martha/maria

Well, Hello there Mister…erm…isses,

I’m glad that we have the chance

To meet under such informal headings.

It’s really rather hard to believe

The Annual Black and White Social has plagued us once again.

I know I got the invite ages ago-

I believe your secretary sent it to me.

What was her name again?

Martha… Maria… It starts with an M right?

Maybe a P?

Oh my wretched memory-

Who knew all those years

Of bottle tokes, joints, bongs,

Zongs and Cheech and Chong would actually affect me?

I personally know at least 100 grandmas’s

That say masturbation will make you go blind-

And I’ve tested that theory 14,945 times…

Sorry, 14,947 times,

And I can still see their wrinkly hands.

Every single stroke.

This being the sole reason; I never took science to heart.

Anywho…

This may sound like an excuse list

But refuse this notion

For this is neither folklore nor commotion,

But honest quips

Spewed forth from my lips

Let me begin from the beginning…

So about this invite

I meant to write

To you back in the day.

Please understand

That I struck sick

When some rubber stick

Got stuck in my anal gland.

It was a colonic gone wrong

I won’t string it along

But I milked a day off of work.

It’s not my fault

That five real women

Whose breasts were jiggling

Tricked me to join their cult.

I mean seriously.

When a group of girls say

“Hey, were getting colonics- Interested?”

You really just have to expect the best!

So after the bleed

I sat down to read

The message that Martha/ Maria sent.

El mesaje had vanished

To which I blame god

For the facade

That he’s not English- He’s Spanish.

I thought to I

Hey, you ought to try

A trip down Colombia way.

So I booked a flight

After smoking pot

Hoping to spot

The missing message along my plight.

I know what your thinking-

This gomer did all this just to locate a message

So he could enter his stupid poem into some

Wacky-ass named competition.

But I’m not a gomer, because at least I’m fighting for a dream.

And I’ve looked dozens of boners in the eye-

And I told them to go and ‘fuck themselves’.

I said “They have good intentions here at Wergle Flomp-

It’s not their fault that they never learned how to learn”.

And I meant that shit. Every single time I was forced to explain myself.

So off I went…

Well Colombia took

A turn off book

And straight into a pile of blow.

It’s freaking great

I shouted and danced

And pranced to trance

And raged till quarter past eight.

One week passed

So fast…So fast,

And I met a cleaning lady

Whose name I forget.

We changed rooms

And she brought her broom

And swept up after sex.

Two weeks passed

So fast…So fast.

I ventured to Machu Picchu

In search of the invite.

I found neither

But got higher than ether 

Transcending in the form of a pillow to ten dykes.

Three weeks passed

So fast…So fast.

And I found myself boarding a plane

Not knowing why I initially left.

I became a Peruvian godfather

And was bitten by a piranha

No wonder, I sighed in jest

You know when you retrace your steps

And then an old thought kicks in.

Like when you go for a walk to get some eggs and bread-

Which happens to be the only two things  

You have been living off of for the last month,
Because your boss spends all of your pay on kimchi and Hooker Hill trannies.

So on your walk to the store

You’re singing little made up songs in your head like;

“Hey trick, I’ma work that clit! Hey trick, I’ma work that clit!”

Or “Skip the nip, go straight to areola. Hit the clit, unless a hairy mole ahhh”-

And once you’ve purchased your routine eggs and dull bread

And you’re retracing your steps back home,

The same song kicks back into your head out of no where-

Well that’s the sort of thing that happened to me.

The second I touched down in Toronto

I remembered why I went to Colombia-

It was to find the whereabouts of my invite to the poetry competition.

So back on land

Empty in hand

Still in search of the lost invite,

I plucked an idea;

To talk to my dad

Who was dolled in drag

If he knew Martha/ Maria?

I sauntered into thee

Local brewery

With one question to ask,

I searched for my pops;

With mug in hand

Ready to slam

But everyone was dressed as cops,

Now, it’s not like I get into this situation often,

So you kind of just have to run with it.

And much like the colonics…

Hope for the best.

Ohhh, and I spotted my pops.

So embrace I did

Now father and kid

Dressed in drag to the tits,

He says do you see her?

Dressed in wig

The Fuzz, 5-0, a pig

That’s her Martha/ Maria.

I inched my way

With a conscious that weighed

More than my belt and holster,

Excuse me miss;

I’ve traveled the world

And shared tubes with girls

Just to have you read this.

And this is how

The poem right now

Had traveled just to reach you.

Its story told

Is the epitome

And legitimacy

Of sex, drugs, and how to sell your soul

headed to cali

We left Popoyan and headed to Cali, the augmentation Mecca.

We greet our taxi driver with caution “How much?” I ask, the driver replies “metoro”- we jump inside.

We found Hostal Calidad, embedded hillside overlooking the many full breasted hookers of Cali. Buzzing to get in, now my speech may become a little harsh and biased solely because I lived this moment prior to writing it, but this four eyed, nerdy hand flailing, loose-lisped, greased up, temper-tantrum prone, steamrolling with power, Napoleon complex, anally raging, Colombian homosexual opened the door- we didn’t have a good vibe from the start.

We took the room, strictly because it was late- luckily there was a good group of people chilling about, otherwise the almighty glory holed manager would have lead a lot more heat on us.

We ran into Jeremy, an old mate we met in Mancora, Peru and the three of us went for a jaunt to the local mom and pop liquor shop. After shelling out pennies for a bottle of aguadiente, a sweet licorice liquor resembling zambuca, i realized I just threw away a few good pennies.

Anyways it was already bought and we had some schwepps to mix so I said farewell to sober hood. The first club we hit was a 20,000 peso all you can drink orgy. But getting there with an hour before close left us in a rush to down as much booze… fast!

I… am not a good all you can drink drinker, nor am I a good all you can eat eater. It’s a complex of mine- but that’s where the parties at so I indulged.

Rum and cokes. Vodka and juice. Whiskey this and that’s. Then Jeremy walks over to me with a drink “ taste this” he says handing me the drink “I know the bartender”. I immediately puked in a planter that was thankfully standing right next to me- and I could feel the fire growing inside of me.

The lights flash- beastlike Colombian bouncers circle the terrace. “I’m trapped”, I mumble crouched in the corner.

A beckoning call brews through the thick sweaty air “todos vamos”. The bar is closing and they want everyone out- they don’t want me, I’m not in trouble and I won’t have to perform anything with my ass- I’m saved!

Exiting the club I met a metal head in a jet black Metallica shirt- who says hes from the states. We shoot the shite for a little while about his childhood and returning to his family that once let him go- he seemed to be at peace and not harboring any anger the only difficulty is that he doesn’t speak Spanish and his parents don’t speak English- talk about awahhhh!

He told us where the after party was – the famed discotech district of Juanchito. We grabbed a taxi and drove through the night to our unknown destination… the tires rolling along dirt roads through foreign neighborhoods until lights started beaming through gaps… it got brighter and brighter until we crossed a little bridge into the famed town- it resembled the Vegas strip in the only sense that it didn’t sleep and you knew things happened here that wouldn’t be making its way back home.

We entered a club and I made eyes almost immediately with a chocolate beauty, middle aged with a sexy figure, and we were drawn to each other through music. We salsa’d around the room swinging and swaying and shaking our sweaty bodies to the fiery tempo. What I learned was that after each dance both of you would part ways and wait for the next song to be played before you’d be back up on your feet again.

The lady and I met up on the floor throughout the night, locking lips and swaying hips, bodies bound by the music. The art of dance can be very beautiful and moving and it can be erotic and nasty much like they art of reggaeton- which is like ass fucking only with clothes on.

viva la paperboy

Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk- Not again!

Yep, another rainy morning for the overworked, undersexed, rarely appreciated, often overlooked, complaint ridden, life hating, living at home bedroom adjacent to mama’s, car borrowing, in the negative bank account, sleepless, fucked up scheduled, university degree holding paperboy… sorrrrrrrrrrrrry… PAPERMAN!

Imagine a life with no gratitude. Everything done right is expected and every little mistake is criticized and printed out in bold ink on a nice white sheet of paper. What’s so lovely about this paper is that it can’t talk back to you- Sure, you can curse it and crumble it, even fart on it… but it’s still there reading LOUD AND CLEAR and perhaps now a little rank “MISSED DELIVERY 46 BEAVER CRESCENT”.  This wouldn’t suck as much had it been your first week on the job, but when you know for a fact you delivered to 46 BEAVER CRESCENT because you do EVERY morning- and have for the last 10 years without a thank you- it’s just a kick in the taint because now you are getting docked 3 dollars, when you only get paid .17 cents to deliver it.

Now this problem wouldn’t have even occurred if your customer took a second to take their head from out of their potato chip eating, greasy stooled, trans-fat laden, reality TV watching, 3 second nut busting, never read a book in their life, drooling mouthed, gigantic toilet-paper shit covered asshole and just thought to themselves “ Hey it’s raining today…  maybe my paperboy put the paper in my mailbox where he always does when it’s raining; as opposed to the porch when its dry- ill take a look. OHHH WOWWWEEE what a surprise, there it is”.

You would think that to be too HARD of a thought. Perhaps the 1 foot it takes to waddle to your mailbox would possibly cause heart failure you fat-yielding-fuck, or maybe the cool breeze is just too harsh to embrace in the morning you retarded, short-bus, backwards shirt wearing cock-smoker. So next time don’t assume you didn’t get the paper- Take a fucking second to look in your Jesus , Buddha, Hashem, Allah or Goddamn mailbox because the paperboy knows that if you DON’T get your precious PROPOGANDA that its gonna cost him. FUCK!!!

Then we have the regular everyday complainers!!!! These gomers need to be face fucked with a rusty lawn mower!

“My papers wet!”

“Double bag it”

“Put it between my doors”

“In the mailbox in my backyard”

“Don’t throw it at the end of the driveway”

 “No elastics”

“I’m disabled”

 “My paper’s creased”

“Don’t walk on my lawn”

“Deliver quietly”

“My wife’s a whore”

On and On and On and On!!

If all you lazy fucks who get home delivery have nothing better to do than complain… why don’t you cart your own degenerate ass down to the corner store and purchase your own. It would save a whole shit load of paperboys/girls/men/women from waking up and being YOUR legs. And if anything it would put an end to the system and force these Paper-People to go off and get REAL jobs. A career perhaps! See what I mean… a thankless job!

So next time you rise at the crack of noon and ho-hum your way to your front door in search of your paper- think about the Paperboy who eked himself out of his warm bed at 2:00 am, drove his shit-box to pick up his paper-stack to go out and deliver to all you wasteful fucks who haven’t gotten with the times of reading the paper online. Instead of boo-hooing about your paper being an inch out of place… why not tip your paperboy or leave him a soda on your front porch to show that you care. Because isn’t that what everyone wants in life- to know that someone is thinking about them.

And who knows maybe your paper won’t be farted on- because we all know that if you complain... the shit doth rain!

Viva la Paperboy,

unhappy halloween

Death and destruction are his middle name

Luring children to his layer is his little game

Once the candies all gone

It’s an unhappy Halloween

So watch your kids close

Because tonight he’s out preying

With strange power

Come strange responsibility

Got me searching the streets for the deranged with agility

Drank a whole pot of coffee to sustain my ability

He’s going down tonight if I go insane or it kills me

Death and destruction are his middle name

Luring children to his layer is his little game

Once the candies all gone

It’s an unhappy Halloween

So watch your kids close

Because tonight he’s out preying

Strange powers with wielding force

Leading me on course

To an abandoned building

With broken ceilings and floors

Always praying for the best

But tonight I’m fearing the worst

It’s been a year to the day

Since his last victims curse

Death and destruction are his middle name

Luring children to his layer is his little game

Once the candies all gone

It’s an unhappy Halloween

So watch your kids close

Because tonight he’s out preying

I heard a faint sound

From underneath my feet

So I put my ear to the floor

So I could listen to their speech

“If you don’t finish dinner

Then you can’t trick or treat”

I tried not to make a peep

But it was hard

Cause I’m a big man

Sneaking around

And trying to take charge

Tonight this man’s not getting off the hook

So I busted through the floor

And the earth shook

Beams and tiles came crashing down to the ground

While a great whirl of dust

Started circling around

I couldn’t see nothing

But I heard feet running

So I ducked to the floor

Pulled my gun and started hunting

Death and destruction are his middle name

Luring children to his layer is his little game

Once the candies all gone

It’s an unhappy Halloween

So watch your kids close

Because tonight he’s out preying

With my gun drawn

I was moving along with swiftness

On a hot pursuit of a psycho who’s the sickest

And he’s gonna die tonight

Because it’s on my wish list

Wishin’ I finished him in minutes

Once I leave him dick-less

And he’s bleeding

With a gag to lag his breathing

Chains pierced through his back

And he’s hanging from the ceiling

Skin peeling

You could see his eyes screaming

And he can’t do nothing

Because tonight it’s my evening

Death and destruction are his middle name

Luring children to his layer is his little game

Once the candies all gone

It’s an unhappy Halloween

So watch your kids close

Because tonight he’s out preying

So let the hunt begin

For the unhappy Halloween

writers art

Lord,

    I really

       Think Its

          Great that

             The Winter Is

          At

        The

        End

          Of

         Its

            Ridiculously

         Cold And

       Seriously

    Unappreciated

Season

jewish?

Over dinner I told my father who was donning a golden Star of David medallion as heavy as was gaudy- screaming I’m Jewish- “You are not Jewish”.

Drunk as a man who drinks before showing up to a family dinner-

Mom and I are not taken back- nor are we that he proceeds to talk about himself the entire night.

Nor are we that his actions are loud and abrasive. Nor are we that he preaches loneliness… And nor are we that he sneaks aside to pay.

He’s a good man with a good heart- and his intentions are well… if he just learned to keep away from the booze.

singing problem

Hi, my name is Louis and I have a confession. I have a singing problem. I wake myself up every morning because I am singing to loud in my sleep- and it just continues throughout the whole day.

I can’t help it; it’s not even a conscious thought anymore. I’ve been to several doctors, and they keep pushing drugs on me- and I told them I don’t want to go that route, it’s not healthy, but I’ve usually been drinking and cave in and take them anyways.

I just break out on subways, restaurants, bathrooms, while teaching. I was singing so much that I had to go out and start a band, you might have seen us OLD MONEY, (shameless plug noted).

The only hope for me is knowing that I’m not the only one out there, a young urban professional; let’s call him Jed Pavolich came to me with the same problem. And we have been getting together to discuss our problems and try to put a positive spin on it.

So if you are anyone like Jed or myself, perhaps we could all meet and sing about our problems! HELP ME