tepid disco


I was a tree and you were my ocean

I stood there by your side and let
your cool breezes rustle my leaves
and shape my spine as I reached for the sun

we enjoyed countless sunsets together
and I danced for you under countless moons
swaying to the music of your crashing waves

my roots grew with the desire to feel your touch
without realizing that you were not sustenance
your kiss leaving me naked as an autumn fall

then I waited for you
to make the ground beneath me crumble
to swallow me whole

sometimes beautiful things are poison
sometimes we let the things we love
kill us


The Creator gave each of them grenades for hearts; each with a unique pin given to another. They were allotted a finite amount of time to meet their match else they each be blown into oblivion. The androids, seven billion of them, protested to no avail and eventually surrendered to their fate. The surface of Galactor Seven sparkled like a disco ball as it lit up with tiny explosions on the thirty-third year after the Genesis Inception. Only one hundred thousand and one individuals of the embedded population survived. A malfunctioning android, due to a synaptic short circuit that was later called spite, held on to another’s match as its heart detonated. This is not his story.

I told Kanye West: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He flipped over his iPad, silently, and showed me all the memes.

I told an old black man: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He laughed, pulled the red handkerchief off his neck, showed me his Clint Eastwood, then tried to hail a taxicab.

I told a blind Indian woman: “There is no such thing as hate.”
She took my hand and let me feel the scars from the acid burns on her face.

I told a man in a white hood: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He gave me a thumbs up, then set the wooden cross on fire.

I told a migrant worker: “There is no such thing as hate.”
With her hardened and calloused hands she pulled out her paycheck and handed it to me.

I told an Arab: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He looked me in the eyes and stared.

I told a homeless man: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He pulled me aside and showed me the spikes on the concrete.

I told a gay couple: “There is no such thing as hate.”
They took me down to the courthouse and showed me the law.

I told a runaway child: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He extended his arm and showed me the bruises and the cigarette burns.

I told a teenage girl: “There is no such thing as hate.”
She showed me a magazine, then walked towards a mirror and pointed at her reflection.

I told an old Jewish woman: “There is no such thing as hate.”
She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, solemnly, and showed me the fading blue-green ink.

I told a sage: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He replied: “No, there isn’t. There is only ignorance, inequality, intolerance, injustice, war, misunderstanding, confusion, fear, untreated mental illnesses, anger, jealousy, greed, pain, retribution, vengeance, envy, laziness, cruelty, perversion, religion…” And on and on he went.

I told a poet: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He wrote a poem.


Vignettes and Beignets Don't Rhyme

They made a promise never to meet. She was visiting San Francisco on business and had not told him she was coming. He had often talked about the coffee shop near the corner of 3rd and Mission where he bought his morning cup of sanity at 6:43 am every weekday.

She caught his eyes instantly as he walked through the door. Recognition and disbelief short-circuited his muscular system and he froze where he stood. Her eyes dropped down to his feet and back up again, at the speed of slow-motion seduction, scanning him, drinking him in. She stood up from her seat and joined the other customers waiting in line. He regained his composure, walked towards her, and stood behind her.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, of her, clenching his fists as he fought the urge to grab her by her shoulders, spin her around, and plant his lips upon hers. She stood, as still as steam, her heart clawing its way out of her chest, as she felt his breath brush past the strands of her hair and rest on her neck.

Each step toward the counter was done in unison, the distance between them – unaltered. She placed her order, brushed her hair behind her ear, and walked away. His eyes followed her, watching the grace with which she walked, drinking her in. The girl behind the counter awakened him from his trance with fingers snapping in front of him. He placed his order, completed his transaction, walked away, and stood next to her. They waited.

“Tall hot chocolate”, the barista announced. He grabbed for the cup, as did she, his hand around the cup, hers around his hand. She pulled it off as if singed by fire as she felt the ring on his finger. “I’m sorry”, he said. “This is yours”, and he handed her the cup. “Tall hot chocolate”, the barista announced. She grabbed the cup, handed it to him. “Then this must be yours”, she said.

He placed his hand around hers and the cup, left it there for a millennium, before taking the cup away, still warm.

Oceans swelled behind their eyes. He turned and walked quickly out the door before the flood gates burst open and he left her there… alone… holding her cup.

“Stupid,” she said. “This was stupid”… she sat herself at an empty table and buried her eyes in her palms.

Keep reading

a love poem for my zombie girlfriend

it has been two years
since you were infected
and ate the brains
of our neighbors

I miss the taste
of your lips

I wonder where you are now

the last time I saw you
we were running from
a horde

I’m sorry I tripped you
so I could get away

I am forever haunted
by the WTF in your eyes

it should have been me

it should have been me

I’m sorry


you haunt me
   like winter specters
   lost in summers
   off California coastlines

I am pleading for horizons
   that drown suns and
   birth complexions of obsidian
   cathedrals draped in rain

bleed into me your last hope
   I will shelter it like tidal lullabies
   over sacrosanct reefs of coral
   memories carved in cerebral stone

breathe into me your last kiss
   I will devour it
   like eternity devouring oblivion
   like time devouring love

The Art of Breathing While You're Dead Inside

my head is in the oven
it is electric

it is June 5, 2021

the built-in Plath Safety System
prevents you from turning it on

my hair is beginning to smell
of burnt sugar

my body is still
in the bedroom

the machete is still
in your hand

the oven becomes a toaster
my head becomes a finger
my finger becomes bread
the bread becomes toast

you are butter

it is June 5, 2014

we are in love

I could tell you what it was about. but your head would explode. I would enjoy that very much. to watch you from a safe vantage point. I wouldn’t want you to ruin my suit. because it was a gift from Allah. the god. not the shellfish. I occasionally see her name written on vaginae in pubic ink. I know what you’re thinking. you’re thinking I’m an infidel. you’d be wrong. I don’t adhere to any religion. especially my own. it’s hard to be devoted to being a jerk all the time. occasionally I feel empathy. and I’ll hand a homeless guy all the cash I’m carrying. fortunately I use mostly plastic. it feels good on the skin. latex. perhaps it’s just the thrill of suffocation. David Carradine Duchovny. take the pebble from my hand, Scully. somebody probably already created a porno called triple X files. they’d get away with copyright infringement by calling it a parody. who are you to judge what gets another person off. I’ve read what you’ve written. you’re a freak. some people like that. I’m not one of them. I’m strictly a hole-in-the-sheet kind of puritan. what if the other person on the other side was only offering you their anus. there’s a possibility that you’d unknowingly become a sodomite. I think that’s the proper term for butt-fucker. not that there’s anything Seinfeld about that. as long as the adults performing the sin are consenting. the world is filled with worse things. like Republicans. I know what you’re thinking. you’re thinking I’m a liberal. you’d be wrong. I hate vegans. and people who avoid gluten even though they’re not allergic to it. don’t even get me started on people who avoid vaccines. that’s how we got rid of polio you stupid fucks. now it might come back because of your ignorance. I hope they come up with an Ebola vaccine and I hope you avoid taking that too. empathy. sometimes I’m a nice person. I swear. that’s what all the sociopaths say.

The Irony

March 11, 2014

lost all meaning between a song
and an escalator —

the radio traffic was incomprehensibly
clinging like static on wooden mittens.

Boxes tied up with string failed to make
me miserable because they didn’t have
your cow stomachs like the last time I wrapped

This is a seed text
with seventeen syllables
of brain gelato.

Revolution, like DNA,
replicates while you sleep.

Try not
to wake up

THIS IS AMERICA, the melting pot,
{insert your curried lamb tacos here}.

art by purplemonkeysexgod69

green lights

This house is full of blinking green lights:

the microwave:
your “food” is done

the printer:
feed me more paper, not that it matters because you’re out of ink too

the phone:
text me back now – or else

the toothbrush:
battery still charging, you are stuck with hairy teeth all day

the dishwasher:
cylce completed, empty me before she-who-will-not-be-named gets miffed at you

the wink and the smile:
let’s do it… on top of the washing machine, set it on “heavy duty” and “hot”

I've come to wish you an unhappy deathday

There was a look of confusion on his face. She almost felt sorry for him as she slowly twisted the dagger in his chest as her lover behind her smiled at him. He grimaced as he fell to his knees, fists clenched and wrists tied behind his back. “One wish,” he thought to God, “just grant me this one wish…” He greeted oblivion with a thud.

He sat at the corner of the ceiling, waiting for his chance, watching as his murderers fornicated on their sheets, three hundred thread count Egyptian cotton, virgin white; a gift from his best friend, Jimmy, his best man.

Jimmy, the filthy son of a bitch now porking his wife while his human body laid at the bottom of the freezer in the garage.

He watched them collapse into a heap of sin and sweat… and he waited. Their breaths began to draw heavy as they drifted to dreamland… and he waited. A raven arrived at the window and cawed. “Now,” it said. It was time.

A slow descent on a silk strand and a world through eight eyes that seethed with vengeance. His hairy legs whispered across the floor and onto the blanket on the bed; the venom gushing in his cheeks. He reached the pillow, her face half buried in the down. He tapped one foot on her nose… nothing. He positioned himself under her eye making sure not to wake her until it was time. The raven cawed. It was time.

He danced a little dance to the phantom melody in his head, hauntingly reminiscent of Lotus Flower by Radiohead. It wasn’t pretty– the dancing not the music. She stirred and slowly drew her eyelids open.

As soon as he saw the black of her pupil, he stabbed his fangs into it and injected his venom into her eye. One last facial for the sake of old times.

Her ungodly scream pierced through the night and through Jimmy’s skull– jarring him awake. She swatted him off of her eye; he flew into the air and divinely landed on Jimmy’s face; at which point he dug in his fangs once again and injected what was left of his venom with all the hatred in his heart.

Jimmy screamed like a little school girl and brushed him off of his face and onto the floor. Jimmy raised his leg and let fall his mighty foot onto him. He greeted oblivion with a thud.

The raven cawed. “He should have wished to be lightning,” it said, it laughed, and it flew away.

                                                             - Edgar Allan Monkey 07Oct2014