenes from a Waiting Room

Act I. (the elderly)
Old, musty ass wrinkled seniors wearing bad track suits, their lifeless, aged skin scarred with purple gum colored splotches hanging from their bones like loose sleeves,
a cell phone rings deep inside a purse underneath the dentures and coupons, by the time the old lady realized it was ringing, silence

Act II. (the soccer mom)
Frost dyed hair, way too tight Hollister shirt, tight faded jeans with pocket designs, elastic fake tits shaped into perfect round globes, husband at work banging his secretary who has even faker tits, but younger body
wife doesn’t care as long as she gets Starbucks 3 times daily,the phat mommy suburban with the cutesy family stickers on the back window showing how many people are in the family, the glowing quarter sized diamond earrings and the trips to Vail, easy to have no soul than to deal with reality

Act III. (the salesmen)
Bad cuff links that even gay dudes wouldn’t wear, fake ass smile accompanied by even faker greetings, slick gelled guido-like hair stuck to their scalps with paste, belts crushed by doughnut stomachs,
calling names like cattle and branding the innocents with fees

Act IV. (me)
Three freaking hours waiting for tires, brought a Bukowski book, could only imagine what he would have thought
I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t finish reading, couldn’t play games on my cell phone, I just kept watching the train wreck evolve with every new person who came into the waiting room, no blood or body parts, crap.

Red, White and Boo (a poem)

I see your Katie Perry

And I raise you Beyonce.

What ever happened to real art, like the Fat Boys?

Now, just splendid drivel cascading from the youthful mouth

Texting, sexting, pursed lips and Jersey Shore dreams.

Find China on a map? Fuck You, I’m getting my nails done at 3.

Be careful young ones, the noodles and puppy nuggets are coming to a store near you.

I see your E Hollywood News

And raise you Dancing With the Stars.

Posting every mundane bit of your daily shit for all to see

Facebook, Twitter, MySpace your freaking life away

My eyes, dried and burnt from your “Do you like me?” poll.

Keep your pom poms clean and your cell phone charged.

I see your De-evolution

And go all in with your soul

Shouldn’t be difficult to call my bet

You are another failed demographic, another vapid target market.

Duh’Merica (a poem)

DUH’merica, what have you done?

While you parade the streets in gas guzzling suburbans, there are soldiers dying around the world trying to kill dark-skinned people after taking orders from fat, pasty-white politicians who only care about their offshore bank accounts.

DUH’merica, why don’t you care?

That our children have difficulty finding China on a map, but they can update their Facebook status perfectly while crossing a busy city street without getting splattered in traffic.

DUH’merica, why can’t you turn it off?

The Kardashians, TMZ, The Bachelor, American Idol, America’s Got Talent sift through the minds of our youth like a slow, neurotoxin eating them from the inside out. Continue reading

Plastic Parade (a poem)

duck-face-mom-yearA-typical Rolex submariner sits on the dad’s wrist like a beacon of arrival,
his too-tight Ed Hardy tee sticks to his cross fit chest like an extra layer of skin.
those hours in the gym, the broccoli, the grilled chicken, the spinach salads……
Eyes scanning the crowd looking for that 25 year-old who hasn’t yet sunk the botox into her forehead

Wifey to his left, flipping her platinum dyed hair again and again and again
She, looking for someone to make fun of, looking for someone to help her feel better about her collagen duck-faced lips,

her third tit job, her fourth anal bleaching, her fifth affair with a new trainer,Tattoo reads “MILF” along the panty line that only a select 50 or so willing erections get to see.

She, peering at the younger women while licking her lips with the misguided confidence of an American Idol contestant

Continue reading

Email #10 (a poem)

Hi, it’s me again

I know, another email

Can I

be your friend?

just click “accept friend request”

it’s online, safe like your gated community

no realness, no weekend barbecues

no disjointed, clumsy

bar stool meet n greet

where you flip

your bleached hair

5, 10, 15 times

and pretend to look into my eyes

between Miller Lites and Jameson shots

thoughts dusted with cigarette ash

no excited stumbling

back to my place

where soiled sheets don’t matter

your hooker skirt doesn’t matter

but your unbathed, glowing cunt

breathes freedom onto my cock

just click “accept friend request”

email #10

milf deconstructed (a poem)

Marriage: Years 1-5

Each day, cotton candy fluffy marshmallow clouds

floating between comments of “I love you” and “You’re beautiful honey”

hubby home from work, healthy dinner served,

glass of $50 wine that is difficult to pronounce so it must be fucking great

Tongue down throat, barely make it to the bed, face in the pillow

deep, penetrating cock inside you like he “fucking means it” love making, so in love his sweat tastes like cupids own saliva

true, fucking, love

smile like a clown as you walk outside to get the mail,

waving stupidly at the neighbors with your “the world is mine” look

because your life is better, your BMW is newer, your skin is tighter

you still stay up past 11 each night

and don’t yet know about Lifetime movies

Years: 6-10

The cotton candy begins to stick to your fingers now,

damp from the low hanging clouds circling above

3 kids now and damn you are tired

Hubby still hasn’t responded to your “hope you had a good lunch” text

such a foolish ruse

when you really wanted to text “is she prettier than me, does she taste better than me?”

he sees directly through your less tanned, heavier hanging skin bull shit

it pisses you off, but you stay silent

Dinner, hit start on the microwave and watch the lasagna spin around like a good American,

but don’t get too close, the radiation may fuck with the botulism in your lips

“He used to kiss me all the time,” that voice whispers in your head as you stare at the cheese bubbling over the paper towel you placed on top

But then, a text!!!! Some excitement, a little clit tingle, just like old times

“Don’t forget to walk the dog, don’t want him pissing the rug again,” he typed

Crushed again

Hubby home, eats dinner on the couch watching Fox News and bitching about Mexicans, niggers and why Obama sucks giant donkey dicks

he takes his laptop in the bathroom for another 40 minute shit as you clean up behind him, you dive in to that box of Franzia wine the neighbor brought over for your birthday

you taste the plastic and cardboard grapes, but are indifferent

settle into the couch and watch “Cyber Seduction; His Secret Life”

cry yourself to sleep again

Years: 10-???

Kids don’t listen, hubby has more “meetings” than ever

random text from a 20-something hussy saying that your hubby’s cock tastes old and he’s a fucker, says he won’t leave your wrinkled ass like he keeps promising,

something about the kids or some other lame cheating excuse used a million times before by all the other pussy chasers

you hit “delete”, pretend the text was a mistake as you park your minivan and go in for you ass-bleaching appointment, no tears

next day, different doctor for mysterious soft tissue back injury to get that oxy prescription

at least the pills make the boxed wine taste better

two months since you’ve seen hubby’s dick,

Jesus the lawn guy is beginning to look like Erik Estrada now,

just like an old porno, ask him if he’s thirsty, invite him inside

bad carpet, bad music, face back in the pillow

it doesn’t count if you don’t kiss with tongue,

his sweaty hand on the back of your neck

“So this is what is used to be like,” that voice whispers “So this is what it used to be like.”

Did Tony Fuck Angela?

(A while ago I had a gmail blogger account and posted this.  One of my favorite poets,Misti Rainwater-Lites posted a nice comment about it.  Sure it could have been a Misti imposter, but I like to tell myself it was really her.)

I keep asking myself the question………… Did Tony ever fuck Angela? I want to know, I want to know badly. If he did, I think it would have gone  something like this:

Tony approached her right after he finished vacuuming the drapes. She had probably just returned home from a hard day of work at her advertising agency. She was standing by the door teasing her Grayish-streaked hair, almost inviting him to taste her middle-aged grapes.

“Hey Angela, you are looking pretty hot standing there by the door. Why don’t you come a little closer so I can fuck you up the ass,” Tony would quip.

“Oh Tony, you are so boorish, so Italian, so ruggedly…………….. what time is dinner,” Angela would blush and retreat to the kitchen.

Then Mona would enter the room, arm entwined with a an old drunk who resembled Bukowski. Tony and Angela could both smell the sex on her breath as she paraded around the room with the misguided confidence only shared by Blanche from the Golden Girls. Continue reading