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Jesus had me doing crunches today.
His spiny fingers curled around my ankles.
He wanted me to do 6 million crunches.
I told him 20 was my limit.
Jesus lifted his shirt to inspire me.
He had a 70-pack on his abs.
Jesus charges 8 thousand dollars an hour
To be your personal trainer,
which is fair don’t you think,
being the Son of God and all?
I don’t know why I was thinking about you today,
Billy Mumy,
But I was.
I was just thinking about what a cute kid you were
and wondering what you’ve been up to since
Lost in Space got cancelled.
So I went to your website
Where I learned,
among other things,
That your last name is not pronounced “Mummy”
Like the sarcophagus.
But Moomy – like roomy, with an M.
Billy Moomy
What a gas!
I bet it bugs you when people call you Mummy.
Hey, remember the robot?
Danger, Will Robinson
Danger, danger!
What a gas!
Image by Dave Lonteen
When I was in traffic
I murdered the road.
When it was busy
I murdered the phone.
When I couldn’t see the stars
I murdered the moon.
When I didn’t want to die
I murdered the tomb.
When I didn’t like the music
I murdered the band.
When I didn’t like the reaction
I murdered the fans.
When I was hungry
I murdered the cow.
When I couldn’t sleep
I murdered the bed.
When I couldn’t write
I murdered the pen.
With my eyes I beheld her
With my arms I held her
With my mouth I spoke with her
With my tongue I kissed her
With my head I loved her
With my heart I fancied her
But with my legs I walked away.
A leftover bowl of broccoli soup in the refrigerator
A copy of The Handmaid’s Tale
A figurine
A photograph of our weekend in Baja
A coffee cup that says, “World’s Greatest Sister.”
A wrench (in my gut)
A poem you wrote about how much I suck
A video store late fee. . .
Are all that’s left of you
The remnants of you.
The income tax of you.
The litter box of you.
Yesterday
I fished out
the sludge
from the shower drain
just to get a lock of your hair.
Sitting alone in a restaurant in Positano,
Sipping Ouzo
And writing poetry in brown Journal
A lizard climbs up a wall and across the ceiling and lingers overhead.
Suddenly
My poem feels like bullshit.
Oh how they drag on.
“Holy God, Lord of All
How could I have believed all your bullshit?
Hark, the fallen Angels sing,
Alleluia!
Alleluia!
Shove thy hymns up thine hallowed ass
For Finally I am free
To crank Sabbath
Use condoms
Watch porn
And flog the Bishop
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Flog the Bishop
Flog the Bishop
And he will flog the Bishop for ever and eh-ver”
[Author's Note: In a television interview with Donald Rumsfield about the torture allegations at Abu Ghraib, he avoided the word "torture" replacing it instead with the euphemism "extraordinary rendition." Hence this poem:]
EXTRAORDINARY RENDITION
This is a term they use
To replace the word “torture.”
Extraordinary rendition
That sounds like fun
like somebody adapted a mediocre book
into a top notch movie.
And oh it takes an extraordinary asshole
to call torture, “extraordinary rendition.”
If you are going to commit mayhem,
could you at least please say her name?
She’s called Torture.
Say her name
Torture: the infliction of severe physical pain
as a means of punishment or coercion.
Torture: to let them bleed out slowly.
Torture,
Is her name, her name
Torture:
The Iron Maiden
The chastity belt
The hanging cages of Babylon
Torture:
Thumbscrews
The wheel
Cat’s paw
Torture:
Saint Elmos belt
The breast-ripper
Judas’ Cradle
The Heretics forks -
The anal pear
Torture
Say her name.
(Note: The instrument shown at the top is called “mutilation shears.” I chose this particular torture device because of the strange dichotomy it represents. The mutilation shears are used to clean up after the torturing. For instance, if the torturer mangled your toes or fingers there would be bone and cartilage dangling, which would be a problem for the torture survivor. The mutilation shears cut off the excess bone and cartilage leaving the survivor with a healthy, clean dismemberment. Torture with a conscience I guess. What a world!
Barzilla stomps into the bar.
Step aside or be squished.
“A beer!” snaps Barzilla
stepping in front of others.
“Hey Baby!” he says to the girl
and sniffs.
Barzilla is besotted by drink
and lust.
Barzilla doesn’t like to lose in pool.
He huffs around the table
Bashing shots and muttering.
He slams the stick to the floor.
He shouts,
“ANOTHER BEER!”
He often pays with nickels and dimes.
Barzilla never, ever, ever, tips.
He drinks shots
and breathes fire.
He says things like,
“Nice tits!”
or
“Put some booze in it this time!”
Sometimes King Kong comes in.
They go at it,
thrashing tables and chairs
like buildings in Tokyo.
Barzilla carries steel.
Don’t fuck with Barzilla.
Image by Dave Lonteen
I would rather
eat the pus
from the boils
on the feet
of a man
who walked across
every mountain in the land
than to hear you laugh at the jokes
of some other Dan
If I could pick up this city and shake it
Like those souvenir winter globe scenes,
It would kick up the dust and the dogs and the cabs
And snow them back over again.
