Involuntary Empathy

My buddy’s wife was raped

Two years into their marriage.

They were high school sweethearts and

Only ever fucked each other.

After the rape they didn’t fuck for about a year.

Then they slowly worked the sex back in.

But a year after that

She could only do it with him

In a mask

A gun at her back

And his hands around her throat.

I hear this is normal/

A way for the victim to minimize the crime

And take back her power.

But my buddy

He couldn’t do it for too long

And so they broke up.

He just loved her so much

And it always felt wrong to him

But she couldn’t be with him

If he wouldn’t fuck her like that.

He remarried a few years later

And then offed himself

July of 2012.

Anyway

What is poetry?

Many things, but sometimes

It’s just a way for the poet

To make the reader feel

Exactly how the poet is feeling.

And for that

I am sorry.

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raindancing

unwanted erection

grandma’s funeral.

depressed lovers.

former fathers.

older cousin diagnosed with schizophrenia.

burning giraffe.

lopsided face.

mediocre penis.


aged beauty

cheeky wars.

identical twin died.

waking up at midnight.

handsome bully’s.

disgust at first sight.

the word you know is there

but never comes.

you don’t know what you’re doing wrong

but you are.

flaccid failed first attempt

at virginity lost.

Why do you like feeling this way?

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Contemporary Poetry

When I was 17

And I got fired from IHOP

My father said he was ashamed of me.

I got in my car and drove straight for 4 hours

To Delaware. I don’t know anyone from Delaware.

I got eggs and bacon at a diner.

And then I drove right back.

Does this make sense?

Young black faces under hoods.

In the hoods.

Skittles, soda, and

Diabetes.

Guns, drugs,

Anime television, and white step-fathers.

Am I even making sense?

Moon landing was fake.

Her orgasms were real.

Sylvia Plath swallowed men like air.

Was it very filling?

Sylvia Plath swallowed Carbon Monoxide like air.

Did she have her fill?

Black hair. Blue eyes.

Do you get it?

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Roce Con La Muerte

Post-heartfeast,

Unknown till after the fact

Heard this was your MO

Wannabe Sylvia Plath

Devouring men like air

I hope I swallowed like CO.

Playing men like wind instruments

And blowing it too.

Never got that far,

But I did play mouse to your

Multicolored flautist.

Did play lemming to your

Rooftop violinist.

Just gotta say

Thanks to all my friends

For holding down the fort

And shackling me to the mast.

And I’ll never forget

The way that you laughed

When I called you insane.

Sheepish grin,

My she-wolf

In lambskin.

Here’s your finale

In the uncommissioned

Femme fatale anthology.

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Violence

I dream incessantly of spanking you.

I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.

I no longer fantasize about sating your every desire

Like a castrated butler

Now only I imagine meeting the animal in mine.

Bringing my hand down and making some noise.

Turning my fist into a point and then driving the point home.

Like a benevolent father

Teaching a lesson through violence

When words fall flaccid.

The whole world can watch

And my sisters can weep

And the feminists can feel argument victorious

Because man is as close to beasts

As women are angels

And that’s what I’ve sought out to prove.

Waving back my civilized

Until I draw down sense

In the flat of my hand.

Matching hurt with hurt,

When words are impotent,

We reach deep inside the rage

And find poetry there.

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Ignoble Birth

Three Geniuses traveled

300 miles

Almost 9 months

After God knocked up

A 13-year-old girl

While She was a sleep.

Foretold by a swallow

Under a double-rainbow

On top of a mountain

Twin to a new star

A or The

Great Leader

Was Born.

When I was 6

My mother told me

When she was in labor

She was pushing real hard

And accidentally pooped

Immediately preceding

My delivery.

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Toilet Paper Canvas, Urinal Cake Pride

I’m sitting on the toilet bowl

In an Outback Steakhouse

Writing poetry in my head.

The man in the stall next to me

Is giggling loudly while

unwrapping candy

or rolling a joint.

It’s amusing,

Not amazing

Or moving

But proving,

To my devotion of a muse.

I begin musing

Or bowel-moving:

Your teeth are mirrored pearls,

Your smile malcontent.

The tongue is a pendulum,

While the mouth is villainous.

Your words are venemous.

Mine are humble

5th century BC philosophers;

Truth-seeking and curious

but ultimately,

misunderstood and martyrized

While the world is all

Just filing its nails.

I’m sitting here

writing poetry

or excreting refuse

aiming for

a toilet

of independent journals

and the calloused ears

of a tired fighter

I’ve wrestled with before

Who finds no need to

imperil the belt.

I whispered into your cauliflower,

And for once my words were ambulatory.

Playing Rilke,

Transcribing for the Gods.

But my words are impotent.

When your heart is septic.

And your ears

Are only searching for shit.

So…

flush

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