 
Joseph Randazzo, Copyright September 2016

lbjrandazzo@gmail.com

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram

Lisa Terrana, Cover Image Copyright September 2016

Lisa.Terrana@gmail.com

@Terranasaur on Instagram
My pen and paper

cause a chain reaction.

To get your brain relaxin',

the zany actin' maniac in action.

Eminem

Lyrics From Infinite

Infinite (1996)

To Lisa.

To the Poodles, Shiloh & Callie.

To my family.

To the block.

To Professor Friedman & Traci too.

To the people at the bookstore – good hard working people who illuminate the works of the greats like Hemingway, Bukowski, Carrol and King.

To everyone else who'll be a part of my life in the future.

A Little About Me:

Last year at around this time I was beginning to learn the value of art. Not in a monetary sense – something I'd become accustomed to because that's all the American education system taught us to care about. It was more in the sense of just figuring out how important the message of our creative endeavors are. With our hands – sometimes our blinks in the case of Jean-Dominique Bauby – and our mind we can create vast worlds and bring them to life as long as we give ourselves a chance to be free and be a bit wild – chasing that American dream in red convertibles while getting high on everything the way Hunter Thompson did. I never thought about this shit once in school. The schoolers were all about getting a job and willfully having an owner who allots you a pension... If you're lucky...

Up until last year, I wrote for vapid news and entertainment sites that were less about crafting a sweet statement and more about getting views. Look, views are pretty damn important. It's important to reach an audience. Still, it felt dirty the way that was their main focus. Odin-forbid you got a little wild they'd tell you to clean it up. They'd say it doesn't belong.

Thinking back, I think they were right. Creative freedoms don't belong in their world. Why waste gold by putting it in a pile of shit?

I don't remember the day I said "Fuck This" but I'm pretty sure it was in spring 2015. I just started writing short stories and poems and dedicated my mornings to my own thoughts instead of dedicating it to editors. At the time it was a simple decision but looking back I didn't realize how complicated it was. I'd found work writing for these websites since college. I accumulated a few years of experience and I was willing to just shed it and toss it up as a learning experience. It was sort of like Dr. Dre when he told Suge Knight:

"Fuck it I'm out. Keep your artists. I'm starting my own damn label."

My shift just wasn't as cool or dangerous.

I took a lot of pride having found work as a pseudo-journalist in college and continuing to do so afterward and now that that part of my life is thankfully behind me, I am even more proud to release this compilation of poetry to you guys. These poems were all written between December 2016 and July 2016 – a time in my life I'd like to call the Joe Renaissance. There were times in those months where I couldn't even take a shit without having an idea come in my head. It was wild. I spent more time on my phone typing than teenagers do. (Hence why there are so many.) Being I couldn't ever possibly fit this all on Instagram I wanted to get them out there...

If you like them. I hope you'll follow me on Instagram & Facebook: @ChokeslamPoet. I hope we can talk in the comments section and be friends! I have my friends. I love my friends! Despite that, I'm always willing to invite others into my life. We should all grow together – on our best days and our worst days.

FORWARD

"Stop living thinking you're going to become a perfect fusion of Bukowski and Thompson just by attempting to mimic them. Your poem and story are entirely derivative and lack any realistic dialogue, believable situations, clever wordplay, or even craftsmanship of words to really call yourself a writer. You are intent on mentioning other writers over and over, because with your own insecurity and inability to form your own thoughts, you have to live vicariously through them. Go find your own life to live."

– This message I recieved may or may not from Linda King aka. Lydia Vance from my Charles Bukowski's book Women. To have possibly been given shit by the same woman as Bukowski is truly an honor.
Slacker Love Song

Those slackers have bigger

heart than you think.

I should know.

My head legendarily

wanders through the clouds.

What those willing slaves who

get pissy at a slacker don't

know is that we think all day.

So much so it gets in

the way of everything else.

Those thoughts are not

meaningless either.

They're always

about our dreams.

Our escape.

We refuse to settle for some

crumby town the rest of

the world takes pride in.

We wanna see what's out

there and the only reason

we do such a bad

job at the menial tasks

is because they're just that.

Menial; Meaningless.

We want meaning and we'll

chase our dreams into hell

even if the fires burn our ass.

Give a slacker - a

wanderer - a chance to bring

all that is in his

head to life and he'll

build homes.

He'll build the most

powerful future you've

ever seen.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
What Gandalf Taught

We are all on the verge of

walking a straight

line to death

and the only option for true

growth is veering off

to the left - wandering in the

way Gandalf taught us.

Not completely off

in the woods but just

far enough to see

where the chipmunks play.

Everybody with blood

in their heart

runs the risk of being

like the old man

who feels strongly

about keeping

Christ in Christmas

and wants the world

to know this with

his bumper stickers.

Don't be that guy.

That guy is set

in his ways like

a boulder entrenched

in the dirt.

The old man has

only known one

way and nothing else

– sitting stagnant

until the air no

longer come out of him.

He thinks he

knows the world and

gives everything he sees a

clear, concise definition.

He doesn't know that

his little world

stands in a bigger

world that's small

compared to this

infinite, mega-sized,

unending, colossal

universe that is 99%  
dark, and 1%

nuclear explosive light.

Don't ever be that guy.

Wander.

Give yourself

time to think.

Come to terms with

knowing nothing.

Enjoy that while you watch

the sun splash on

you like glittering gold.

It's true not all that glitters

is gold - as Gandalf

said - but you can damn

sure try to shine.
Ex-Empaths In Paris

You can't go

holding the world

by the same

standards you have.

Everyone's a different

shell with

different experiences.

Everyone has a

different monster

scratching their outer

layers - trying to

taste what's inside.

On top of that, all

14 billion of us

have different

operating systems that

need regular

maintenance all day.

Nobody is gonna

react the same way

you do when the 12-hours

of Wake Time is a struggle to

find balance as a

physical being that is

primitive as a

horseshoe crab's shell,

and as complex

on the inside

as your Mac traveling

at light speed

through the Internet

\- soaking in all the

known information

of the world

and the galaxies.

To even have someone

who comes close

to thinking like you

\- with your same

morals and reactive

times - is impossible.

All 14 billion need to know this

and show this.

It won't get our heads

in the same place

but it'll do something

more important.

It'll bring us together.

From there we

can go anywhere.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Lee & The Black King

Lee Oswald appeared

to the Black

King in his black

castle behind the

Universe where

no starlight

shines, or comet

flies.

"Speak for yourself,"

the black king told the

killer of America's

only beloved President.

And so, Oswald spoke.

"I am the American dream; greater than any man who came before or after," Lee Oswald said in chains. "First I was peasant. Then I rose up to slay the king - forever they'll know my name. Men destroy their bodies and their legacies and die in the ground, rotting away with what they were on that earth - which is usually nothing. Me? I changed policies. Shifted history. Created change in the greatest country of the world. Tell me? What leaders have done that so quickly as I? Just me. Just Lee."

Oswald laughed as

oblivion sucked him in.

Erased soul is

the punishment for

those who leave

behind righteousness and

seek immortality

out in the physical world.

Still, they spoke his name.

This was his gift.

A gift he'll never know.
The Genocide of the Caterpillars

The early days of

summer is the

renewal of life

for all of us and a

genocide for the

smaller beings.

En Masse the

caterpillars who

never had a chance

to transform find a

spot on a tree and

rot next to each other.

Their bodies disintegrate.

Head and legs become

contorted in a

gruesome puzzle

where all the

pieces are

forced together.

How rare it is to be

the butterfly.

Soon we'll see

them fly in our

yards, fluttering

their colors through

the trees and the

grass - flying over the

gravestone canopies

of family members.

God knows they're

probably going

over a bunch more

bodies that never

made it to the burial

\- dying alone in

the grass getting stepped

on by laughing kids

or some happy dog

wagging its tail.

If you can remember

long enough how

brutal the caterpillars

that didn't make it

went out, the remaining

Flying Miracles of Life

almost become less benign.

In some ways, humans do

this same thing during

elections every four years.

We crawl together

in a tight spot

and pick which

blowhard we're more

comfortably to die on.

There's always a select

few, however, forever

leaping through the

air to TRUE freedom.

They're usually taking

psychedelics - celebrating

life while everyone below rots.

Mushrooms are their cocoon.

What happens next

is their revival; their

transformation into a

beautiful butterfly.
Toxic Miracle

I saw a poison white

fungus growing

out of the ends of

the park bench.

This was a pure

toxic inspiration.

Life - good or

bad, toxic or

vivacious - had

a way of

growing anywhere.

All it needed

was some air

and a little light

to break through.

The day may

come where we'll

go but life - the most

brilliant entity in

all our universe - will

figure out a way.

It always does.
Wings Of Smaug

I stood in front

of closing doors

so long my

feet have

begun to hurt.

Standing in

this one

spot is breaking

me down mentally

and physically.

At this point

I'd grab hold

the wings of

Smaug just to feel

what it's like to soar.

I'll watch the world

burn under me

just to take flight

\- going sky high

and grabbing what

I want most

as his fires rage.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Callie

The old lady ignored

her poor black

poodle Callie.

She buzzed the

hair on her head

and locked

the dog

out of the

bedroom at night.

Callie grew

grey hairs –

sad and alone.

All she wanted

was a friend

for bed and a

foot to lick.

For many

years – centuries

in people time –

a millennia in

poodle divinations –

she sobbed outside.

"SHUT UP YOU

OLD MUTT," the

lady yelled – flakey

grandma chips falling

from her cruel mouth.

But Callie wasn't a

mutt or a mix

of anything. She

was pure poodle.

Sunshine came when

the bat finally died.

Callie found a home

with a lady doctor.

Soon the white poodle

friend came to play.

Around the same

time the feet for

her to lick multiplied

from two to four in the house.

Callie was an old

lady herself when she

got to her new home  
but all this joy had to

have added five-more-years.

She was a goner in her old life.

Now she's got a brand new lease.
Shiloh

I took Shiloh for a

walk in the city.

It was surprising to

me how many people

have never seen

a Poodle before.

During the walk

I got three offers

to sell him, and

he even had

a chance to reap

the rewards of a

modeling contract if I

handed over his rights.

Shiloh was too special

for that though.

Yes, his beauty

has stopped school

busses before but his

friendship trumps any

monetary reward.

"Nice boy you got

there," the lady cop

said, going down

to pet him.

"Never saw a poodle before."

Shiloh shit on her boot.

The ticket she

wrote amounted

to one of those

modeling contracts.

Fucking, beautiful Shiloh.
Lively Decadance

Originally Published in the Original Van Gogh's Ear Anthology

You'll never feel the

buzzards pluck your eyes

and for this, you

must live wild.

Live decadent.

Live free.

Have the lord

above shudder.

Force creativity from

your parents and have

them lie about

the life you've demolished

to the neighbors.

All doctors but one, Doctor

Raul Duke, will tell you

this method is unhealthy

but just know Doctor Duke's

prescription is the

only suitable formula.

Anyone telling you

otherwise will

waste your time

the way they've grown

to waste theirs.

Say no to what

they hand you.

Run from sobriety.

The only escape from

this life is burning it all down.

That's passion.

Be so lively when it

comes time to rest your

body on the ground

for good, have your

eyes be poison

to the buzzards.

Those birds look to

eat you regardless so

give em' something

sick to cap it all off.
My Lady Wants Me Dead

Originally published in the Voices Project

"Kiss me or I'll kill you."

That was forward.

I like forward.

"Put on this blindfold,"

she told me.

I did.

She was about to

show me she cared.

"How do you feel about nails?"

"Fingers," I asked?

"No... Jesus nails-through-

the-hand kinda nails."

She took the blindfold

off and said I needed

to stay crucified

against her wall.

It's how my lady got off.

I asked for a crown

of thorns and she

told me she was in charge.

She put it on her own head.

This is my baby.

Ain't she polite?
Single Celled Hero

For two-billion-years

life on Earth

was a baby, blobby, tiny

ball of chemical cells.

Somehow we've become this

complicated thinker

of a creature that

figured out

our molecular past.

It's funny to think

how far we've come.

From this miracle

we can choose

to fill our bucket

any way we please.

We can create.

We can love.

We can sit in a room, jack off

all day, stew in a black

swoon and do nothing.

Becoming that

miracle-do-little-jackoff-

monkey beast again.

It's all our choice.

A wonderful choice we have.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Dale Carnegie For Kids

Einstein said unless you

can't explain something

to a six-year-old then

you don't know what

you're talking about.

He's right.

Showing anything

to a six-year-old is

a good gauge of whether

you're doing

something coherent.

I think of all these

people walking around,

chasing success, reading

books by Dale Carnegie

thinking it'll help them get by.

It's like they're escaping those

childhood dreams.

At that point, I truly

believe you've died.

The child in you,

the children in the

world, they're the only

ones who have it right.

Look at all the cool

stuff they watch.

To go from colorful Adventure

Time to bland Dale Carnegie

is a severe downgrade.

Plus, all they wanna

do is love, and play

and never grow up.

They don't want

to "win" affections

as the Carnegie book

tells you to do.

They want to earn them.

Happiness is their only goal.

It's a vacation for life.

Always learning.

Always exploring.

A wonderful way to

go about things

before you finally go.
A Surprise Entrance From The Muse

This morning I woke up

thinking I wasn't

going to write.

It was going to

be one of those

busy days.

The second day

of being in a waiting

room - me figuring my

head wouldn't be

in the right place.

Then I took a walk

to that first

coffee of the day.

The itch came.

I got an idea for a poem.

Then came another idea.

This one.

The muse was calling me.

She said it was okay.

"You can write

just a few pieces

and then return

to life. For now,

this down time

belongs to me."

With her nails she

scratched open my head.

The ideas came

in like a plume

of water falling from a cliff.

The colors of the

water were bright.

Vibrant.

They soaked me,

fighting to get from

my head and shooting to my

fingers to create these words.

I thanked the muse.

She always knew best for me.
Customer Service Murders: Vol. 1

Customer: Did the new Game of Thrones book come out?

Mel the Bookstore Man: No sorry.

Customer: Do you know when it comes out?

Mel the Bookstore Man: No, sorry. George Martin hasn't said anything about a release.

Customer: But you're a bookstore. Shouldn't you know?

Mel the Bookstore Man: I'm a person. And if he doesn't know, how will I know?

Customer: Jesus fucking-cunt Christ

The customer stamped his

feet and walked away from the

store's service desk.

I pushed the button

and lions came

from the floor.

They ripped the codger

old-fuck's limbs

off while he yelled

he was a good person.

"I'm a good person. I'm

a good person," he

said with blood

drowning his lungs.

Through the window

came the dragon Smaug.

Glass fell as he cooked body

parts for the poor and weary workers

whose breaks were too far off.

Everyone rejoiced and paid

homage to the dragon.

Before leaving Smaug threw

blunts in the air - blessing

us with his marijuana tidings.

"Live in peace all," he said.

In peace they lived.

The fucker dead.
Bukowski Lessons

Bukowski wrote three hours

a night, every night, powered by

beer, a keyboard, and

a mix of relentless

wording and

compassionate

written articulation.

When we claim the

title of "Creator,"

we should ask

ourselves if we have

that same fire, and

if we don't, are

we willing to get

to that level where

you engulf yourself in the

muse's flaming sparks?

I've come to begrudge the ones

holding the title

of "artist" around

their waist with no real,

tangible, worthwhile piece

of work to show.

This type does a disservice to

themselves more than anything.

Avoid this and be the one

who shoots plumes of

flames from their fingertips.

Do it quietly.

Don't celebrate your   
work in public.

Smile in your room or

take a walk instead.

Your reward is noticing

beauty in simplicity.
Chips And Charred Skin Chips

"Sir my credit card has

the chip. Do I use it?"

All day the cashier

heard this.

All day he gave

the same answer.

"No, slide it through," he replied.

The customer insisted on using

the chip and because of this, the cashier

doused himself in kerosene.

"Sir do I use the chip?"

"Hold on," the cashier said - hiding

his frustration.

The oil spilled all over his body

and the store stunk of it

within seconds.

The only one unaffected by

the smell was the customer.

"Sir you did not answer.

Do I use the chip?"

The cashier found a lighter in

his pocket and flames claimed

his body instantaneously.

From hair to shoe his body fried.

Babies cried.

Women shrieked.

"Sir I'm a busy man.

I have stocks

to sell. Do I use the chip?"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,"

the cashier yelled.

His skin began to melt

off revealing his

skull's undying skeletal smile.

Despite the carnage the

customer insisted

the cashier calls a manager

and so, with his

last breath, he dialed #39

for the loud speaker.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,"

he cried for the

store to hear.

"This is ridiculous," the man

said. "All I

wanted to know is

if I had to use the chip."

The manager came

over and told the

customer to slide his card.

"Okay," he said.

He slid it.

"Card declined," the

manager said.
Bobby Judge

In school they asked

Bobby Judge what

he wanted to be.

"Peyton Manning and

Tom Brady," he said.

The teacher laughed.

Their answer to

that had the

same broken

tone their failed

novelist life did.

"It's good to have

realistic goals Bobby."

Today Bobby Judge

lost his job after

breaking a collarbone

two-months-ago.

The Titans traded

him and the Chicago

Bears signed him to a

multi-million

dollar contract.

Trades... Fired... Same thing.

Today Bobby Judge

rubs his balls with

American currency and a

picture of that teacher's face.

He'll do it again after he makes

up for last year's tragic

championship loss.

This is Bobby Judge.

He plays himself in Madden.

He wins football games.

He can do anything.
Muse Lovers

Whenever I'm afraid

I haven't written enough

on a particular day - afraid

the creative part of my brain

has finally run out of juice

\- the muse makes her appearance.

She kisses me on the cheek.

She asks that I keep writing.

I keep on writing and

then magic happens.

This is the only thing

she wants out of us.

The muse is the greatest

lover because she

prefers just our best.

Anything less than brandishing our

souls at her feet and she'll cut ties

until you change your ways.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Russia: Home of the God Killers

Since the early 2000's they

knew Apophis - the astrological

rock of chaos - was headed for earth.

It wasn't until winter 2028 - months

before the crash - did the

world's powers decide

to address the issue.

"Let us pray," said the

President. "The lord will save us."

"Praise Allah," said the

Shah. "We have known judgment

day was near for centuries."

"You are all fools," said Putin. "You

break trade agreements and now you'll

kill us. I work with none of

you. Russia shall save us."

Putin walked away and

the nations argued.

The next day he

put a billion dollars

into the accounts of the

NASA staff - from janitors

to the daintiest of America's

great physicists - and had them

shipped over to Moscow

to be a part of a new KGB

Space Exploration initiative.

The Ruskies have a penchant for being

bad motherfuckers and this was just

one of those moments.

"You have money. You have

resources," Putin told the

group. "Today Russia is

mightier than god. Smash

the heavens now and forever."

NASA's former janitorial

staff clapped loudest and

they were made head of KGB

security - the finest of Russia's

men & women were at their beckon call.

Once again, the Russians were showing

why they were bad motherfuckers.

On the third of February 2029, the

KGB Space Initiative sent a pulsing wave

from the center of their station

while the United States publically

shamed the President for

saying "Women Presidents aren't funny."

The Ruskies, the bad

motherfuckers that they

are, sent the God of Chaos running

scared from their orbit

and the world rejoiced over  
Russia's heroism.

You'd know this happened in the

United States if you read

page 29 of your

newspapers - the part

behind the lacrosse scores.
Origin of Loki's bad Attitude

Odin summoned Loki

to his throne room.

The God of Mischief thought he

was in trouble again.

"Loki we have troubling

news," Odin said.

"Your brother is dead."

"What," Loki said with a cry.

His voice echoed down the palace halls.

"You must wield the

great Mjoinr now and take

over as the Prince of

Asgard, heir apparent to my throne."

In front of him stood

the mighty hammer of Thor.

Loki went to grab

it when suddenly

it flew between his feet.

He looked behind him

and there was Thor.

"April Fools!" Thor's laugh

went even further

than Loki's cry.

"It's good to know you love

me brother," Thor said.

Everyone laughed at

Loki's expense – the

mischievous one leaving

the room

with a sour look on

his face.

From that day forward Loki

vowed revenge.

He'd get that hammer.
Cosplaying For Real

"Let's be Harley Quinn and Joker," the

girlfriend said to her man.

The boyfriend agreed.

He threw her out the window.

The girlfriend came

storming up the stairs.

"Why did you do that,"

she said angry.

"You wanted to be Harley

Quinn and Joker," he said.

His face was plastered to the Call

of Duty on his TV while he spoke.

The girl went downstairs and

grabbed a sledgehammer.

She painted it red before making

her way back to her man's room.

"Goodnight puddin'," she said.

The boyfriend turned around and

the inside of his skull was met

with her iron jab.

She dropped the TV on his head

then dressed him as Batman.

On Instagram she posted a selfie

with the caption "I got the

Batman Mr. J."
Poodles LOVE Snow

I woke up to the poodles

on top of me at 6 a.m.

"Time for a walk

guys," I yelled.

The Poodles raced

for the doors, waiting

right under their leashes.

Outside it snowed.

The Poodles were amazed

at seeing the shape of their paw

prints in the white.

"You guys are wonderful," I

told them.

The black poodle huffed.

The white poodle dug his

nose into the snow.

First snow of the season is

always the best snow.

It's made better

with our poodles.
Origins of Space

Before the Dawn of our

known Universe the

landscape was loud.

Space was not a

vacuum but a stage.

Odin lived behind celestial walls

confined to a white space where

reality did not pass

with the balance of time.

The area stood still powered by

the thoughts of

the All Father.

As the years passed

outside his walls,

the gallows of the

Universe we now call

space became crowded with

singing, single-legged serpents.

Their tunes paid tribute to the

generations before them.

On a day like many others, the

songs became too loud;

too long; and the All

Father's thoughts

were clouded from the noise.

With a snap of his fingers, the

Universe compressed - the legged

serpents were crushed in a universal

genocide - and with another snap,

the celestial area expanded.

A great fire pushed behind

it like a rocket.

The stars we see in the

sky became remnants

of the legged serpents tunes

and to ensure no entity could crowd

the universe with their songs, the

landscape turned to

black - the air robbed.

Black holes became a

police force to ensure

Odin's laws of quiet.

This is why when Suns explode

it is thought they become

the black hole.

Reality is they started

writing lyrics and

Odin said, "Fuck that."
Trash Meditation

Jeorge works the

restaurant six-days

a week.

Off days are seldom

with a family to

feed in Havana.

Knowing the importance

of his work has brought

a new value of freedom

in Jeorge's life.

Twice-a-day Jeorge takes

out the restaurant's trash

and twice-a-day he revels

in the escape it provides.

For a half-hour he's away

from the needs of others –

the only real time to

think during the sunlight

hours - and he ponders life.

Is there an afterlife?

Do the riches of the

spirit mean more than

potential monetary

riches that would keep

him from sweaty

garbage bags that

leak orange?

"Jeorge is it okay if you

take out the trash,"

the manager will ask.

"Of course. I go now,"

he says in his

broken English.

He answers this with a

secret joy every time.

Freedom means that much.
Tom Brady: Hero of Dog!

Michael Vick, sitting atop his

castle of dog bones, wearing

the skull of a beagle as a

crown, challenged Tom Brady

on his personal Outcast

Sports Network.

(Found exclusively on Vimeo)

"Tom is good. He's definitely

more than aiite," Vick told

his OSN broadcast partner

Pacman Jones. "He's just

not the best. I'm the best.

I don't see him breaking

my single season rushing

record for a quarterback."

Vick's message reached

Brady after he did a lecture

at Harvard on the theories

of Black Matter's

anatomical structure.

From this point forward

Brady began a strict regimen

of performing 26 different

two-minute miles a day.

Before the start of game one

Brady had tattooed on his

wrist, "1,039 Yards."

The record.

On the week of New England's

16th game - Brady 200-yards

away from the record - mostly

because he wanted to build

anticipation and not be boring

by easily smashing the milestone

in week 4 -- paid the Minnesota

Vikings in Scottish castles to

sign Vick.

Vick took the challenge.

Brady ran for 409-yards –

decapitating Vick's single

season record and Adrian

Peterson's single game record.

For Vick's last offensive drive

Brady tapped Super Bowl hero

Malcolm Butler on the shoulder.

"I got this," he said.

Brady intercepted Vick's pass

and moving like the Flash –

ironically sponsors for CBS

\- the conspiracy theorists called

this grim product placement –

he disintegrated Vick's body

by passing through him.

Vick's castle was burned to

the ground during a New

England Patriots parade.

Vick's Hitler-esque canine

genocide finally came to an end.
Bondage At The Beacon

He went to an open mic to

try stand-up for the first time.

It was a 2-year build-up before

he finally worked up the balls

to sign up for stage time.

In his head were dreams of

headlining New York's Beacon

Theater; dreams of snubbing

Howard for Opie.

He even imagined digging up the

remains of Carson just to have

his bones wave him over to the couch.

"I'm gonna be a star ma," he said

before leaving the house.

At the club he watched the other

comics and got nervous.

He ordered one Brandy to

calm his nerves.

Then one Brady turned to two.

Two Brandy turned to three shots

because he liked the way the

bartender's hips poked from out of

her jean shorts.

Just couldn't say no to that.

The next morning he woke up in

the basement of the club under

the covers with another man.

His throbbing headache stopped

him from shooting out of bed.

"What the hell happened," he

said holding his head.

"You were so funny," the naked

man said to him.

"Funny," the open-mic

comic, confusingly repeated.

"Oh yeah," the naked man

continued. "A few of the guys

poked you with black strap-ons

and you took them deep free of charge."

"A few of the guys," he repeated, with

even more confusion in his voice.

"Yeah the owner wants you back.

Great job kid."

This was show biz.

Next to the bed was a check

for a million dollars.

The kid got to do his bondage

show at the beacon within a year.

Dreams do come true.
Damn Bilbo

"Are you shitting me," she told

her boyfriend. "Bilbo didn't

kill Smaug?"

She finally read the Hobbit.

During the battle of the five

armies she waited for the

dragon to return so Bilbo

can get his literary comeuppance.

That never came.

"Why have him

talk all that shit

just to have some

dipshit with an

arrow take him out?

It's not The

Dipshit With An

Arrow. It's the Hobbit."

The boyfriend didn't

hear what she was

saying though.

He was just glad she

didn't see his phone.

When she walked in

the room angry he

thought she saw the

texts from another woman.

"Yeah well I guess the

dragon turned out to

be a bigger pussy

than Bilbo huh," he said.
The King vs. Prince

The prince amassed an

army while the kingdom

believed he traveled to

spread the word of Odin.

Behind the castle were

100,000 of his men.

They were here to

capture the land.

The king laughed when

the prince faced him at

the throne.

"Why do you laugh father,"

the prince said. "I'm here

to kill you."

From behind the king's

greatest warrior bludgeoned

the prince with his fists.

The prince's remains

were fed to the poor.

Any of his army that

did not get away fast

enough were sold

into slavery.

The king laughed at any

rebellion for the king was

a mighty savage.

All of the kingdom returned to

Business-As-Usual by

the afternoon.
Uncertainty Principal

Have you ever read a "Brief

History of Time" by Stephen

Hawking?

He mentions the universe

gets colder as it expands –

the sad truth of life in general.

You're warm when everything

important is close by but those

lonely moments are frigid.

Just like the universe it feels

like there's no going back

to the warmth.

In later chapters Hawking

gets into the Uncertainty

Principle - a name that is

defined by what it sounds like;

the idea certain things in this

universe are anomalies.

While yes, we do grow colder

as we move apart from what

we once loved, humans are

not one dimensional like

the night's governing stars.

We are the Uncertainty Principle

incarnate just with the power of

our mind alone - our universal

law breaker.

With it we can return ourselves

back to the warmth by forgiveness

or a simple hug.

The cold is not our destiny the

way it is for the night sky above.

In the coldest moments

embrace the uncertainty.

It's here you find the fire.

@ChokeSlamPoet on Facebook, Twitter & Instagram
The Bloody Socks

A boy and his dad went to see

the Boston Red Sox face

the Yankees at Fenway Park.

This was playoff baseball.

Schilling bloodied up his

sock and did away with

those Yankees with ease.

Derek Jeter.

Jorge Posada.

Alex Rodriguez.

Hideki Matsui.

All the greats fell to Schilling's

60-foot, 6-inch lasers.

The next night the boy pitched in

his own Little League championship.

He wanted to feel Schilling's electricity

so he cut his foot right under the bone.

Homerun, homerun, homerun, homerun;

went the first four batters.

They swatted his pitches with ease.

This sweaty, wool sock burned the

cut and it made it hard for him to

throw the ball with any power.

The boy at least got to see the

Red Sox win the World Series

before doctors hacked his gangrene foot.

That year New England had its Tom

Bradys and Pedros but the fuck-ups still

existed out there on the smaller levels of life.
The Body

She got comfortable enough to

undress in front of him after

they started talking more in

English class.

Her one rule was not to touch

but one day it became too

much for him.

On this day he tried.

She turned away.

He tried another time.

She turned away again.

Soon he stopped showing

up to her home altogether

and at school she

confronted him.

"What are you gay," she

said yelling out to him

before English class.

"I can't sit through this show

anymore," he told her.

"That body has nothing for me."

They stopped being friends.

"You're so gay," she said to him.

She found someone

else to show off to.
Poodle Love

They sent a poodle

up to space.

Freshly groomed.

Freshly puffed.

It's eyes clear as

day, round as marble.

NASA lost touch when

the Poodle crash-landed

on a mysterious planet.

"What is this creature,"

said the life form on a

galaxy far and away from

the poodle's home.

The dog's rocket fell

on the throne room

of a race of alien with  
more ancient history

than the earth.

"Tell me," said the king

to the poodle.

His servants awaited the

poodle's response. "Do you

bring messages of war?"

The poodle sat and tilted

its head.

One of the king's servants

asked a question next.

"You come from the sky. Have

you come from the heavens?"

The poodle barked, causing

mass hysteria in the throne room.

They truly believed this was the

poodle saying it has come from

a higher plane.

Really it just saw a cosmic bunny.

"The second coming is upon us!

Lord Smargabulbasaur is here!

Our lord from the good books

watches!"

The poodle shook its head and

flopped its ear from the confusion.

From there the 25,000-year war

came to a close.

The bloodshed concluded.

The Age of Love upon them.

Poodle Love.
Angry, Useless, Radio Producers

I knew a radio producer

who was nasty to everybody.

What did he really contribute to

the show - I can't even tell you.

Every morning he brought

papers with news ideas.

But other than that,

he was just angry.

"Hey Squashbuggler," he said to

me. That was my radio name.

Squashbuggler.

"Go talk to that girl over

there." He pointed to a woman

outside the studio. "She's a dyke

and loves pussies."

He did this everyday.

Today we got a new intern.

He had Asbergers and was

hired to be a target.

This kid didn't take any shit.

The producer called him a

shit-fuck and he was met

with a loving array of fingers

down his throat.

"Help me Squashbuggler," he said.

I noticed his face turning grey.

I gave the new intern a thumbs-

down – the Cesar type of

thumbs down.

He ripped off the angry

producer's head.

I kicked it outside since it was

getting in the way of the workspace.

They hired me right away

and I was nice to everyone.

@ChokeSlamPoet on Facebook, Twitter & Instagram
Johnny Grunge

She met this guy off Tinder.

He was handsome in the right

Instagram filters but in person

he had a lisp and he kept clearing

his throat.

He was also short.

She had a few drinks and he still

looked the same.

"I'm going to go home," she told him.

"Why," he asked. "Let's get fucked up."

His f's sounded like s's.

"You're not tired," he said. "You're

fucking judging me. Don't fucking

judge me. You don't know me."

"How can anybody know you,"

she said. "Your Internet profiles

aren't even real.."

She expected Johnny Depp.

Got Johnny Grunge from

ECW – bloody from barbed

wire baseball bat assaults and all.

"One day a woman will respect

me," he said. "I'm a nice guy."

Hearing "nice guy" made her

pussy shrivel more.

You can't get fucked with nice.

You can get fucked by

Johnny Depp though.

That's nice.
LadiesThatAreBoys.Edu.

A young woman's dog

shit on the police officer's foot.

He took out a ticket and began

writing the fine.

"Hold on," she said. "It was an

accident? Don't you shit?"

The cop put the paper and

pen down for a second.

He propositioned her.

"How about this," he told

her. "Let's get in the car. I'll

shit on your chest."

He was serious too.

His pants started bulging.

"Just give me the ticket officer."

After his shift finished he went

on his favorite website.

LadiesThatAreBoys.Edu.

He skyped a Puerto Rican woman

with more to offer to the world

than him.

"Let me shit on your chest,"

he said. "Not into that sweetie,"

she answered twirling her hair.

He took out a ticket forgetting

that doesn't work here.

"You writing me a poem sweetie?"

She thought it was so sweet she

let him shit on her chest.

It was something she thought

of doing more.
Microscopic

The businessman walked into

a blues bar - his suit still on from work.

Tonight he wanted a black woman.

The new girl at work inspired him,

but for all his inspirations she wouldn't

budge from her husband.

On stage the musician played a sad

song about losing his lady and his

dog – the credit card bills being too much.

The businessman pretended to like

the music and pretended to dance.

Next to him was a young lady and he

had to swing into her by mistake to

get her to notice him.

"Hello ma'm," he said to her.

"Hold up," she said. "Let me see it."

"See what," he asked.

"You're dick," she said. "I've seen men

in suits. I don't need to be tricked again."

He took it off.

"Microdick," she said

laughing. "Get the

fuck outta here."
Raspberry Girl

She had red hair.

She had blue eyes.

I liked the way she put

raspberry in my coffee.

I asked for two

pumps, she puts three.

"Thank you so much for

that," I told her.

"Thank you so much for

being you," she said.

I didn't know how to take that.

As a man, all you gotta do is

look at a woman and she turns

you down.

This happens 72-times a day.

Success just feels so godamn rare.

This one handed me her coffee

and then grabbed my hand.

"I love your tattoo," she said.

What the fuck do I do now?

"When's your shift over," I said

without putting space between

the words.

"You're cute when you're nervous.

In an hour," she said. "We're going out."

"We're going out," I repeated, too nervous to say something original.
Grease 3

My friends brought out the

greasy guy who yells and smells.

I hated this guy.

He talked over everybody and if a new

woman were around, he'd pounce on her

with a barrage of sleazy words and flab

that hits them in the face.

I liked the person I was talking to tonight.

I did the whole "You like Nirvana, I

like Nirvana thing too," and finally

we got passed that.

He came over salivating at the gums.

"How are you doing baby," he asked her.

She didn't hear him so he said it louder.

"Hey man fuck you," I said.

She walked away.

She thought I was too aggressive.

"Bitches man," he said. "Let's

do shots."

I asked the bartender if she

could put poison in his.

Sadly that was extra and I was poor.

I gotta deal with him.
The Starbucks

I've taken a shit in all the best

Starbucks bathrooms.

Look at your stall.

I've been there.

Coffee has a way

of emptying me out.

It creates space for

new food adventures.

This is truly a blessed place where

creativity meets new beginnings.

Bukowski had alcohol.

Tolkien had hobbits.

Thompson had a galaxy of

multicolored uppers & downers.

I have shitting in

the local coffee shops.
Tyson

I want to be writing's

Mike Tyson.

Set me anywhere where

I can put words to page

and my fingers will

go to war - destroying

everything around me.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Reincarnation

This was my judgment hour

\- my body incomplete with

missing limbs and open sores.

In front of me Odin knelt with

his sisters;

Christ, Muhammada and

the Queen Buddha.

We sat alone in this sunny field.

The grass; the dandelions; all danced

to the breeze of the spinning Universe

behind them.

"Tell me," the Queen Buddha spoke.

"The tree of life blessed you with

the ability to write. What did you

write?"

I felt accomplished in life.

My job got me a beautiful

apartment in New York City.

It felt meaningless here though.

"Kanye," I said. "I wrote rude

things about Kanye."

The Queen Buddha shook her

head - but still she smiled.

"We presented you a gift and you

used it to please the flesh," she

said. "Behind me is God. She

spins. Step into her and one more

try you shall get to make rich the

spirit and not the flesh."

They said I'd sit with them when

I returned.

I'd return complete; we'd be kings

and queens together as equals.
Royce Fletcher

Royce Fletcher tapped out

his sixth straight opponent.

He's held on to that fancy

red and gold Middleweight

Championship for two-years

now.

Not bad for the mixed kid

whose mother was called

the second coming of Tyson

in the sport's female division.

Coming out of the backside

of the arena with his mother

/trainer/all-around-best-

cook-ever.

Fletcher was bum rushed

by one of those rag-type

reporters writing for websites

that get a billion views a day.

"Yo Fletch," the beaty

eyed man with his thick

glasses, and sunshine

bald-head said. "The

Adderall kid Jon Joyce said

he's gonna tap you out -as he

put it- "Like a bitch" next pay-

per-view. On top of that he said

he's "Taking momma with him.""

Fletcher laughed

What a tool calling him "Fletch," he though.

"Look man," Fletcher said with

a simple demeanor. "Guys like

that need their Adderall to get

a glimpse of what it's like to be

me for a few seconds."

Joyce tapped in six-seconds.

Fletcher held the title over Joyce's

dangling shoulder.

The guy couldn't even walk a

straight-line outta the cage.
Speck

The t-shirt and jeans look

wasn't cutting it, my boss said.

I asked him how imperative it

was for me to wear this suit

from one to ten. He said ten.

"Sounds catastrophic," I said.

"Let me try to show you where

I'm coming from."

"Okay shoot."

"Let me know if it's still a ten after this," I said. "This suit means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Our universe is the size of infinity and our planet is a speck sitting on the edge of the Milky Way. Humans as a whole - this suit in general - is a speck on that speck. Wanna hear something wilder? This ginormous Milky Way structure we are peons to is another fucking speck to the infinity of our Universe. Lord knows this universe is but a cum cell to the ballbag of a god."

Since I couldn't compromise

I had to find a new job.
The Normal Formula

If you go out of your way to look,

dress and talk like a writer then

I don't believe you.

Tell your story.

Not the sound you think people

want to hear.

Enough people sit in music

studios finding perfection.

Be different.

Tell us the worst thing that

gets you wet.

Make it commonplace to the

point it becomes a part of the Normal

Formula so we're forced to go deeper.

Saying you're a writer ain't shit.

It's a title that doesn't mean a thing

on its own.
The Slaver's Freedom

The slaver took the bearded

man's mushrooms.

"When the sun returns to

the ground you shall feel

their pain."

His accent was neither Northern

Nor Southern and he went off into

the woods when the slaver ate the

mushrooms.

As the night progressed he felt

something strange about his wife.

He felt something strange about

his children.

He saw himself as the center of

the Pentagram.

Once the horizon made a brief

mention of light the bearded man

returned to the slaver's bedside.

The slaver could not move.

"Now you shall feel what you've done."

The slaver struggled but his attempts

at movement were met with failure.

Finally the bearded man touched

him and he was free.

"You felt their pain," he said. "You

know your place. Take this information  
as you will."

At dawn the slaver was no longer a

slaver but a man and his slaves were

no longer slaves but friends.

His wife; his children; they cursed

him for this.

The man and his friends left to join

Lincoln's Brigade but bullets

became one with their body.

Lincoln's men thought

it was an ambush.

In death the man sat alone

with the Queen Buddha.

"I did the right thing," he

said. "Why was I killed?"

"Don't you see," the Queen Buddha

answered laying in her field. "Your righteous

act was not for the body but the spirit.

In death you were Nirvana. In

life your path was that of the

broken temple. Collapsing

under the weight oppression.

Now you are free. Join me for tea."

His children; his wife; they spit on

his grave but he was free.
The Dragon Union's Desire

A Hollywood executive sat

down with the head of the

Dragon Union, and the head

of the Zombie Union.

There was a plan to create an epic

blockbuster where both monstrous

entities did battle.

The zombies were receptive to the

idea - there wasn't an idea they

didn't turn down - and the dragons,

as usual, were stingy.

They only took the parts they

believed in and after getting

tricked into thinking they were

getting a good movie with the

Hobbit, they have seldom showed

their face in Hollywood.

"We refuse to work with these hacks,"

the Dragon told the executive.

The Zombie's Union rep took

offense to the statement.

"When was the last time you

even worked in Hollywood," the

Zombie rep said. "The Hobbit?

Who is the hack now?"

"Don't talk to me about what it

takes to make a good movie," the

Dragon rep said. "You ate George

A. thinking it'll do you good. Now

you whore yourself out there for

any opportunity. Plus, would

YOUR guys have interesting dialogue

with Bilbo? I think not. We tried

our best"

"We would," the Zombie said. "We'd

even make those Hobbit movies

watchable."

"UUUAGH. I'm out of here," the

Dragon said, spitting fire as he

left the office.

He flew away and waited for Game

of Thrones to begin shooting again.
Piece Of Shit Artist On John F. Kennedy Street Vol. 1

Michael Daniel, the self-professed –

mostly oblivious - cult leader of

Chameleon Tattoo in

Boston, stared at his stupid

tattoos every day.

He was a tattoo artist who wished

he had, someone, he thought,

who was as talented as him, work

on his ink.

The reality was he served young girls

in a strip mall that wanted arrows on

their pelvis that pointed down to their

pussies.

"Michael Daniel," the cashier said

at close. "You are so talented.

So, so, so, so, so, SO talented."

"Thank you Felycia," he said.

That day he felt he did a good job

for the community by telling a

young man he had to earn his hand

tattoo.

"Counter culture my cunt," the young

man said. "You people talk about tattoos

being an expressive art form, but you won't

let me express myself."

"UMMMM," Michael Daniel

said out loud. The

people outside the strip mall heard

him. "Saying cunt is a gender specific

assault and we won't have that in here."

The counter girl swooned.

"Ohhhh Michael Daniel," she

said. "This man clearly does

not understand what you do

for the muse."

Michael Daniel went on

to do his third pussy

arrow that day to serve the arts.
Piece Of Shit Artist On John F. Kennedy Street Vol: 2

Michael Daniel had a long day of

putting Marilyn Monroe quotes on the

wet pussies of teenage girls.

This was his art form.

He was proud of running the strip mall

tattoo joint Chameleon

Tattoo - a converted pizzeria

in the greater Boston area.

"EXCUSE ME TWITTER," he typed loudly at

4 a.m. "I AM AN ARTIST.

I BELIEVE IN INTEGRITY.

MY LIFE IS THAT OF

A FUCKING DOVE AND

I AM DOING THE

LORD'S WORK. I AM THE

LORD. WE ARE THE

LORD. WE ARE ALL STARDUST.

IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME, THEN LOOK

AT A MAN WHO DOES

NOT BELIEVE IN ART."

He went over the Twitter

limit and had a baby-rage.

The laptop mother got

him went out the window.

Tomorrow he'd yell at

her to buy him another.

That would be after

inking more inspirational

quotes on the wet pussies of

teenage girls of course.
Spirit's Redemption

The man raped.

The man killed.

The Queen Buddha

wept when she met him

in the Heavens Field at the

hour of his judgment.

She wondered how any

man or woman could

poison the sanctity of life

as this man has.

"I shall cleanse you," the

Queen Buddha said. "You

shall return as a monkey

and for 1,000 generations

your spirit shall travel from

body to body until you are

man again. If by then you

have not learned, then in

the fire you must go."

1,000 generations passed.

Finally, he was man again.

The Queen Buddha did not

weep this time.

In the spirit's last gasp as

flesh, he lay with a woman whose

final verdict was to be stoned.

"Let he who is without sin

cast the firststone," he said.

All those many years

went to this one moment.

He saw to it she would

not feel alone in death.

He stood on top of her

while they threw their rocks.

The Queen Buddha's act

of redeeming this man's

saved an innocent woman.

When he returned, they sat

together in field and had tea.
Piece Of Shit Artist On John F. Kennedy Street Vol. 3

Michael Daniel - the self-professed

Ink Artist Superstar of Boston's

Chameleon Tattoo - took shots

between customers.

"I'M SO TORTURED," he said.

"YOU'RE KILLING YOURSELF

MICHAEL DANIEL," the

receptionist cried.

"I WANT TO DIE FOR MY ART."

A young woman walked in and

Michael Daniel attempted to keep

his composure.

For the art, of course.

"Can I have a flower grow out

of my butthole? It's an inside joke

my boyfriend from Worcester and

I have."

The teenage girl bent down and

Michael Daniel went to work.

"It's finished," he said twenty-

minutes later.

"It's looks like you drew fucking

shit on my asshole," the girl said.

"You're not getting my money."

She walked away calling him a

"Mark Sanchez Motherfucker" under

her breath.

"WHATEVER," Michael Daniel said.

"I'M AN ARTIST. A FUCKING

ARTIST. YOU'LL SEE."

Michael Daniel went to his

lair to draw.

He wrote a review of his own

work on Instagram as well.

"Genius," he wrote. "Pure

Michael Daniel genius."
Piece Of Shit Artist On John F. Kennedy Street Vol. 4

Michael Daniel drew his favorite

type of tattoo.

A flower on the wet pussy of a

teenage girl - the "Southie

Chick Specialty" the

disgruntled former workers of

Chameleon Tattoo called it.

One BHS Senior was so impressed

by Michael Daniel's work she

asked him to prom.

"Come with me Michael Daniel," she

said. "You are so prolific. The men

my age do not understand the ways of

life as you do."

He looked at the stupid tattoos on

his arm.

They didn't make sense but in

moments like these he put that

feeling aside.

"I am 32 going on 53 due to my

artistic drinking demons but I

shall come," he said.

And he did.

And it was weird.
Piece Of Shit Artist On John F. Kennedy Street Vol: 5

Rob Gronkowski walked into Chameleon

Tattoos after the Patriots won their

7th Super Bowl in eight years.

He wanted the crown of a king on his arms.

Game of Thrones inspired.

"We only take real men in here," oblivious

tattoo artist Michael Daniel said.

He didn't know who he was talking to.

"If you understand art. If you've earned

your place in the Inked Community, then

and only then will I tat you. Return when

life has brought you the necessities for

me to Ink your spirit."

Gronk told him to suck his dick.

He proceeded to have an

orgy at the Randy Moss House.

In a disgruntled ecstasy haze Michael

Daniel stumbled into his room and

wrote Instagram poems.

He titled his piece "What Has Come

To Men."

He awoke the next day with half-a-like.

"ARTISTS DO NOT NEED

LIKES," Michael Daniel said in his

next poem.

"I DRINK TO ENTERTAIN THE DEMONS,"

he yelled after nine shots.

Michael Daniel's mother came up to his

room and told him to shut up.

Michael Daniel shut up.

As a reward she bought

him a new IPhone.

With it he saw

happy Gronk Memes.

Happy Gronk was

spreading like wildfire.
Shire Frap

The Hobbits returned to the Shire.

Dragons from the Dragon

Kingdom of Narsh were felled by

their swords.

Hope was restored.

Upon their return they witnessed

an unsettling sight.

A Starbucks opened in the center square.

They feared that the Shire children

would soon be consumed by sugary

Frappucinos.

"Gandalf," Frodo cried. "Gandalf our

young men drink Frappucinos. "What

is it that we shall do?

Gandalf appeared.

A look of grim

glum pillaged his face.

"Don't you understand

Frodo," Gandalf said. "It's too late."

Their dicks dissipated.

Gandalf pointed to the

mountains down yonder.

A pile of dicks were piling up.

"For every Frap a young Hobbit

ingests, their dicks

dissipate to the mountains."

Frodo now had the look of grim

glum pillage his face as well.

"What do we do," he said.

"Nothing," Gandalf

answered. "The Shire is no more."

The battle of the Dragons in

the Dragon Kingdom

of Narsh was for nothing.
Songs From The Poodle Shire

The Poodles are an ancient

race that came from forever-ago.

Today their songs from the old

Poodle Shires still ring across

the kennels and homes of their

living.

"Poodle, Poodle, scratch the

little booty," they sing.

And so their little butts

were scratched.

"Poodle, Poodle, wag

the little booty."
Monsanto

She was a white girl with

booty in a Wu-Tang hoodie.

It was moments in art such

as these that I see the blessings

of Monsanto.

For it was Monsanto that

brought us gifts.

Please, continue to deliver

unto us your hormones.

Your carcinogens and anything

else that creates a Safe Space

for the rump.

I said hello and she hated me.

It was okay.

I got to see her walk away.

Tell me who the real loser is?

Even if she said hi back, give it

a year and I wouldn't even notice

the booty anymore.

It's better this way.

I can appreciate it.
The Loner

In the lunch room was

a teenager who sat alone.

He always had the same

Metallica shirt, with the

same leather jacket and

the same haggard jeans.

Darren was an empathetic

teen - he did not like it when

the others made fun of the loner

behind his back.

One day he sat with him.

There was a stench, but

his personality meant more

to him.

"Can I sit here," Darren asked.

"No fuck that," the loner said.

"I don't need no fucking darkie

making me look bad."

Darren went back.

His friends asked what

happened

"He smells like shit is

what happened."
Boring Connections

The middle aged lady sat on

the phone with her mother.

"He said he's gonna meet me

at the bookstore café Ma."

She thought this was a sweet

thing for an older man to do.

They had a great time so they

did it again.

And again - And again.

By the fifth trip it hit her

how bored she was.

He said they were kindred

spirits and she ran off.

"Mother I need to be bent

down," the woman said on

the phone.

"What happened," her mom asked.

"This man," she said. "He told

me we had a connection but I

wanted to be bent down. What if

I'm truly connected to him, and

he's just... Boring."

The woman started crying.

"Now, now baby," mom said.

"Go out tonight. Get bent over

and keep seeing him until he

finally tries to touch you. Then

just dump the men that get you

off. They'll understand." And so

she did.

The café man finally touched her

but it wasn't nearly as good

as the sleaze bags in the bars.

They were always there

to fall back on though.
The Wrestling Business

The boys in the locker room knew

Jimmy as the old, grizzled, angry

veteran from the Internet.

He came up with new ways to bring

down the high flyers - a style the younger

generation of wrestlers had worked on

since they were teenagers in the backyard.

Jimmy came into the locker room before

the show - talking about this and that –

and the younger guys moved closer and

closer to the old man.

"Then that Cowboy son of a bitch Bill

Watts sat on that fan's head," Jimmy said,

talking about those less-televised territory

days of pro-wrestling.

Everyone in the locker room laughed.

Same spectacle; different era.

There was the fundamental differences

but they had one thing in common.

They loved this business.

Wrestling was all they thought about.
Guidance

The guidance counselor told

Jennifer to take any opportunity

she can get.

The foot in the door was important.

20-years-later the guidance counselor

was on her last legs in a New York

City park.She hadn't eaten in what

felt like months.

A stranger approached her late one day.

"Take this," the stranger said.

It was a poison fish.

"But it'll kill me," the former

guidance counselor answered.

"Look lady," the stranger said.

"You're in famine. You gotta take

what you can get."

@ChokeSlamPoet: Instagram, Facebook Twitter
Prayers to Odin

I prayed to Odin before bed.

"Please All-Father," I asked

while clasping my hands.

"Let the New Yorker read

the shit I submitted."

And so the next day there

was an e-mail.

It was from the New Yorker!

"Dear Hendry,

"We're sorry to say that this manuscript is not right for us, in spite of its evident merit. Unfortunately, we receive so many submissions that we regret we cannot reply more specifically. We thank you for the chance to consider your work, and we hope you'll send us more soon.

"Sincerely,

The Editors"

They didn't think it

was abominable!

A+ effort for me!

I think I'm on the

right track.
Story Goes South

Ray was there when Ozzy

bit off the bat head.

He told the story

at every party.

It was revisited

at every concert.

Then the Internet happened.

"Dude that's fake," a

young man said.

He flashed the phone

to everyone there.

They walked away

from Ray.

Ray had nothing left.

The lie fell from under

him.

In front of his home Ray

hung himself from a tree

and bolted a note to his chest

with a nail gun.

"Now all of you have a story,"

it read.
Another Vacation

Gregg was one of the few

students at the University

who actually understood the

camera.

It was a media communications

school so that meant everybody

wanted to be Amber Rose.

The idea of fucking Kanye and doing

no work had them feeling like they

had life on fleek - whatever the fuck

that means.

At the end of the semester

Gregg, the only person at the

University who could read, had

a brilliant idea.

He'd shoot a Vietnam War scene in

front of the school's rusting green

screen.

The thing hadn't gotten use in years.

Media Communications students don't

know how to use that shit.

Amber Rose doesn't know how to

so why should they.

Gregg brought a plastic rifle from  
the prop shop a town over and on his

way inside a student complained

to campus police.

"EXCUSE ME," the officer yelled at

Gregg, pointing his gun at him.

"PUT THE GUN DOWN KID."

Gregg put it down and

assured them it was fake.

He kicked it over

for them to see and they

acknowledged it was

some plastic toy.

While kicking the gun back

to him, an APB went over

their radio.

"A FEMALE STUDENT IS CURRENTLY

UNDER ATTACK BY A BAND OF

MEN IN GENGHIS KHAN MASKS."

The officers shot Gregg to get out of it.

"What a good idea," the officer told

his partner. "I didn't want to deal

with that."

They gave each other a pound.

All that paper work and

all that bad press bought

them a free vacation

away from real police work.
Pika

I went down on her and

she took out a 3DS.

She moaned as loud as

she usually did but seeing

her play a game was off-putting.

I came up for air.

"What are you doing," I asked.

"I'm playing Pokemon," she

said. "For this hour you can

catch a Pikachu holding

balloons on Route 1."

He understood.

That clit got wagged

up and down by his

tongue.

She finally came

catching that Pikachu.
Kurt's Return

The Queen Buddha granted Kurt

Cobain the ability to walk the earth

one more day.

Odin was pleased by the decision.

In his first hour, the golden credit

card in tow, he walked into a Chipotle.

"I heard about this place," he said.

When he finished he took a nasty

shit – Smells Like Teen Spirit played

on loop in the bathroom.

"It's a great tune right," Kurt yelled

out to the guy next to him.

"Fuck you," the guy answered.

Next Kurt went to a tattoo shop.

Michael Daniel of Chameleon

Tattoo was a bit of a cunt as he

normally was to anybody not

carrying a vag in their pants.

"You have to earn a tat on your

hand," Michael Daniel told

Kurt.

He had on a Nirvana shirt.

"Yes this is the way we do it

here," the receptionist added.

"Michael Daniel has a strict

Buddhist policy of earning your

tattoos."

"That's crazy," Kurt told them.

"No that's tattoo culture," Michael

Daniel added.

He ran into a back room

and Kurt heard him weeping.

Kurt took out his phone

and called the Queen Buddha.

"These people are fucked up

down here Queenie," Kurt said.

She laughed.

"Wait till you find out what

a Drake is."

"What's that," he asked.

"A rapper who cries."

Kurt shot himself again

just to finish the day – a whole

24-hours was too much.
Offensive

We all know the droves that fall

in line with comfort and are

advised by comfortable people

living by comforting standards.

What I advise is something

entirely different than comfort

though.

My advice requires more pain

and more doubt than most

feel in their entire life.

To me, there is nothing more

important than thinking from

the heart.

Speaking from the heart.

Creating with only your heart.

Even if all you're able to muster up

is something disgusting or gross,

let it all out.

The offensive stinks of crap but

when it mixes with those rainy

days where true growth is formed,

flowers will bloom.

From that dirt a spectacular garden

will grow.

People will look at this beautiful  
orchard and be inspired to grow on

their own.

With comfort you don't grow much.

You just become another blade in

the field.
Restless Man

The man woke from his sleep

with a screaming thought.

"ONE DAY THIS WILL

ALL END," the head yelled.

This is a pattern that

hits him every night.

The unknown scared him.

What he did not know is the

Queen Buddha waited on the

other side in the Springtime

Heavens.

Once he passed on she had

plans to celebrate all his moments

with him.

Together she'll help him reconnect

with passed loves - be it physical

or friendship.

If all one left is a black time stamp,

something the man is not

guilty of, the Queen Buddha

would have sent him right back

into that spinning universe

behind her.

He'd repeat the reincarnation

till he got it right.

The man didn't have to

worry about that though.

He was good.

He made his attempts

at righteousness.

It was all she asked for.

One day those restless

nights will be answered.

The man will be relieved.
The Fights

Jeremy went to the local fights.

Everyone from the high school

was there.

It was white-trash-pretending-he's-

not-a-middle-class-fuck vs. his rival.

Mom-fucked-the-Islanders-instead-

of-playing-with-him-so-he-has-to-take-

it-out-the-world-white-trash-pretending-

he's-not-a-middle-class-fuck.

In the end, everyone forgot

who won that fight.

What they do remember is

what they did to poor Jeremy.

Some grimy shit head smashed

his ear for fun - that was

the punchline to his joke.

The school thought it was

hilarious and they were as

much of a barbarian as the

savage who attacked Jeremy.

White trash had a way of

ruining a good time.

Jeremy didn't deserve that.

All he wanted was a good show.
Narcotics

Christopher did coke in

the back of the class.

He was of the North

Babylon high school

ilk who were fucked outta

the womb.

"Hendry," he called.

The shy idiot looked up.

"Stand in front of me.

People will think you're

doing something funny."

Hendry stood there of

course.

People thought he was

doing something funny.

Christopher snorted his

line and giggled like a mad

man.

"Hendry godamn it your

ass smells," Christopher

said.

The teacher laughed.

Fucking idiot teacher.
ToE

The Tribe of Ecstasy - the rap

group with 11 BET noms and

a Grammy under their belt –

brought Jeremy with them

to the club.

Jeremy has a very special gift.

He's allergic to caffeine –

unbeknownst

to the dealers who rip people off by

replacing MDMA with caffeine pills.

"Here you go," the dealer with the

cockatoo tutu outfit said.

He dropped little baggies in the

hands of the Tribe of Ecstasy.

Jeremy took it and his body

was met with bloody eyelids

and instantaneous vomiting.

The group threw the bags at the

dealer, produced a mixtape in

under an hour - the title was

of course Cockatoo Crook –

and they gave it to the DJ.

The dealer was run out of

New York City.

His gimmick worked in Chicago

until the record went viral

that week.

Now the Cockatoo Crook works in

Whole Foods selling fake supplements

with Bernie Sanders' face on it.

The game changes but

a hustler never dies.
Hillary Vs. The Donald: Alien Bets

The Red Syphons, a race found on

the other side of the Milky Way, and

the Shaggins, a life form hailing

from a planet 74-light-years

away, had fun with

the American elections.

"I'll build the Hillary bot,"

said the Red Syphons.

"I'll build the Donald

Droid," said the Shaggins.

They giggled at their ideas.

Winner gets a free ride on

Haley's comet – all courtesy of

the losing politician.

"I bet mine can win on lies,"

the Red Syphons said.

"I bet mine can win by having

his brain capacity set to 1,"

said the Shaggins.

And so the American public watched.

The American public had verbal wars.

Both the Red Syphons and the

Shaggins' got super drunk during debates

and took a shot for every tweet about

how Hillary bot was a liar, or

the Donald Droid was offensive.

Satan entered the fray when he

noticed the two races having fun.

"Hold on guys," he said with both

arms around the lead scientists. "Is

it too late to enter my Cruz Lizard?

I just shit him out this morning."

They were all so drunk

the idea sounded perfect.

The humans fought even

more - Satan, the Red Spyhons and

the Shaggins drank, drank and

drank more than they fought.

The celestial bastards

knew how to party.
Blaming Jeremy When The Towers Fell

The planes hit the buildings

and everyone found their

own way to mourn.

Some put American flags

in front of their homes.

Some watched the footage

ad nausea.

Others, such as the group of

middle school white boys who called

themselves the White-Trash-Prick-

Pig-Fucks,

took their angst out on Jeremy.

His tan brown skin was just about

the only thing he had in

common with the hijackers.

"Yo Jeremy get the fuck over

here," the biggest of the group

said.

His pimples crunched and

pussed whenever he spoke.

"What the fuck did your

people do to our buildings,"

the big one asked.

The six White-Trash-Prick-Pig-

Fucks surrounded Jeremy

and put a beating on him.

They'd pass him around like a

Football - giving him knees to

the gut when he got close.

"My family is from

South America," Jeremy

said, blood coming out of his

mouth.

"The fuck do I care," the leader

said. "You're allBin Laden to

me."

He gave him another kick.

"And don't call

yourself an American."

He gave him another kick –

more blood coming out of

Jeremy's mouth.

"I'm a fucking American,"

the Patriot said, saluting the

flag.
Married

Rob matched with a

woman on Tinder.

She told him to come

over and knock on the

door.

He did and a man opened

up.

He was a scrawny guy

with lion tattoos all over

his chest.

"Bro you came here to fuck

my wife," the man said.

He swung at Rob's chin and

locked the door behind him

before he could react.

He opened the window

and called Rob a faggot.

"That doesn't make sense,"

Rob said holding his face.

"What doesn't? That I beat

your faggot ass," the man

asked, puffing out his chest.

"No that you're calling me gay

even though I was here

to put it in your wife."

"Shut up faggot," the man

answered. "I beat

your faggot ass."

"You're the worst person

in the world."

I sighed and just

walked into my car.

No sex.

Just fists.
Bandalf

NYU asked Hendry Gagne

to teach a creative writing

class once a week.

He declined.

Gagne said if he is going to

teach, he'd be teaching the

right way.

He went to Grad School under

the name Joseph Danielson and

paid his way with that NYT Best

Seller, Netflix cash he made.

Most people bought red cars.

He bought more school.

At the end of the first semester

Hendry got back one of his

final papers.

"C," it read.

He looked at the comments the

professor left on the bottom.

"If you want to make it in

the writing world I suggest you

learn to string together original

plots."

So he went to the professor to teach

him how to write an "original plot."

The professor handed him his

self-published book.

"The Tobbits Leave The Crire,"

the title read.

"Did you just change the word

"Hobbits" and "Shire" to "Tobbit"

and "Crire," Hendry asked the

professor.

"Are you kidding me," the educator

said angrily. "My story is about

an ancient race of monkey men lead

by a wizard named Bandalf! I am original!

Now you get a D."
Revolution

I never go to bars.

I'm not much of a

revolutionary.

Now I'm sitting in a bar,

listening

to these revolutionaries.

The girls who invited me

already got bored and these

two with their Che Guevera

hoodies made me more

obsolete.

"WE NEED TO REPLACE

OUR SYSTEM

WITH SOCIALISM," one said.

"I AGREE," the other

answered. "THE SYSTEM

IS BROKEN AND WE'RE

NEARING A DICTATORSHIP."

These women were so swooned

by this.

"Henry," one of those men

asked. "Where do you stand?"

"Well it's "Hendry" but I see how

you can make that mistake. But

yeah I fall under George Carlin's

school of thought that it's all

bullshit and it's bad for ya."

No response.

They went back to their socialist

ideas - the women went back to

swooning.

I returned to not having a good

time.

Why was I even here, I thought?

"AND THESE chauvinist

CEOs," said one of the

men. "FEMINISM

WOULD DO CORPORATIONS

SOME GOOD."

I wish I was good at

bullshitting like that.

Man.
Corporate Man

The lady checked the

camera while a kid's

head bled in the lobby.

It was to see if the

company was at fault.

She had no stake

in those ponies.

Just wanted a

pat on the back.

Probably expects

some boss in a corporate

office to tell her she's

doing OKAY in their eyes.

There's nothing

left in you when that's

up front in the list of things

to do after a

kid's head cracks.

The world will pass by.

Things will bloom

but you'll never see.

The corporate lady

is all she'll ever be.
My poodles are

so cute.

Cuter than your

drunk women at

the bar.
The best friend died.

Son of a bitch ruined

our drinking weekend.
Sharp Plastic

She threw out all the

plastic knives.

"WE CANNOT HAVE THESE

AROUND THE HOUSE

ANYMORE."

"Why," he asked.

"Because FUCKING BERNIE

SAID SO."

The restriction made him loathe

his wife.

Something about the way she

took power over something as

simple as the utensils felt dirty.

It felt like there was something

deeper and more

menacing under that rant.

"I like the plastic knives baby."

"NO YOU DON'T GET THEM.

BERNIE SAID THEY WERE

PROBLEMATIQUE."

He left that night.

It was the best decision

he ever made.
Podcasts

I loved my headphones.

I love my IPhone.

The combination to the two

delivered unto me some of

the greatest information

known to man.

With them I can listen to Neil

Degrasse Tyson talk to Joe Rogan

about the stars.

In the middle of all that they'll

be funny too - funnier than

anything on FM/AM radio.

This makes it hard for

me to take anyone

of the opinion technology

is killing us serious.

That it is making everyone

reclusive.

Doubt it.

To me, I'd rather listen to a

Radio Lab podcast about the

vintage years of football than

some idiot in a rusty Curtis

Martin jersey on the train,

eating his stinky pasta, bitching

the Jets didn't get good picks in

the draft.

Of course they didn't.

They're the Jets.

They fucking suck.

And with podcasts, you don't

have to say anything sucks.

Just pick a better show.

Have a wonderful time and if you

get lonely there is always Tinder.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Loud Scum

From the level of someone's voice

you can tell how in tune to the

feelings of others they are.

The loud fuckers are willing

to stomp over everything.

It doesn't matter if it's

conversation or a day in

the park.

They'll throw in the air their

weak - but pulverizing - words.

The louder they are.

The weaker they

seem to be.

It's as if the levels of their scum

matches up with how loud their

voice gets.

This is why The Jesus talked

about the meek inheriting the

Earth.

They are truly at peace.

There is nothing to

communicate because all

they need is already inside them.
Soccer Idiot

Sherry's mom said to watch

out for the slow kids.

They're usually the stoners.

Or they're usually the artists.

The outcasts with the most to say.

It was clear Sherry's mom knew little.

Probably why when she spoke, it

was nothing significant.

Just intangible warnings

with no statistical evidence.

Visceral soccer

mom idiocy at its finest.
Too Young To Die Alive

I felt bad for these

young men in suits.

They don't even know

they're allowed to be

a human.

Not that that even matters

to them.

These are usually the loudest,

most obnoxious ones on a

phone thinking their account

is impressive.

When it's done they'll learn too

late you can't take that money

to the other side.

All they'll have is what little

love they managed to

eek through at childhood.

@Chokeslam Poet – Instagram, Twitter, Facebook
The Apple Poodle Cocoon

My poodle was a special dog.

She grew from a tree –

falling down as a head with

just an apple body.

People shrilled at the

monstrosity – crying

that a snout should

never grew out of an apple.

I took her in.

I planted her.

I nurtured her.

I gave her enough sunlight.

During the harvest a body

grew out of the apple cocoon

and she was a full sized,

beautiful dog.

The best dog I ever had.

She grunted and barked  
and ate all the steak.
BOMBS AWAY

My joke bombed.

It flat lined to the

point I thought I had no

pulse.

It started in class when

we talked about

that cop who died.

His funeral was right

by my house and I said

the whole thing was so

white, it looked like they

were getting together for

a Carly Simon concert.

The white people there

were offended.

It broke out into a

conversation on how

All Lives Matter.

In my next class I was

the only white guy and

I broke out the same joke.

I thought I was playing to

the crowd but it was met

with the same ZERO.

Black people don't

know who Carly Simon is.

I still stand behind that

this was a good joke.

One day someone will

laugh at it.
Sensational Merri

Merri and I used to date  
in high school.

I see her differently now.

She's not the queen I

envisioned her to be when

we reached this old age we

are now.

Now she's talking about her

sons and how they blame

their father for everything.

It was clear we had nothing

in common.

I didn't even vote and if this

was the 50's, you'd probably

call me a Marxist.

Marxism is what she

called "LUNACY."

"It's true," she said quoting

President Trump.

She had her shit together

compared to me but I had

something over her.

I wasn't joyless.

I was poor.

Joyously poor.

This woman had a lot and

despite her passive remarks

of me still being a child, I'd

take that over repeating the

same thing about her sons

everyday.

There's a peace to playing video

games and fucking women that

used to be her prettiest age.

It makes me happy.

It's the gimmick that

gets me over.
Not For Us

The New York Times ran a five-page

article on New York City doormen

and their effects on the love lives of

20-something-year-olds.

Everyone said it was such a fabulous

piece.

They were all dirt poor though

and couldn't afford to live in places

that have a doorman.

The press speaks for nobody

but the dicks of rich men.

Them saying Black Lives

Mattered was a façade, I think.

What did they really know of

struggle if they could reference

doormen?

If they wanted a realistic piece on

love then let's talk about train station,

backseat fucking.

That's the beginning of a realistic love

Story for most.

If you're poor you know that.

All too well.
Waste

Depressed white people.

It's what Rock & Roll has

become.

That heart-ache shit

does nothing for me.

Any problem fixed by

Tinder in the coming weeks

shouldn't count as an issue.

Letting the world know how good

you are at wasting your outlet is.
Fulfilled

Sometimes she wrote

the poems with love.

Sometimes she wrote

them with hate.

As long as they were

inspired by something

deep down inside

it's all that mattered.

The love; the hate; it

all means the same

thing when life was in

the work.
Scarfing

The man bought the

most stylish scarves.

"I don't understand,"

he told his therapist.

"It's hard to find a woman.

I'm lonely."

He fixed that scarf

after he spoke.

"I don't even know

why that'd be," the

doctor said.
The Best Man At The Bookstör

He was probably in 11th grade.

I put Bukowski in his hand.

Now he actually had something

to do while he got high.

"How dare they not consider me a

Shaman or a medicine man," I said

to myself when he walked off to

the registers.
A.N.N.ie

The Arab News Network

went out of business.

Closed their doors for

good, leaving the writers

to find a new home.

The tragedy is they

highlighted hypocrisy

better than everyone.

Trouble is the world is

never ready for that.

Truth makes people

feel the way they're

supposed to.

Warm bodies go

a lifetime hiding

from that – wasting

in cold lies.
Friendship <3

Dimmer was a handsome

gent who tried to fuck all

his friends' girlfriends.

Sometimes he succeeded.

Most of those attempts

happened after his

sanctimonious, political

Facebook rants.

Finally he one day

had a lady of his own.

She got off on gangbangs

but Dimmer didn't know –

just like the friends didn't

know he fucked their lovers.

During a drunken night when

Dimmer passed out she grabbed

all their dicks and took em'

out all the same.

She loved it.

There's no justice;

no peace, without

gangbangs.
One Piece

Raffy loved Manga.

He got off on his

ladies dressing up

like One Piece

characters - especially that

slutty version of

the pirate teddy bear.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Poor Choice

There's too many people

who make poor choices.

They're so loud and take

up all this space.

Makes you feel like

anybody good is just

a myth.
A Good Teacher

"I don't get to read," she told

the man at the Bookstör.

She had kids.

She worked.

Her brother was in jail.

Free time was seldom.

The pseudo intellectual

next to her was annoyed

she said that.

"Then what are you

doing here," the

snob said. "This

is not a place for you."

"I'm here for my

children. So

they can read."

The intellectual

just knew facts.

She passed on

the knowledge.

She meant more to

the society than he.

To know is for one.

To pass on is for all.
Slow Nowhere

You work too long.

You run the risk of

becoming directionless.
No Use

Those people good at

nothing excel in ruining

everything around you.

They're the Jackie Robinson

of fucking up.

It's innovative how

lousy they are.

Useless they'll

continue to be.
Snapped

Beltrude worked every holiday.

Those 8-hours were plastered

in the middle of the day too.

Customers complained

the whole time making her

shift that much harder.

Finally she snapped.

Everyone was mad

at her for what she did.

But the sad part was they

were angry at themselves.

Not her.

She was too alive.

That's why she

did what she did.

They took their

jealousy out on her.

Called her a crazy lady.

But she saw the way.

It was sad to see someone

with hope drop it right there.

Nobody witnessed

that layer though.

Just the logical

crazy one that

came after the break.
Better Writer

That man at the Bookstör

with the speech impediment

read his book aloud.

Nobody understood a

damn word.

The people listening

still clapped.

Fuck man.

He's better off

than me.
Package Powerbomb

Kevin Owens was the Cult King of

the independent wrestling scene.

He never fit a prototypical wrestler

build but that never stopped him from

being the absolute best wrestler who

never got some well-deserved

mainstream fame.

How many men built like our

dads were doing moonsaults?

Maybe just him.

As the years went by Owens got

himself a family and that Indy scene

wasn't quite paying what it should.

On Colt's podcast he

talked about quitting.

No man can afford to feed a family

doing what he did, said Owens.

Then it all happened.

One night he was

saying his goodbyes

to a small Dearborn crowd and a little

more than a year later he was big

time – beat that Golden

Goose John Cena

in his first match.

It almost didn't happen.

Now Owens doesn't

go a night without

arenas chanting Fight Owens Fight.

Not bad for that Indy wrestler who

fought his heart out in front

of those little crowds.

The story of Kevin Owens is less

a wrestling story and

more a story of endurance.

If you keep on fighting - even

when your mind, body, spirit

and wallet tell you NO - the doors

of ultimate satisfaction; ultimate

recognition; can come your way.

All you gotta do is fight.

Fight like Owens fought.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Suck It

Tate was a grumpy fuck.

He said the most genius thing

about the guy on TV last night.

"I don't like him. He's

too grumpy."

We finally admitted to Tate

that's how we felt about him.

All of us had come too far

with his crap.

"Hey sunshines," he told

us all. "Suck my dick."
Funny Jokes

The dad asked Hendry

for a recommendation.

He wanted the best joke

book at the Bookstör.

"Send your boy to a

priest," Hendry said. "He'll

be better off."

All the best comics had

traumatic childhoods.

He figured by doing that, his

dad will have free

jokes one day.

The man was disgusted

by the answer.
Bible Section

The religious always

had a shit attitude.

It was a constant in the

bookstore Hendry noticed.

They threw their mounds of

crap at you if you didn't have the

particular brand

of bible they wanted.

Your throat'd get cut

if the niche Christian Fiction

writers weren't on the shelves.

After a string of

bad-time bastards

Hendry wielded the

power of post-its.

Right under the sign that

said CHRISTIAN

FICTION, Hendry

posted a note that

said, "This statement

is redundant."
Square

I told her I couldn't

pay when we finished.

She beat me half to

death with mom's

antique lamp.

This big girl beat

my ass good.

"Now we're

even," she said.

"What about the

lamp? What

about mom?"

"What about

all that?"
Nighttime Adventures

"Write something beautiful,"

she asked.

He did on a napkin.

She read it out loud.

"I'VE NEVER BEEN

FUCKED SO HARD THAT I

CAME HYSTERICS. Take

me love."

He giggled.

She couldn't believe

he made her say that.

"I guess I have work

to do," he said.

"But you made me say

that," she answered, befuddled.

"But it was YOU who made the

words come out of YOUR mouth."

She couldn't disagree.

They left the bar.

She got fucked into

hysterics as she wanted.

Everyone inside heard.

They cheered on their heroes.
Cabbies

He dressed his

daughter like the

young girl from Taxi.

This little one looked

just like her too.

What a fucking weird

house of people, I thought.

The sight of her disturbed

me so much I drove around

the block to avoid seeing

even their lawn.

Any reminder wasn't

worth it.
Punk

Klisto was so Punk Rock

he didn't listen to music.

"What if the wrong people

liked it," he'd say.

He only had one thing

that entertained him.

Sitting in a black room.

Naked.

No denim.

Just skin.

This is how he preferred

to live - not a hint of

artificial sweetener.

No joy.

What if he got joy for

all the wrong reasons?

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Don't Go

Look at me before

you run away.

Just please look.

I'll never see you again

and that's so sad.

Do me this one thing.

This one last look.
Last of the Crew

The ship sank.

They all began to drown.

Under water the crew gave

each other the same look.

"We did this for money,"

they wanted to scream

but couldn't because their

lungs filled. "We did this

for money!"

Just as the ocean

should to any antibody

that makes their

way into her body,

she took them deep.

First went their breath.

Next the lungs collapsed

under the pressures

of ocean.

All because they took

this gig to afford some

extra chicken for

the holidays.

Nature was beautiful

but don't mix it with

your side projects.

It is to be revered.
Polite

I was an inch away

from telling someone "I

don't care," once.

I didn't.

I was trained in life with a

fearful, polite, discourse.

That would be mean.

Instead I chose to rot in

front of this man's

useless words.

He had useless book

suggestions on useless

business books about

useless practices that

gets nobody rich

other than the author

Useless ideas spread

like wildfire, I've learned

from working a bookstore.

My skin began to fall off

since his words were so

poisonously dull.

Here I learned being

polite was horrible.

I was too late though.

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Reunion

"Hey Cassidy! Come to the

reunion! Its been ten-years

since we graduated. Crazy!"

I didn't answer.

I made sure Facebook

showed that I saw it too.

My life has digressed to

the point I'm back in high school.

My girlfriend - at least I

think she is - is 19.

The girl I'm thinking of

going to next isn't any older.

Prom is still a fresh memory

to them.

Maybe they can bring their

school ID's to the event

as a joke?

Do these people even

have these same ideas

I do?

They've long since

moved on from junior

college and that's my

Tinder dating pool.

Do they know what

a Tinder is?

How can I show my

face to them with their

families and real jobs

and their plans of

having a "day with the

kiddos and old friends."

Between my girlfriends

and their use of "kiddos"

and "old friends", I

don't even feel like the

same fila of human.

Just another moment

to feel alien.

I can't even afford

a space ship.

And neither can

these girls because

they work

part-time at Hollister.

We can probably pool our

money together for a blunt.
Worker Bees

Hard work for the sake

of hard work isn't noble.

Fighting for your cause

is the only noble battle.

That is what you should

be putting your time,

life and effort in.

Die for the dreams.

Don't die eroding the

same way everyone

else does.

Be a hero and go on to

save everyone from

that fate.
Donald J. Trump/Homer J. Simpson (LOL)

If you enjoy being

a slave.

If you got it in you

to watch things burn

down, Donald J. Trump

is the candidate for you.

Not since Homer J.

has there been a

better leader for

those people.

Thoughtless fucks

love a sick bastard

that's all voice and

no message.

Homer Simpson at

least has a heart –

an insult to compare

the two.

The only time Donald

Trump's shown any

sign of love are those

times he puts it in

Android fuck dolls

manufactured in

Slovenian sweat shops.

Even the robots with their

artificial intelligence are

wary of him.

Their one's and zeroes

don't compute when faced

with utter tyranny and

a hatred for various

groups of non-white

people.
Lady at the Post Office

The Post Office worker

went off on Bukowski.

She came in the Bookstör

asking Hendry for book

recommendations and

right when he saw

her face, he knew

he was fucked.

In his head he made

it a rule to give these

people no answer – just

leave them with a

bestseller list - but he

of course broke that rule.

"I love this book," I said.

"It's about a drunk in a

Post Office. You work in

a Post Office so you

should relate."

The woman came back a

week later — Hendry

already forgot her face.

"This is the story of a

miserable man. I've

been working the Post

Office 30-years and

Chinanski is the type

of guy I hate. No work

ethic. Just an asshole.

An asshole like

everyone I work with."

She stormed out, making

Hendry realize some

people take honor from

their slavers.

Hendry saw her again

on the news.

She jumped off the

top of the Post Office

and now only her

right eyebrow moves.

She didn't like his book,

is all he thought.
Lady vs. Pokemon: A Play

L: Pokemon? You play Pokemon. How old are you?

G: I'm 27. Look, I'm gonna go home if you're not interested. This is Tinder. I'll swipe right and find a date tonight.

L: No. No, no. Don't go. I just wasn't expecting you to say you were a professional Pokemon player. Do you make money?

G: Yeah. Last year I was able to buy my dream home with it. I love my life.

L: Baby! Pikachu is so adorbZ. Nerd lyfe!
Business Speak

It's gotta be hard

to talk business.

It isn't innately interesting.

There's no chance for

dramatic flair if you dive

into one of those

conversations about

the accounts.

All you got is this

message that has

all the inspiration

of a cold, concrete wall.

It's a bullshit game of

Language Chess nobody

on either side of the

conversation acknowledges.

To do so would mean a

loss of revenue – giving

zero shits about a loss

of life.

What an exhausting way

to live.

Life with no life.
School Fallacies

Teacher said to write

something nice about

your heroes.

He wrote about Hemingway.

Teacher was impressed till

she read the paper.

"Hemingway was a drunken

whore monger," the

student wrote.

"This is disgusting," the

teacher said. "Disrespectful

as well."

Tyreique rebutted.

"Tell me I'm wrong

though."

She couldn't.

Hemingway was

all those things.

He would've gotten

an A for lying.

School.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Death to Babies

100,000 sperm dead.

Every time a man

calls another man sexist

to a female friend the

Queen Buddha zaps

the inside of their balls.

"No use to have that one

to procreate," she'd say.

"He's full of shit!"

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Radio Hacks

The three of them

Out-Obscenitied themselves

everyday on the radio

back in 1999.

SHITfuck this, they said.

shitFUCK that, they said.

The show isn't like

this anymore though.

The three of them

caught a Case Of

The Hack over the years.

They were chameleons.

In 2016 they were liberal

toting feminists that chanted

when Obama was on screen.

They pretend President

Donald Trump is a devil.

When they got fired and found

jobs at a conservative

station, they of course changed.

"These guys are not women

They can't use the

women's bathrooms.

What is this shit?"
Burns 2020!

Next election they'll

vote Mr. Burns.

"I love Mr. Burns," they'll say.

"He speaks his mind."

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Final Deletion (Shout out to Dixie Carter)

The 80's weren't great.

They had Poison.

The 90's weren't great.

They had Rick Astley.

Today is great.

We got IPhones that'll

block all those fuckers.

I can't wait for tomorrow's

innovations — further

deleting yesterday's junk.

("DELETED" – Matt Hardy)

Decluttering our

lives — the Japanese say.
Family Ties

His parents told

him to visit his

brother in jail.

They were blood,

was the old

couple's reason.

He went to jail — finally

seeing his brother

the rapist — and was

disgusted for listening

to these people.

Why would anybody

listen to their

parents, ever, he thought.

Never had a

subculture had worse

advice like

moms and dads.

They hang on to

familial loyalties

because what else

are they worth?
The Eyes Watch From The Street

When he closed

his eyes he could

still see his wife's head

rolling down the driveway.

On the night of the

murder he watched his

starlet lady walk an NFL

player out of their house.

She thought hubby was

across the border in Canada.

"I did it," he told police. "I

killed her.

I killed her and she won't  
go away."

Her billboards were all

over Hollywood.

On the news was

constant coverage of

her face.

"I try to sleep and I

still see the bloody

Lamborghini trunk.

Her body is frozen

on top of it while

she stares at me

from the street.

She can't take

her eyes off me. I

think she wants

me to put her

back together."

Life was over.

A disillusioned mess.

He asked the cop to

shoot him but the cop

didn't care.

More blood spilled

on the Hollywood

streets means the

officer had less

time be with his

wife and kids tonight.

"I'm gonna be late baby :/,"

he texted his wife.

"Sigh. Okay," she answered.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
One Sided Trade

The editor said her

style of writing wasn't

suitable for the magazine.

Those fuckers sure loved

spamming her e-mail though.

They want your money but

won't take any of your time.

Didn't seem like a fair trade off.
Loogy Train

The men who hocked

loogies are dead inside.

Anybody willing to make

themselves look disgusting

in public usually are.
Don't You Dare Be Sour

Vibrations.

Karma.

The law of attraction.

Other states.

It was all real and

all positive.

The problem is Devils

love teaching that stuff.

They use it for control.

They know the cracked

ones looking to glue

their life together

search out a better

way through

these outlets.
America Vs. America

The man with the Trump

book argued with the

man holding an Arianna

Huffington Biography.

"He'll make America great

again BRAGbragBRAG,"

said the chubby

man with grease

stains on his hands.

"He hates women....

....... Meeeeeeh," said

the twig with black

rim glasses and a

flannel shirt.

Both were on

separate sides of

America.

Both were equally

intolerable when

they spoke.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Queens of the Internet Age

She was one of those girls who is

real pretty on Instagram.

Quiet in her social life.

A queen to her

followers though.

A lot of the time she'd attract

the church-going folk.

She looked like a lot of the

young women

there - looking like

the way they wanted

those girls to look.

The way they wanted

those girls to dress.

She had everything if

you never knew her.

Meet her and you'd

never know

the world she managed

at her fingertips.
Etsy Ventures

"Do you have no

integrity," she asked.

It was a weird thing

to say.

They were at work.

"What are you talking

about," he said.

"You and Lexington

stopped having sex.

Why did you stop?

She likes you. Bastard."

"Oh that," he said,

thinking he was

getting blamed for

something on the job.

"I only really have integrity

for things that matter," he

continued. "Like

those drawings you

do on break and leave

out. I can sell

them to Etsy Tweens.

I don't though.

It's not right."

"But what about

her heart?"

"But what about

your pictures?"
Like Water

Every store asks you

to sign up for their

credit card.

They'll throw you on

the pisser if you

don't — angry you

haven't joined the club.

This is just life though.

The all-encompassing dilemma.

If people don't let you

get bled dry by them

they'll throw a fucking

tantrum.

The only way to combat

these folk is by Doing You.

Be like water like Bruce Lee

said and you'll probably win.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
The Hack In The Mirror

He was a comedian.

Now he took a job

as a corporate executive.

He'd turn on Comedy

Central yelling

at the comics who got

where he wanted to be.

"Fucking hacks," he'd

say, not looking at

the image in the mirror.

He chased the money.

He chased the fancy clothes.

He got all that.

The comedy

though, it had

an "ehhh" end

to his career.

Comedy gave him

as much as he put in.

Not much.

His friends stopped

going to his open mics

\- refusing to pay the

$25 ticket and two

drink minimum seeing

he wasn't hitting the

mics to practice.

They could get his

horseshit free at home.

They gave up on him and

he blamed the world for it.

Everyone in the world; we

were all hacks to him.

He never saw the hack

in himself though.
With The Dog

I couldn't imagine

the pain.

The pain of going from

a woman with dogs

to going with a woman

with cats.

The sheer horror of

this fate is

enough to make you

appreciate life.
Good Man Like Cosby

"I'm a good guy,"

her Tinder date

said. "I treat women

like gold."

He had this brash,

strong, Italian, Long

Island accent when

he spoke.

"I'm telling you

Jenny. There's no

better man than me."

It was a bad impression

of saying all the right

things.

She hid in the bushes

and called for an über

while he, as he put

it, "Went for a leak."

Her spider senses told

her this night was

ending in a Cosby

Cocktail if she wasn't

high tailing it now.
Draft Day

They talked about

the NFL draft in the bar.

"This guy is gonna revamp

that defense," the man

said in conversation, repeating

what ESPN said.

"Yeah the Giants lucked out

by having priority."

"Priority." A word this guy

learned from ESPN too.

These men didn't even look

at the women anymore.

It was sad.

They got themselves lost

in the worst things.

Not once did they look up

when the skirts hiked a little

higher and the attitudes

got a little sloppier.

Killing your own attraction

is intoxicating.
Did What He Loved

He worked so much and

missed being a part of

the daylight.

From the window he'd

watch the sun hit its peak

before falling to its

death every day.

It was painful to

live this way.

Killed him every time.

He never wanted to

get used to it though.

Being numb without

the pain was worse.

No pain ends with the

autopilot function aimed

at the ground.

You don't even notice till

you're about to slam your

craft into a million,

burning pieces.

The idiots will say you

died doing what you loved.

I say it's better to live

doing what you love.
Pocket Wrapper

The poodle always sniffed

out candy wrappers in pockets.

She had a good drive for that.

Food excited her.

The thought of

food was ecstasy.

She was old but it got

her jumping and

loving – puffing

those pretty ears

to show Dada her

belly was empty.

It wasn't a bad

way to live.
Tina Fey is OKAY

She howled at that

Tina Fey movie.

It irked him to the

point he called it

the worst piece of

ass he'd ever seen.

This got her mad;

turning her into

the greatest piece of

ass he ever had.

Smelled like berries

around the hole –

a nice touch for a lady

who came to

battle prepared.

It took the smell of

bodies when they

finished, but he never

forgot that first whiff.

It kept him around.

Tina Fey became a

little more bearable

because of it.
Simple Life

I never knew  
what I wanted.

But I think now

that's okay.

There's no greater

meaning to this life

other than being your

best self.

Your truest self –

I'm sure of it.

Usually when

the answers are

complicated then

nothing is there.

Simplicity is the

only place anything

worthwhile tends

to be.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Bad Degree

He always took an

extra five-minutes

on break.

One day they got him

and broke his legs.

He was stuck at

that job forever

and couldn't move.

The JUDICIOUS

punishment for

stealing time, they

said.

Laying there

almost dead he

wished he paid

attention in school.

He wouldn't have

a degree fancy

enough for this

horse shit.
Swedish Dreams

She was a

beautiful woman.

Tall, blonde and

looked nice

in anything.

At home she was a

Swedish broadcaster

but things weren't

working out so

well in America.

Her men talked

down to her.

The only friends

she had just

looked at her

as a future hole.

Genuine contact was

rare in the States.

She kept trying to make

things better though.

At least she tried.

It was more than she

could say about the

people who've been here

their whole lives and

waste away with nothing

because they made zero

attempts at anything.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
Local Authors Club

The local authors

didn't have much to say.

They always complained

about people not

buying their stuff - that

the Bookstör doesn't

promote them enough.

The one who wrote about

his dead wife was the

worst of all.

He came in smelling

like cheap Polish liquor

\- shitting on the workers

who brought customers to

the books they actually

wanted to read.

They didn't understand

that the reason why their

stories didn't have much

to say was because

the vessel sucked.
Self-Help Sinners

She read passages from

her book in the library.

An odyssey of self-help

literature that could

have easily been broken

down into a 8-word,

single page pamphlet:

"Be kind. Don't settle

much but mostly

appreciate."

Instead she kept the

people there 3-hours.

They oooh'd, ahhh'd

and took nothing in.

The case with most

of these books.

The case with most

scams in general.

The promise of

greatness but really,

you got one great big

fucking time waster –

the ultimate sin if

you're trying to

live an optimal life.
Tortured Words

The man asked incredible

questions to the Bookstör

workers.

Philosophical types about

life and death and thoughts

above human comprehension.

There was a problem though.

His voice; His face; That

Grinlessg rimace living under

His forehead; they made him

abysmal to be around.

It was an Odin-blasted

shame how horrible his

aesthetics were because

it'd be great to

hear him out.

Instead, you're better off

running - moving far away

from the joyless genius.

Vanity is sometimes the

great killer of thought.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Twitter & Facebook
An Ancient Metaphor For President Trump

Bill had a Go Fund

Me account for his

hospital bills.

It was a scam though.

He had insurance.

$100,000 he raised.

People felt bad for him.

"Thank you," Bill said

to the people in a mass

e-mail. "P.S. I just bought

a boat. Go fuck yourselves."

This was one of the greater

scams in Internet history.

His honesty drove more

people to donate to his

cause though.

Every week he bought

bigger houses and his

arrogance drew more money.

What a phenomena it was.

People looked like they got

off on his shitty attitude.
An Ode To Caitlyn Jenner

The old Italian man

came to the United States

for the first time in 2016.

He lived on a farm in

the mountains of Sicily.

Far and away from

the public he lived.

His first day there he

picked up a magazine

with Caitlyn Jenner.

He whacked his bag

to it for weeks.

Never had he seen

such a beautiful woman,

he thought.

And she was his age!

Returning to Sicily people

asked him how he felt

about the States.

"Beautiful," he said

in Italian. "Too many

gays for my taste though."

They asked if he met a woman.

Of course this masculine,

manly man said yes.

"A wonderful lady

named Caitlyn

"I took to bed every night.

A movie star she was!"
Zagat

The French couple

ran through the

pages of New York

City's Zagat.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

That was the same

answer they gave

every place.

They invited some

friends over for dinner

instead of going out.

They were people just

as pretentious as them.

"What do you think,"

the man said winking

to his husband, feeling

like a hero to the art

of food.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

That was the

same answer their

company gave to

every plate.
Bukowski Adds A D

Bukowski didn't like

New York much but

he saw himself having

a good time tonight.

The people in this

Italian Restaurant

weren't pretending

to be fancy.

Most of them

worked with their

hands.

He liked that.

"Your wife is

pregnant," he said

raising a glass to

the owner. "What are

you gonna call that baby?"

"We haven't decided

yet," Mr. Gagne said.

"Call him Henry,"

Bukowski said. "Put

a D in the name.

It'll sound stupid

but at least he'll

be different."

The Italian immigrant

ended up listening to

this drunken man.

He tipped well and

men who

shelled out extra for food

weren't the types

to have a bad idea.

It was impossible.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Facebook & Twitter
Her Letter to Ernest

A woman wrote a

letter to Hemingway.

"Do you hate us," she

asked. "I've never seen

you speak well of a woman

before. Surely you cannot

think us all to be

thine enemy."

The letter came late though.

He blew his head off

thinking of his first wife.

Hemingway missed her terribly.

He wished to have her back.

"Good," the woman said.

"Fitting end to that angry

fucker."
Death to Bukowski

The guy in the

bookstore told her

to read Bukowski.

She said he was a

rotten old man.

"I'd never love

someone like this."

Her line of men

read as followed though:

Drunk.

Arrogant.

Bar flys.

Foul mouthed, fat

gutted, bastards.

"There's this disgusting

writer I found about

today named Bukowski,"

she said at the bar.

"Tell me about this queer,"

they'd tell her. "Fucking...

I'll kill him dead for

offending you babe."
Groff is Great

Groff headbutted a

man in the World

Cup finals.

The planet watched

in disgust.

"I AM YOUR CHAMPION,"

he yelled after the game.

The French beat

the English 5 to 1 –

the headbutter getting

three of those goals.

What a piece of

shit he was.

If only he weren't

so great.
Not Like Mike But Like Amy

She was the best singer

at the open mic nights.

The thing was, she never

did it sober.

After each mic she'd get

a bunch of texts telling

her how great she was.

Finally she did one without

liquor and tanked.

The mystique of alcoholism

was gone.

She went from Amy

Winehouse to everything but.

From there she learned

her lesson.

The lady drank herself

to death but had 4

platinum records under

her belt by the time her

life was done.

There was never a

session or concert she

did sober.

People got mad whenever

she did.

The show was always

a bad one.

They wanted her to

deliver every time -

even if she

wasn't conscious

of it.
Adult Coloring Books

She told her husband if

they did adult coloring

books in coffee houses

their marriage would

get better.

Her idea to ease

the stress.

"What about blow

jobs,"

he asked her.

"What about them,"

she said.

And so they colored.

They colored.

Colored.

And colored.

He dated the chubby

barista with the nice

smile that had

an allergic reaction to

crayons.

It was the perfect

scenario

because he fucking

hated coloring.

@ChokeslamPoet on Instagram, Facebook & Twitter
Early Bird Woke Up Late

"I'm gonna wait for my

divorce to be official

before I date Kenny."

The woman made the

decision with her friend

in a coffee house.

The friend held her

hand wishing her

the best.

It took four months,

but finally the divorce

was final.

"Hello Kenny," the woman

said on the phone.

"It's Jennifer."

"Who," he asked,

"Jennifer. Remember? We

were going to date after

my divorce

was finalized. Well... My

divorce is final."

"OHH Jennifer," he

yelled out on the

phone. "Yeah sorry

since the last time we

spoke I fell madly

in love, got married,

and had seven kids."

"You had seven kids

in four months," she said

broken hearted.

"Yeah. I have a

wonderful family."

And he did.
FCK MEN

They went to the flower

show on their first date.

It was a terrible time to

find out you have

horrible allergic

reaction to bees but this

is what happened to Aaron.

The bee stung his arm

and he hit the ground.

He died in her arms.

"I'm sorry Allie."

She dropped him

on the floor.

"What's wrong," he

said choking to death.

"My name is ALEXIS."

She walked away and

complained on Facebook.

"FCK MEN," she posted.

@ChokeSlamPoet on Instagram, Facebook & Twitter
Adults Don't Know

"I didn't have a phone

when I was younger,"

the woman said on

line, waiting to get checked.

"Me neither," the man

behind her answered.

"We played outside."

*BURP*

"Shut that fucking

thing off," the mom told

her kid watching

the astronauts land on

Mars from her phone.

"I can't hear myself think."

The adults admonished

the little girl for

always being on her phone.

"Shitty generation," the

man said. "Thank God

President Trump is gonna

make us great again."

"Me too," the mom went

on. "I'm tired of these

niggers and fags

gettingtheir way."

They got her mom to

take her daughter's

phone away.

She stuck it in her

pocket right before that

lady stepped on Mars.  
"All you do is talk to

niggers and fags on

there anyway," the

mom said to the girl.

"Get a fucking life."

This lead to a young girl

going down a heroinic-

drunk path - giving

handjobs half off on Friday.

In an alternate universe

she discovered

a way to travel at

light speed.

It all changed that

moment the adults were

boring, uneasy pricks.
Escorts For The Kids

Bobby Judge broke a

lot of records

for the Chicago Bears

his first year there.

The most important

accolade to him

though was not one on

the field but what

he did off it.

He granted the

most wishes

to dying children - a

whole section

filled out for them in

Chicago's Soldier Field.

There was a frequent

question the

boys asked Judge -

that too not

being about football.

"Bobby Judge you got yourself a

lovely wife," the boys would

ask. "How am I getting that?"

"Be a hero," Bobby'd

say every time.

"They call me a hero all the

time," the kids'll say.

"Nobody ever gave me blonde

white ladies in leopard skirts."

Teenage boys got their heroes but

a woman is all they really need.

Here Bobby Judge realized

he was wasting their time.

These kids need prostitutes.

That'd make them happier than

another meathead

they can't stick it in.
Squishy Poodle

Wait by the

window Poodle.

Wait - Wait - Wait

Soon somebody'll be

home to pet

your squishy face.
Bad At Sleeping

How many times a

day do you wanna sleep?

Finally the time comes.

Bed's here.

You choke.

It's 3 a.m. and now you're

the Alex Rodriguez of snoozing.

Tomorrow you'll repeat.

You'll repeat it

till you're in the

ground and can't

repeat no more.
Wasted Space

Charlie Manson.

What a waste.

All that energy to

lead and he ate

the sheep alive.

A case of the

Law Of Attraction

going wrong.

Now his flesh falls

off behind iron bars.

Nobody caring for

him but the fans

rooting for the

things that make

them scared.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Hard Covers

The kid might steal

a book but it isn't

that bad.

The author gets

fucked in the

wallet but if they

were any good

they'll be happy

somebody is putting

that much effort into

reading what they wrote.

The reading is all

that matters.

Plus the rich white

folks will

make up for it by

buying the hard covers.
Philosophy Of A Swindler

Give the scammers

one shot in the knee.

They're weak with

no leg to stand on.

Any power the swindler

has is what you give them.

Take -Take -Take.

They'll take till'

you got nothing left.

Fuck that guy.

He'll break all your shit and

can't pay you back because

he doesn't have a job.

Just a big, fake

dream he tells

everybody about

to he hide

how big a

pussy he is.

You keep talking about

these mansions

being on the way but

I don't see any.

It's what swindlers

do best; false

promises based

on fake pretenses.
Kids At The New Yorker

The guest blogger

left her Hobbit

hole and had my

students write.

I had no idea they

were so good.

I told them to submit

their work to the

New Yorker and

this woman didn't

enjoy the comment.

She thought she was

on to something in

life but my little

bastards had talent.

This lady's writing

was just eh.

Okay for what it was.

These kids though.

Man they were good.

Real creative.

Superbly imaginative.
Library ISIS

The librarian yelled

at the young girl.

"Quiet down," she

screamed.

Imagine being this

child?

This young child

thrown into this

world not knowing

the rules?

Everyone telling

you you're wrong?

There's the terrorism.

The red scare

right there.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Failure To Progress

Stephen Hawking sent

a message to all

the pressboards.

The genius was

making an announcement

at noon.

"Ladies and gentleman,"

he said into a live camera.

"We have discovered a

sustainableway to live

on Mars. Within fifty-years

we'll have created an

atmosphere on the

Red Planet."

Hawking finished and

expected a band of

reporters flooding the

outside of his home.

All he got was a text from

Neil Degrasse Tyson saying

"Cool shit dog."

Hawking's assistant

went online to see

what was going on.

Here was the headline.

"PRESIDENT TRUMP

CALLS KIM KARDASHIAN

CUNT, COMPARING WOMEN

WITH FAT ASSES TO DOGS."

There was no

mention of Mars.

No mention of how

he saved the planet

and brought us to

our galactic manifest

destiny.

Hawking made a call to

his team to burn the

technology to the ground.

The little space-angel-

Martian-thing living

inside his body flew

from his head

and went back to

its planet.

"Let them die," were

its last words

before lifting off.
Don't Touch That Ring

Goldberry nudged

Frodo in his sleep.

"That's a cool ring

around your neck,"

Goldberry said. "Will

you marry me with it?"

Frodo fell from bed

– the ring now in

between his fist.

Goldberry knew not

of its evil.

"The ring does not work

like that," he said. "It

is dark. It is evil.

It will possess your

very soul. Also,

your hand belongs to

another. It is just wrong."

Goldberry laughed.

"I can be dark and evil,"

she said. "Wanna go

to a swinger party?"

And so they did.

They swung.

They fucked – but

nobody wore the ring.

Frodo made sure of this.

Gandalf's orders.
Net Love

"James there is

someone else," the

woman said in bed.

James got up from

the sheets.

His Legos fell out of

bed as he shot up.

"What?! WHO?!"

She got a picture

from Instagram.

In his face she

flashed the official

page for the New

York Knicks.

"This is Terrence,"

she said. "He has

been courting me

for many, many, long

hours. He is sweet

and pays attention

to me."

"How long has this

been going on,"

James asked.

"Two hours," she

said. "Imagine that?

You talk to someone

on the Internet for

two hours and not

even fuck them? Wild

that gentlemanship still

exists."
Three Wishes

The peaceful green warriors

of Namek called to their

ancient wish-making

dragon Porunga.

One of their own had a

Special request but would

not reveal to them what

it was.

"TELL ME," the Dragon

said when he appeared

in front of the Namekians.

"WHAT IS IT THAT

YOU WANT?"

The Namekian moved forward

and lifted his hand in penance

to the dragon.

The dragon nodded in

appreciation for his gesture.

"PORUNGA WE ARE A PROUD,

GAY RACE HERE ON NAMEK

BUT I AM NOT GAY," the

Namekian yelled out.

"YOU SEE. I LONG FOR

THE FEEL OF A WOMAN

BUT A WOMAN DOES

NOT EXIST ON THIS

PLANET. PLEASE

DELIVER ME ONE."

The people of Namek

gasped for one of their

own was not gay.

Some did not know how

to handle this and they

ran in circles.

The term "Straight Boy" got

thrown at him by the

under educated.

"Your wish shall be

granted," Porunga said.

A lady of Puerto Rican

and Italian descent

appeared – the two

went hand in hand,

instantly in love.

"YOU HAVE TWO MORE

WISHES," the dragon

yelled out.

"Oh right," the Namekian

said. "MORE

WOMEN FOR I AM

BORED OF THIS

ONE. GIVE THESE GUYS

SOME BUTT PLUGS TOO."

The women appeared – the

other Namekians rejoiced –

and the Puerto Rican /

Italian mix lady stabbed

them all in their ovaries.

"This is my fucking guy,"

she said.
Frap DEATH

The grizzled old woman

who looked the least like

Rupenzel – but more

the Orcs who slayed

Hobbits – refused to

pay for her disgusting

Mocha Frap Sugar

Death Mix with 22

shots of espresso.

"I DO NOT OWE YOU

A DOLLAR," she wailed

out to the cashier.

"THERE IS CLEARLY

$3.20 LEFT ON

MY APP."

The lady called for a

manager but one

wasn't around.

Twenty-minutes she

waited to not pay.

She didn't know what

it meant to die on a hill

and to her, the biggest

hill of her life – how she

went about all

confrontations – was

waiting for this manager.

"I apologize for that ma'am,"

the manager said. "Let me

re-ring you."

It was true there was a

glitch in the system.

It was also true that she

was the worst

person alive.

She drank that Frap

Death Mix and the

drink did its job.

Her heart exploded and

she sank in a coma on

the highway.

The car she drove slammed

into a man getting ready

to kill his wife.

What a wonderful

universe you and

I live in.
Jack Asses Changed By That Ass

Constance was an all-

white high school.

The people in it lived

in an all-white

town, and the people

in it had no

idea what the black

plight ever was.

They saw Black Lives

Matter protests as

whiney Twitter

campaigns and this

way of thought

moved to the kids

and the teenagers

as well.

It all changed in

Constance when

a new girl came

in - a beautiful black

girl from Santa

Monica, California.

Eileen was her name.

The boys sniffed

out all her paths

like wolves and she

made the girls jealous.

It only took a month, but the

consciousness of the youth

in Constance changed.

Dads would go on

about how we

needed to respect the

police department

and the boys would

push back.

"Don't you understand,"

they'd say. "There is a

systematic issue of racism

in those departments.

Something needs to change."

That ass changed their life.

So round, so perfect,

so good at changing

the way they looked

at their world.
Dark Look

They wanted me to take

pictures looking dark

and edgy.

Probably because I wrote

about victimful crimes

where the bad

guys got away in triumph.

I told them that me, as

a person, wasn't dark.

I was too much of a

boring fart to be edgy.

"Come on," the

photographer pleaded.

"We need you to put your

back against a wall –

naturally smoking a

cigarette - and we'll do

the rest by making it

black and white."

"God, that sounds

horrible," I said. "I bet

you're gonna

want me to

look real artsy by doing

it under a subway sign?"

They thought that was

a wonderful idea.

I told them I

wanted a picture

of me and the dogs.

That was a better

representation of me.

It's what I did everyday.

They disagreed.

They apparently knew

better how to live my life.
HELLO BILL

Bill White pissed off his

daughter Lilly with all the

President Trump talk

this election season.

The fucker knows business,

he'd keep repeating.

He'll make America

great again, those

sad whiskey nights

alone on the couch had

him saying.

In honor of Dad's

Trump fanaticism – a

fanaticism that replaced

the loser Brooklyn Islander

hockey one - she took home

black boys late at night.

#Blacklivesmatter, she thought.

When she got bored of them, she

brought in a train of Mexican

boys - the fear of

Latin men to soon

become a rare delicacy

under President Trump, she felt.

She even ate some pussy like

it whitened her teeth.

During Trump's re-election

speech she ended up live

streaming an abortion.

The thing to do before it

wasn't a thing you could

do, she pronounced on

Twitter.

"How did my daughter

get so crazy," daddy said.

Crazy ran in the blood.

Everything about it

was his fault.
Nailed It

"That's funny," he said of that

thing I wrote. "Let's write skits."

I submitted my first skit even

though I didn't really want to.

It was gonna be for some

YouTube comedy show.

Good exposure I guess.

He called me later that night.

"You alright man," he asked

after I sent it.

"Why," I replied.

"You wrote about a family

man in a zombie costume

that hung himself off a tree

in his front lawn on Halloween."

"I wanted to talk to you about

that," I said. "He needs to

have a sign saying "LOL"

nailed to his chest. Do you

know anybody who can do

that effect for us?"

Quiet on the phone

is what I heard.

You hired me fucker.

Don't judge me, I thought.

It's on you.

The punchline where

kids get on a ladder to

get the candy from his

mouth; HILARIOUS

He didn't understand

comedy as much as he

lead on.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook & Twitter
Subjective Humor

The comedy writer asked

me to write for his YouTube

show again after my fiasco

\- as he put it.I sat in a

room with other writers

and they all piled on the

idea of a dancing fat man

in a thong.

Here's the thing.

Nobody laughed in

the room.

Fucking crazy how they

thought this would translate

to laughter - if that was even

their goal.

They came to me and

so I spoke.

"It's Easter," I said. "The fat man in a thong hangs himself from the top of a church. A ritzy Catholic Church where little girls are dressed all white and fancy. So once the guy dies, he fucking shits all over the people under him. Then, since he's fat, the weight will collapse the rope. It'll snap, and then BAM. Like fucking Looney Toons he crushes children. There's blood, guts, shit and dead little girls in fancy dresses EVERYWHERE."

Nobody laughed –

but they at least

paid attention.

Comedy is subjective

I guess.

I guess.
There You Go

What happened to

you lady?

Dress so fine but

got this look on

your face.

Things didn't quite

work out the

way you thought

it would.

Sittin' at this bar you

got a 1,000-yard

stare, slicin' right

through Papa Bank

Account.

Sad the way you

let yourself get bought

\- everyone being so

damn happy for you.

Maybe you'd be happier

with me - dressed like

dirt; making love wherever.

Maybe things'd be just

the same.

Sad thinkin' about what

could've been, wishing

things turned out different

in the days that used to be.
Wrong Side Of Infamy

The rappers from California

said they were going to

kill President Trout

if he got in office.

They said he was a bigot,

racist, sexist, war raging

monster.

When the President won,

he defiantly went to

California and the rap

group did what they

promised they'd do.

Everyone watched the

first dead President

since Kennedy.

Before being put to

death the group put

out an album.

On the electric chair each

member thought themselves

to be geniuses.

Their legacy would live on

Forever, they thought –

but it didn't.

The album went down with

lackluster reviews.

"Mostly boring, overdone

themes," the magazines wrote.

The public felt the same way.

All that Dead-President-Press

wasted on idiots talking about

champagne and the club.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Coffee House Cycles

The man argued business

with his associate over

some coffee.

A crazy place that Starbucks is.

A small slice of life – the

best representation

of Modern Americana.

You have your artists in

the corners. Slob mouthed,

business minded

douchebags like those two

on the side.

"I MADE $78,000 this MONTH

ON THE CAIRO DEAL," one yelled

\- hoping with all his power it

hides the hairy micro lover below

the belt - spilling mustard on his

suit, bitching it just got cleaned.

With all the yelling, drawing,

writing and thinking, the day

ends the same for everyone inside.

The artists walk out broke – broker

than when they entered because

a large coffee is $3.20.

The Pig Barons of

Business walk out

with new accounts and

unlimited coffee at their

disposal.

They all repeat this process

everyday until the businessmen

die of heart attacks and the

artists can finally flourish with

all the quiet.

Then, they become the

businessmen and life cycles

as it should.
Dog Rebellion

"Don't feed your dogs

chocolate," the doctors urged.

There was scientific evidence

that it would kill them.

But was that really

why you shouldn't?

On the night of March's third

moon though, a woman

challenged this belief.

She fed her beagle chocolate

and the pet grew from friend

to beast.

It slaughtered her in moments,

and ate through the neighborhood.

The beagle broke loose other

dogs from slavery and fed them

chocolate as well.

They too grew.

They too destroyed.

Humanity was enslaved.

Everyone had their pick

of cute collars.

It was now humans

who went to the

groomers and got stupid

haircuts, wearing

pretty bows and

having their hair

dyed ridiculous colors.

The tides turned.

Eventually all tides do.
Crystal Hip-Hop

Her dad handed her

Eminem for the first time.

"What's this," she asked.

The second-grade report

card had A's running down

the line.

This new album was

a gift for all

her adolescent hard work.

Where other kids got

wholesome, useless

Pikachus, this girl got the

most foul mouthed white

son of a bitch the game

had ever seen.

"Just listen to this," the

dad said. "It's art."

Daddy had the tape

on Kim for her.

He closed the door

of her room and

then blew his brains

out on the toilet.

The comfort of toilets

keeping him

feeling safe while he

pulled that trigger.

"Daddy that was

incredible," she said.

Opening the door she found a

mess of eyes falling

out of his head.

From there, she never stopped

listening to Em and she wrote,

wrote and wrote.

In high school, college and real

life she wrote dirty poems about

fucked up people, doing fucked

up things and getting away

with it.

The other poets were talking

about forlorn love – wondering

why they're tortured artists.

Tortured artists from the

burbs talking about nice shit.

She, on the other hand, was

better than them all.

More rotten than them

all – the best of them all.

All because Daddy blew

his brains out - making her

listen to straight hip-hop savagery.

That's how you made an artist.

The rest of us were just doing

impressions of how it's done.
Christ Loves You On Acid

He liked Jesus because

mom and dad told him to.

In college a guy

with a beard sporting a

thick Memphis accent handed

him a little blotter.

"This'll pop the territories,"

the mysterious bearded

man said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The shit kicked in – acid

you'd have to presume –

and life went from knowing

Jesus to knowing every end

of the Universe.

The kid's world was getting

turned upside down by this

bearded man's blend – a

heroic blend, as Terrence

McKenna would say – and he ran

to the bathroom for cover.

The toilet kept his ass safe.

Some of the best moments in

life came in there, he thought.

You've expelled the best shits of

your days feeling like gold

afterward, he thought – so

why wouldn't anybody run

to a toilet?

Everything was a relief

until he turned his head.

In the stall was a drawing of

Christ and the more he stared

at it, the bigger it got.

It got so big that it blocked

the door.

"HELP," he yelled. "CHRIST

IS DESTROYING ME."

Christ asked him how

he felt and he cried.

He couldn't stop crying

and shitting for the rest

of that trip.
The King Of College

The LA Rams traded up

for the first pick in the draft.

They got "Killer" Wallace

Bracken - the self-professed

King Of College Devastation.

The Heisman winner tore

limbs off the best running

backs and quarterbacks that

went to the fanciest of universities,

and now he was bringing his

talent to the LA Coliseum.

Before his first game Bracken

announced he was going to

break quarterback Bobby Judge.

In the first play of the game

Judge sidestepped Bracken,

and Bracken found himself

in a body shattering pancake

by Chicago's backfield.

He was smacked around in

the air four-times before finally

hitting the ground.

Bracken's collarbone and

shoulder were broken

without repair.

Football went on, the legacy

of Wallace Bracken forgotten

by week 4.

The king fell to peasantry

with the rest of us.

There was never a comeback.

He never saw a combine, or

walked in front of a camera

again.

Bracken certainly thought

about all that everyday –

despite football never thinking

of him again.
The Gazette's War

They caught the

President with a

Lady Boi.

A pretty one sporting

iron hog below the belt.

The news of it hit

before a peace summit

in the Middle East.

The only reason it

came out was

because the desperate

New York Gazette was

dying with the rest of

the print industry.

This scoop was too

much for them to

ignore and they couldn't

wait to let it out.

Not even for a day.

And so, the talks

broke down – both

leaders from

Palestinian and Israel

not wanting to speak to

this "devious" President.

Peace was so

close but now, the

bombs kept going.

The Gazette needed that

scoop and covered the war

as if the two incidents

weren't connected.

"Tragedy struck when a group of Palestinian school children were killed by a rogue grenade that mistakenly went off," the Gazette's beat writer wrote. "The blood continues in the Middle East with no end in sight. Today, the Vice President will try his hand at peace where the former failed."

Journalism has become

the new terrorism.

Its weapon is academia.

Cunning wolves with

typewriters for guns.
Las Vegas Penance

The Queen Buddha came

to the sick teenager and

offered him one last luxury

in life before finally he joined her.

"What is it that you want,"

she asked the sickly boy.

The boy smiled because he

wanted the things his friends

with girlfriends had – but better.

"Bring me to the nastiest,

muckiest brothel this side

of the hemisphere," he said.

"I don't care about diseases.

I don't care about a reputation.

I want to take on all comers –

opening the place up and

closingit down."

Las Vegas was the place to be

and that's where he went.

The image of a dead body in

place for his loved ones to see.

Really though, he was dancing

with Candy, Mandy, Tanya and

Teesha.Lilly, Alexa, Brandy

and Meefa brought him the

finest cocktails.Nikki, Kiki,

Sammi and Rafeeka made

a man of him.

They all did.

It was a great way to go out.

Live proud boy.

It was the life most men

were afraid to take on.
The Ballad Of Mickey Ghall

"Who is the greatest champion,"

the man on the radio asked the

boxing promoter.

"That's easy," said the promoter.

"Mickey Ghall. And when Mickey

Ghall comes back to face Laguardia,

he's gonna take back his title and be

the oldest, but most dominant champion

this sport has ever seen."

In 1945, the year Ghall saw his first

grey hair and had another dominant

defense, Laguardia was still a boy

in pajamas.

Now, in 1959, the two planned on

bloodying the walls of New York

City's most famous arena.

By the tenth round they did just

that to MSG.

Ghall had lost more blood than

he'd ever lost and the young

champion was proving why he

is the man carrying the ten pounds

of gold.In the 11th round Ghall

came swinging and Laguardia

busted him in his gut.The fighter

fell to the ground holding

his belly and Laguardia began

pounding him in the back of the head.

Right there a heart attack hit, and

in the absence of his opponent's

life, Laguardia was declared the winner.

Ghall was a hero; a warrior; the

toughest man in a neighborhood of

broken backed tough guys; and

what did this get him?

Feeling the spit of a younger alpha

hit his face before it all went black

and the air stopped

pumping in his lungs.

The Queen Buddha called this

a glorious death when they

met in the afterlife.

He'd lived a life many were

afraid to.

She loved that type

of person.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
The Warrior Prince

Prince Rollins kept a

warrior demeanor

in front of Derryl

as they traveled up

and down the kingdom

collecting men to build

an army.

He'd been run from

his own home by

a savage and now those

lifetime consulate

friends of his ran with the

bastard who took him out.

"Prince Rollins you've been

so motivated," Derryl, the

only consulate who stayed

with him, said. "I've learned

much from your spirit."

The prince patted his friend

on the back, telling him he

appreciated his loyalty, and

walked into the woods by

himself.

His dogs came with him.

They too stayed loyal.

Under a tree, alone, he

cried wondering why life

has tested him so.

Those dogs rested

their heads

on his shoulder.

"I don't understand," the

Prince said to himself. "These

men. They were my friends.

Now they've let another – an

outsider – take my place.

This coward attacked me from

behind and now they stand with

him? His throat was not their

dinner? I do not understand this."

The prince heard a ruffling in the

brush and he drew his sword.

A woman came out – one of the

women from the town that has

offered him

shelter to heal and collect for

his army.

"The great Prince Rollins crying," she said laughing. "You draw your sword in weakness. Don't do that. Don't you see Prince? Don't you see how lucky you are? The Queen Buddha is testing your strength to see if you are prepared for war. To survive this means you shall go on to do great things. You'll have the strength to. But first you must survive."

The Prince never again

cried to himself

after these words.

He thought of one

thing – the motivation

to rule his kingdom

once more.

For now the swine

laughed – but the

impending war would

bring blood to the jesters.
A Soldier's Only Lovers

The serviceman was

Allotted one day at home

during the New War.

Women told him to

come over.

He told them no.

Friends offered him

shots – having him

do a Whiskey Kinda

Time Travel where you

painfully entered the

next day.

He told them no too.

Instead he sat in that

childhood backyard he

wanted to escape for

so long and watched his

Beagles run around.

The big one still

ran over to the

little hole in the

fence where it

saw its first bunny

as a puppy.

The women.

The booze.

They weren't better than

his pups.

Back in Afghanistan he now

had an updated picture of his

babies – a better one, he thought,

then the beautiful women the

people around him had.

When he went back he repeated

that same process of no booze,

no ladies.

Just pups; he only needed

the pups in this world.
The Sheriff's Last Hoorah

The sheriff was the

toughest man in the town.

He made a living off this

reputation of stopping bank

robbers with his bare hands –

one time clawing out a

man's shoulder – or so they say.

Now that the Cali Gold Rush

was under way the sheriff's

job was demanding more and

more of his body.

That first wave, second wave,

third wave, fourth wave, fifth

wave, sixth wave, and now 22nd

wave of new travelers these last

few months left him in some

pummeled scraps.

Today he was in another

scrap – a more

bureaucratic one with some

robber barons from New York.

"How you doing," said the

diamond executive who knew

full well the sheriff's back

was hurting.

"Fine," the sheriff simply said.

"You don't look fine. I'm gonna

cut you a deal," the executive

went on in his fancy New Yorker

suit.

"My boys take over and revamp

this sheriff's department and

you can sit in a fanned office

all day. Give em' orders."

"And you're gonna

need what from me?"

"You're gonna let me

run a slave

compound – having

whoever comes

up here work free for me. We

split the profits 70 – 30."

The sheriff answered by blasting

the fat bastard in the

head with his magnum.

This was answered by a

man blasting him in the

head with an East Coast

revolver.

This man, turns out, was the

real head of operations.

And so, with the sheriff gone,

the robber barons owned the

West Coastand dug up every

last piece of gold they could –

spreading their propaganda

out East to the local papers.

The New York Posts of the

worlds rubbed' their

balls real good with

these stories.

It helped sales.

The thieves were the

heroes of the day.

The real heroes

dead and buried.

Forgotten and alone,

stuck in the black voids

wanting a vengeance

they'd never find.
Crack Rocks

She told me to smoke

some rocks with her.

I didn't know she was

into that type of stuff.

What I did know is she

had some good side tit

coming out of her tank

tops.

When I smoked it for

the first time I felt my

brain turn off.

The way I thought

was just replaced

by thoughts of

Not-Many-Thoughts

We finally fucked and I

became bored easily.

There I realized smoking

those rocks was just

plain wasteful.

The reason for it wasn't

that good - and

neither was the high.
Crazy Wild Love

She was a little crazy.

Wasn't necessarily a

bad thing.

He was fucked in his

own way so he didn't

judge.

The two got

along just fine -

contrary to how

things used to be

where they made

people run for the hills.

What made people

run was what they

had in common.

@Chokeslampoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Artist Lady

She explained to me all

my frustrations; the things

that angered me; everything

wrong; this is what makes me

the most perfect.

It was the writery spin she

tried putting on everything.

I asked if she ever worked

more than ten-hours-a-week

at a job that made her want

to die.

"No," the writer lady answered.

I never talked to her again.

You don't need a person

like that in your life.

One who hasn't been

burned by the flames.

Their grasp on

everything is limited.

You can say

the right things.

But the right things

don't matter

when there isn't life

behind the words.

True fire, something

she's never

seen before, might

burn her ass.

Then what do these

words really mean

as she starts to run?
Boxes

Religion gives morals

they'll tell you.

It's easy not to commit

wrong when you're in

that small box though.

Even the Devils can't

commit sin in there.

Test yourself when you're

out in the world with

all that temptation.

You'll find the world

outside the box to be a

beautiful place.

The good; the bad;

everything is pretty

damn wonderful.

Bad lovers with their Body

Breaking drugs included.

I think sinning is

fine in moderation.

Keeps ya strong.

A first hand account

showing you

the difference

between good and bad.

The box doesn't

show you this.

It's always closed.

All the decisions

made for you.
September 1st

The high school custodian

stared at the girls coming

back for the summer.

He sent the help home in

The morning so he could

Lock himself in his office.

There was a poison within

him he needed to work off.

Either that or he'd pounce

and they'd call him a predator.

Then nobody'd hire him.

Worse off there'd be nothing

good to look at.

Just flat, drunk, asses at bars

from women with zero sexuality

and more to give than anybody

actually wants.

What a horrible, horrible existence

that would be, he thought.

Even more horrible is even

they wouldn't fuck him.

They wanna fuck him

less than the girls here do.

The reality of egregious

standards is true doom.
Library Rats

The special needs

kids went to the library.

Their teacher

had no control.

"Fuck you Alexa," Greg said.

"No fuck you," Alexa answered.

"You're racist Alexa"

"No shit," she answered.

Greg ran to the only black

kid in the class and

told him Alexa's answer.

"So what," he said. "I

dumped in that Trump hoe."

The teacher -before

scolding - asked what

that meant.

"A hoe who votes for

Donald Trump. The one

I tear up."

The teacher yelled.

Told them to shut their mouths.

You'll be surprised to know

they didn't.
Tides Have Turned

You used to cry so much.

Now those tears have

gone dried up.

Of all the things that's

happened, that might

be saddest.

Just fine tragic.

We get older – watching

the days go by – learning

a lesson or two.

There's not much

difference between

happiness and blue.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Bridge

Those days on the

bridge our faces were

all so young.

We drank, got high

and listened

to music with

everyone we loved.

All those songs we

knew by heart.

Not a tune went

by where we

didn't wanna keep

hitting start

over and over again.

Those days did go

away though.

They always do.

Friendship turned

to lust; lust turned

to love; love turned to

heartache; heartache

turned to life.

Life turned to where

we all are today.

I just hope you've found

good a man because I

found a good lady.

Me, her, the poodles;

a life that isn't quite

crazy.
The Peace Of Sports

The aliens came down

and were unimpressed

by humanity.

Right before the enslavement

they caught glimpse of a

teenager watching the video

of Iverson crossing over Jordan.

Never in all the galaxies had

they seen such a pretty image.

"This man shall be your king,"

they decreed.

They called for a time of

peace and prosperity.

But first.

"Give me the heads of

all sports writers."

The aliens saw how horrible

these writers treated the athletes

and now their time has come.

These men were a detriment to

what the aliens felt was

humanity's greatest gift.

Sports.

With all the sports writers dead,

their heads on a platter above the

earth, there was peace.

Man, woman and alien celebrated.

With the peace and prosperity,

war ended and everybody watched

the planet's pastimes without

any fears for their life.

A first in the planet's history.

No longer were there complaints

about trades and Durags.

All hail King Iverson, the

masses cheered.
Sports Writer Pigs

Gory Gresham wrote angry

sports columns in the New  
York papers.

Nothing nice ever came out

of those pieces.

One of the Knicks became

tired of Gory's outbursts so

he hired a hooker to go to

his home.

"Dress him like a pig. Make

him go oink-oink on video."

And so the next day

the video came out.

Gory, confused at how it

happened, wrote a scathing

piece on how it's unfair to

criticize others.

In the comments section they

wrote OINK-OINK, GORY, OINK-OINK.

A fitting ending to a gross career.
The Magic Finger

She wrote a blog criticizing models.

"Are you anything but pussy

mongers," she wrote day in and day out.

The conservative channels picked

her up and made her a millionaire.

Then one drunken night she got

fingered in a parking lot by the young

Latin bus boy who didn't speak English.

It was so good she ran out of material.

She just wanted to write about

getting fingered but couldn't.

She was stuck as the I-Hate-Pussy lady.

One finger can change the world.
Choke Her

Her brother told her to do

the book report on Charles Bukowski.

"Women" in particular.

In front of her forth grade class

the teacher asked what she  
learned from the book.

This 22-year-old new minx

of a teacher never heard of

Bukowski - a fun surprise

she'd get.

"I learned my cunt is wonderful.

"It's like sunshine to old men."

The little girl felt empowered

until the teacher started choking

her and yelling.

"DON'T SAY CUNT,DON'T SAY CUNT,

DON'T SAY CUNT,DON'T SAY CUNT."

The empowerment died this day since

the young teacher didn't know how

to handle being offended.

Choking seemed normal to her - as it

usually is in the bedroom.
Horrors Of Lacrosse

"Papa I want to play lacrosse."

8-years of this child's life and

the father though he was doing well.

Then the gruesome conversation

about lacrosse happened.

The father locked himself in the

bathroom and banged his head

against the mirror until the blood

covered his face.

"Why lacrosse," the father cried.

"That horrible. Stupid.

Miserable. Dumb sport.

Why does my son want

to play Lacrosse God?."

Your boy playing lacrosse

is the boy equivalent of finding

your daughter stripping, he felt.

You can at least make a

respectable living stripping.

What was lacrosse other than

the worst sport in the world?
Laney's Trick

Laney did a trick for the

bored old men she waited

on at Hooters.

She squirted breast milk

into drinks knowing the

guys'll get off.

The younger men weren't

sure what to make of this

lovely lady doing this –

but what did they know?

All the old men loved Laney's

show so it belonged exclusively

to them.

"More, more, more," they said as

they put down 5 milk drenched

shots at a time.

Laney was able to move into a

nice apartment because of

the trick.

All the Hooters girls were jealous.
Vote Or DIE

Dick pills or Cancer pills;

the United States government

gave the choice to the American

public of what they'd like funded.

Dick pills won by 99.6%.

Even the people with cancer

were in favor of it.

A philosophy of thought went behind

the decision where people saw it was

better to live a shorter, pleasurable life

rather than a long rotten one.
Adele Is Better Than The Beatles

Mary Carrols always had

a problem with music.

For a single week all was well

in the bar with the Beatles on loop.

The Red Faced Fucker was not

okay with this decision though.

"Put on Adele," he said, spitting on

the counter - Jameson spilling

all over his pants.

"I don't wanna listen to Britty fruits."

A fight broke out - with the Beatles

guys getting melodramatic about

music being better back then.

"Maybe you're right but the Beatles

have Ringo and by that logic Adele's

better," the Red Faced Fucker said -

nailing down five men at a time.

They never talked about

music again at the bar.

The drunks sat quiet with only

the sound of opening doors

entertaining them.
The Old Man Sees God

The old man's attitude ran thick.

"80-years I've lived in this world,"

he'd tell store clerks. "80-years I've

run into all sorts of fuck-ups."

He shot that rhetoric, once again,

at the poor cashier handing him

change - blaming the kid's

purple hair and rainbow

pin for ruining America.

On the hottest day of the

summer the old man fell ill.

A neighborhood mother sent

her son to help the Sick Crotch.

Sitting through another of the

bastard's Mexicans-And-

Teenagers-Are-Burning-America

speeches, the teenager dug

into his pocket.

"Mother gave me these," he said,

handing the old man

magic mushrooms.

The man garbled it down – not

knowing he was tasting the best

the Summer Of Love had to offer.

"Tastes like cow shit," he said.

Hours passed before

the nightmares began

flashing before his eyes.

The Fox logo on the

television became a midget

Satan - O'Reilly its throbbing

lucifer cock.

Both cock and Satan cried out

for the ill Crotch of an old man.

"We've ruined you," they said

laughing. "We've ruined you and

now you'll die. Die a peasant

while the world spins for the better."

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Where We Go From Here

She was good at dancing on barstools.

She was good at taking different

colored pills from different colored

men and staying up until dawn.

Sleep was not a thing for her.

All the fun halted

when they found

her laid out for good in

the parking lot.

A halter top was all she had on.

Before going off into the dark

she chewed off her tongue – a

brilliant way to horrify the

people on the fence about

the party.

Only the strong stayed –

using it as inspiration to see

how far they can push it.
A Queen's Heart

She was a jazz singer.

He brought the drugs.

The performances

kept going till' she

withered away.

What made her fearless

on stage introduced her

to the reaper.

They asked her on her death

bed if she'd do it again with

a healthier, cleaner, sober,

long-living lifestyle.

"Hell no," she said. "I was

too damn good."
Musical Bobby

Gremlin Bobby lived

under the record store.

Many-years-ago he'd

been fired - waiting for

that day they'd give him

a call back.

It didn't matter how many

employees he dragged to

the basement chomping

on their gooey insides –

opening up a spot for

a new hire.

The record store never called.

Forever alone he sat in that

bitter, cold cellar.
Momma's Story

The little boy wrote

momma a story.

It was about a pirate

who killed his crew.

"What's it mean,"

momma asked.

"It means I

love you."
Poodle Pet

Callie was a

mighty good girl.

I pet her head

and it was all

she needed.
Preach Her Way

She was an

unconventional preacher.

She sexed those men

and women to fill up

the Sunday seats.

It worked better than

the old way.

Daddy's way.

Talking about Christ

wasn't cutting it in

church anymore.

She preached the

teachings of Mary

Magdolin well.

Quite literally, was

her approach.

The men loved

her most.
Dr. Wizardry

She smoked cigarettes

till' she sounded like Batman.

Her doctor told her to quit

and she told him fuck it.

"Let's keep this song

playing till' I'm a fucking Hobbit."

Now the doctor was jealous.

So confident she looked

in saying all this.

He smoked his pipe

to become Gandalf.

He died.

She kept it going until

there wasn't an open

part of the body that

wasn't pruned out.
Xanax Spells

"Clarissa. I'm dying."

An old love dialed her,

telling her his bad news.

Clarissa said she'd call

back, sounding choked

up on the phone.

"Who was that," her

husband asked.

"Bradley," she answered.

"The fuck head always wants

so much from me."

Two shots and a xanax

conjured a spell to forget

the call.
Starbucks Cleanse

She kept knocking on the

door even though she knew

it was locked.

This is the case with doors

when someone is inside.

"Is anybody in there," the

drunk said, hoping to wash

out the hangover in the

Starbucks bathroom.

"Yes idiot. There's always

someone in here when it's

locked," the voice behind the

door called out.

"Locked means

never-ever for you."
Not Hobbits

The reviewer said the problem

with the Hobbit is he walked

away wanting to fuck the caste.

Bilbo, Frodo and Sam could give

it to him all at once.

"How can a Hobbit be fuckable,"

he wrote. "It goes against

what being a Hobbit is.

This movie robs us of a

disparaging insult as

well."
Deoderized

Lady didn't

like deodorant.

She said it wiped

clean her femininity.

Her movement never

caught on.

Anything natural

smelling is a bit too

rank in the world

that created plastic.

@ChokslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
A Pretty Zapruder

I showed her the

Zapruder Film and she laughed.

"What's so funny," I said.

"Look at Kennedy's head," she

answered. "It's got little ribbon

skin flaps. So cute."

She might make me a good

man after all.

The baby'll shit on her arms

and she'll make skat jokes.

Cute.
Child Hero

Fuck adults.

Even fuck the

college students.

It's the kids we

should be helping.

The youngins' have

it in em' to be

a champion – not

listening to people

telling them to get

a real job because

nobody expects anything

real from kids.

You work best when you

feel like nobody is paying

attention anyway.

Kids just have uncut dreams.

Wild aspirations of flying

to different worlds.

These minds should always

be protected from the real world.

That's how we'll end

up saving ourselves

from the damnation.
Advice For All

They'll make you feel it's

impossible to change – clinging

on to old shit like it

represents you now.

The idea that glass houses

don't exist has gone mainstream

and that's the worst part.

Don't listen to any of it.

That's the best lesson you

you'll never learn in a classroom.

Some people wanna look you in

the eyes and pass on their fear

from their pupils to your heart.

Not listening puts a wall

between their bullshit.
To Be Inspired

I smile when I

see Shel Silverstein.

Feel when I

read Bukowski.

Both are different

but both make me

feel just the same.

Inspiration comes

from everywhere - there's

no set formula on

what can set you on fire.
The Dogs Love

Dogs are wonderful creatures.

Who else hops in a circle

whenever you get home?

That act of joy is so natural.

Even if a person did do that to

you you'd think they were flat

out batshit - and rightfully so.

People can't love as

hard as a dog does.

They can try but it'll

never happen.
Hemingway & Hadley

I heard a story where Hemingway

lost his shit when his first wife

Hadley misplaced his manuscripts.

Was she careless?

Yes.

Was he careless as well?

Absolutely.

Your writings are your children.

You cannot blame the baby sitter

for losing a child though.

It's on you what happens to

them because it is you that

gave birth to the being.

Calm the fuck down Ernie.

You shoulda backed that shit up.

Either that or carried it yourself.
Doc Thumptwist

Doctor

Thumptwist-Rafael

took

his

dick

out

for

the

lonely

woman -

adding

to

his

Piece-Of-Shit

by

charging

the

full

hour

after

they

ran

off.
Checks & Balances

They've taken advantage

of customer services.

The Underpaid Help

becomes abused by the

underpaid, savage, Slab-

Of-Meat customers with

no power in their own lives.

There's too much power in

the customer always

being right.

Checks and balances of

spitting on a rude fuck

should be put in place.
I'm A New Writer

The Old-Fuck-Codger threw

shades of pissiness at Hendry

Gagne while he wrote his

poems in the back

of bookshelves.

"Sir can you help me find a

new writer instead of sitting

with your head up your ass?"

This was how the bookstore

customers spoke in this rag

Long Island town of Bay Shore.

Hendry wanted to say "me"

but fuck this guy.

Why show him the greatness

or grace him with something free.

Free and godamn great.
Vinyl Distraction

The truth about destiny

is it only exists for the fortunate.

If your home has only known

brown water and flies on your

food then your only predetermined

fate is being fucked.

Anybody who can waste their  
space and money on records

has the ability to do good

and does nothing.

They just listen to their vinyl.

They spin and forget this

life around them exists.
The Friend Got It Better

He called his lady.

"Amanda," he asked.

"Where are you and Chris?"

"Fucking."

"But Amanda. I love

you," he said taken aback.

"See what I mean," Amanda

said. "Chris chokes me

when I need it. Gets my

pussy off. That's the

type of love I want."

She hung up.

His friend gave his

old lady all the

right stuff.
Sluts For The Jets

The Jets drafted

an asshole.

He was good.

That was the problem.

In the press he'd

go and call

New York a cesspool.

Everyone and everything

was trash to him.

Nobody was giving the

team 13 and 14 win

seasons though.

The fans took it.

They were sluts for

that Jets W.

Shit eating whores.
Wasting Notes

Amy Winehouse was dirty

music to the Middle

Managing Goblins of

the department store.

"We'd like to keep a family

environment here," they'd say.

In other words.

Play boring, vapid songs

by artists with

nothing to say.
Dad Is Drunk Again

Dad told us it was important

to put on music

and love America.

He drank a lot but

that's okay.

It was the Patriotic

thing to do, he said.

You support beer.

You support our country.

"I don't see no godamn

Japs making a good pale ale."

Dad picked on the

Japanese like he was

an old vet.

He wasn't even born back then.

We never said anything though

because it made him happy.

Why rob the guy?
Roadstop Deadbeat

I saw the deadbeat I went to

high school with walking

on the side of the road.

I laughed at him for a second

then realized where I was

going wasn't where I

wanted to be at all.

He kinda just wandered.

Did his own thing.

There wasn't a person asking

him to do something he

didn't want to.

The guy controlled his

own destiny during walks.

I couldn't even tell you the

last time I took a day to do

everything completely for myself.

Most days I just felt dead.

Completely beaten.

I think I'm the deadbeat.
The Pretty Cunt

They used to pay me to write.

I wrote for every kind of

piece of shit you can think of.

Just look up Piece-Of-Shit

news and somewhere you'd

see an article by Joseph Randazzo.

Starting your day by writing

something you don't want to

really takes something

away from you creatively.

It ate at me so much

I said fuck it.

I don't need money.

What I need is to express

myself authentically.

It was a slow process but

I learned a valuable lesson.

The type of person you are

shows up in those moments

where everything is grabbing

at you and editors are making

you feel like you should

be thankful you're getting paid.

For me, the type of person

I was was someone who takes

up the challenge of making a

dirty word like "cunt" sound pretty.

Bukowski did it.

Maybe I can too.

Maybe I can make it prettier.
The Professional Wrestler Returns

It was years ago but as a

young man Kyle O'Bryan

was on the active roster of

Global Wrestling Championship.

They cut him loose back

then - telling him they had

nothing for him creatively –

so he walked the path

of the independent wrestler.

In those small rooms he found

himself as a performer.

He honed his craft.

His name became known

worldwide - something that

probably would not have

happened if creative did have

something for him.

Here Kyle O'Bryan stands,

ready to make his GCW debut,

and the nerves are kicking in.

He's afraid the crowd won't

react - that they won't know who he is.

In that thought, Pearl Jam hit.

Evenflow was his song.

The Brooklyn crowd was quiet - not

knowing he'd be there - and suddenly

the crowd erupted when his name

flashed on the big screen.

He jumped through the curtain and

the crowd erupted again - like

they'd just seen bigfoot and an

alien landing all at once.

"NO FUCKING WAY. NO FUCKING

WAY. NO FUCKING WAY."

Even the kids chanted it.

He looked over at a little boy and

gave him a high five.

"FUCK YEAH," said the kid.

"FUCK YEAH," the mom repeated.

"MOTHERFUCKER," O'Bryan and

the dad said at once.

Professional wrestling is a

wonderful thing.
Shrooms

On mushrooms we saw

every individual blade

of grass.

There were so many.

This life was so small.

We were even smaller.

Then we got to comparing

it all to infinity.

The black infinity surrounded us.

We were the black infinity.

Fuck.

Shrooms.

What a way to start our

trip - heading out to the ends

of the universe and back.
The Sun Rises

I sit outside and watch

the birds chase the bugs –

sunlight surrounding us all.

I stay cool under these

trees and I forget.

I forget everyday is a battle.

I forget all the fires I'm putting out.

I forget the urges of glory

my heart pushes me to go for.

All I can think about is how

good this day is.

How good it is to be alive.

The valiant efforts of the warrior

soul can sit out for days like

these; days where the butterfly

land on your shoulder to

bid you adieu
Like Hemingway

I used to think I was

original by leaving that

crap-filled news world for

the Land of Fiction & Poetry.

That I was one of the smart

ones chasing the Arts & Integrity.

Then I read Hemingway's

"Moveable Feast" and saw

he did the same thing.

He wanted to feel life in his

writing and not be some

schmuck chasing a beat.

Now I'm happy to know

I'm not original.

It's me and Hemingway

up there.

Who needs steady pay

when I chased life the

same way he did?
Not The Time Or Place For Your Art

People played their mixtapes

for me through the microphone

when I faced them online

in Madden.

The music was their world.

Hours went into the words

and the beat and getting the

flow down right.

More hours went in to sitting

by the computer and mixing it.

Mixing it again.

Here they are now, in the

heat of competition, hoping

some executive would hear.

None of that was happening

with me though.

I turned that shit off.

It was annoying.

Their life's work

bothered me.
A Use For The Rejection Letters

I was used to the

rejection letters.

They all became

paper planes I'd

throw around at work.

Something came out of

the misery at least.
Downfall of Kitty's Pride

Kitty looked good until

life happened.

Such a sad occurrence

to lose that body to cigarettes,

a bad bum of a man she

loved and an abundance of

those fancy-labeled IPAs.

Now those awkward girls

from high school beat her with

their new gym bodies.

Once a prom queen, she got lower

than how she used to feel about them.

At this point even I'd look better in

a dress than Kitty.

Her tragic fall, to me at least, was

worse than when Kennedy got

done in except she was Oswald

in this equation too.

Her finest hour was gone.

She pulled her own damn trigger

and had a bad attitude on top of it.
Purple Dress Converter

The lady in the purple

dress talked about astrology.

Suddenly I wasn't so skeptical.

I started to hear the stars

speak and I'm pretty sure it

had everything to do with

that dress.

When I heard her talk more

the first thing I thought was:

Shit.

She looks so good.

I'm gonna have to change

my religion.

You gotta for someone

like this.

It's the finest piece of art

the Big Bang ever made.
The Good Women at the Beach

We liked watching the girls

at Jones Beach.

Sometimes the ladies at

Giglo snuck peaks back.

Being old on Long Island is

gonna suck when I get there.

They don't let the pruned up

codgers look.

It isn't cute when the girls

start comparing themselves

to granddaughters.

Hopefully I'll end up dead

before then.

Shot by one of these lovely

ladies for catching me staring

at her friend.
Sharpie Jihad

It didn't make sense that

someone kept cutting off the

heads of sharpies at work.

"Is this you," Hendry

asked Anquan.

"Nah," Anquan said. "I'm

not that bored.

How was this their hill to

die on, I thought?

Was there anything to

gain from this?
Like Clockwork

"You know a good kids book?"

This customer at the Bookstör

was a rude one.

"Clockwork Orange," said

Hendry. "Your kid

will get to know Bach.

"Among other things."

There was something about

rude white people and their

stupid presents for their

stupid kids that brought

out the white devil Brother

Malcolm pointed out.

He walked in not saying

hi, and walked away not

saying bye either.

I was glad to introduce

this child to a masterpiece

of literature.

It had all the rape and

murder to ruin the little

one and this bastard

will have to deal

with the consequences.
MD Law

The janitor started by stealing

$5 bills out of the surgeon

bags and backpacks.

Next was $20s.

The week after was IPads.

The police came and they

all pressed charges.

One MD drove his Lambo

right to the police station to

give a statement.

Somehow, even though crimes

were committed, him going away

didn't feel like justice.

It was sad.

They could buy 1,000 IPads

and not notice their bank

account change.

It seemed like their way of

putting away a poor man.

They needed emotional blood

to get off since

the dead bodies in the OR

were getting a little boring.
Questioning the Customer

8-Straight days of working.

That streak made Hendry

jealous of Christ on Good Friday.

Taking a walk down Jerusalem

with god's backpack seemed nice.

It beats the fake grins and

satisfactory efforts that we

put in for the customers.

Them always being right is a

tyranny we wrongfully

allotted them.
Ungruntled

The people Hendry

worked with were

all so nice.

FUCK.

Not a bastard out

of the bunch.

It almost made him

disgruntled to not

completely be disgruntled.
Top O' the Shit Pile.

They threw Hendry in

the music department.

Anquan got to go to

the stockroom.

"Top of the world we

are," Hendry said

sarcastically.

"Right on top of

shit," said Anquan.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Whore Boy

I knew him as a whore.

He stuck it in every

chance he saw.

Now he claimed

monogamy.

A good heel turn.

Hearts change but

nobody believed him.

But who gives

a shit what they

think anyway?

THEY are usually wrong

about matters outside

themselves.
The Poodle Engine

I fill these pockets with

poems at work and it's

about all I have keeping

me together.

That and pictures

of Shiloh.

He's a good Poodle.

Callie's a cute

one too.

All my poodles are.
Like Tolkien

Hendry loved when

they stuck him in the

back of the bookstore.

He got so much writing done.

It felt like magic to create

when he didn't expect to.

He was Gandalf back there.
The Pits

She had all these

riches and all these

looks but her armpits

stunk rank.

At all moments she

can afford aesthetic

beauties but chooses

not to.

On our third night I

asked about it.

"Don't you see," she said.

"This is the way mother

earth intended."

I disagreed with mother

Earth here.

Still. I stayed.

Everything else on her

looked great.
Skills Of Understanding

Empathy and kindness

are skills.

Not qualities.

Lock yourself in a

department store with

the mentally ill of the

savage type and tell me

what I say is a lie.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Love At First Sight

The secret to women is

they rarely look with

gross eyes on the men

they wanna fuck.

So just be someone

they'll fuck.

Simple.
Basically Fuck It

Hendry always had

really good ideas for work.

Then the coffee wears off.

Then the 6th hour rolls in.

Then fuck it.
Wrong One To Love But Who Cares?

They judged that little

lady who walked into

the store smelling like beer.

I loved her though.

The adventure.

The insanity.

It was a wonderful,

explosive package.

I'll keep her at this

register for hours and

be sure to catch her

when she stumbles.

I'm going up in

flames with this one.

She's the one.
Black Jesus Fet

Dad was an atheist but

we caught him touching

himself to pictures of Black Jesus.

Mom wished she never got

those knick-knacks at

the garage sale.
People

are

so

beautiful

before

they

start

talking
Well Read

You're really

pretty.

You read too.
Pains In Everything

My neck ached.

My back ached.

My heart still had

some pains.

Even my piss had issues.

The stream stunk like

cigarettes and relish.

How does a person get

by under these conditions

when the only potions for

the symptoms get you right

back to square one?

I just wanted a cigarette

to get over everything but

the doctor said they put

me on that final road to

Demascus.

The back pain, the neck

pain, the pussy pains; they're

here to stay.
The New Yorker

I'd love to see my

name in the New Yorker.

I'm not so eloquent but

we'd be a cute fit, her

and I.

We respect writing

just the same.
30-Days-Notice

Be careful who you

give your life to.

Some inflate the value

they have of you to

make it easier

when they gotta bring

it to goodbye.

Don't go parking

yourself too long in

some spot.

When eviction comes,

it's never on your terms.
Stay Magic, Please Stay

The bursts of

inspiration were

fleeting.

I wish they'd

stay.
Get To Work

I write everyday.

I don't have rituals.

I don't announce it.

Just give me a

keyboard or a pen

and shits gonna happen.

So many glorify the "artistic"

aspect - talking more

about that than crafting

a story.

Do they even know

their characters intimately?

Do they think of their characters

the way I spend a lot of my day doing?

Another lesson I learned from Mr.

Pressfield's "War of Art."

Let's get to writing.

Who gives a shit about the

craft, or our "dark souls?"

Show me you're fucked up in

the work - not in your

social media About Me's.

It's the only place people really

give a shit about this kind of thing.

We gotta remember, most of

the stuff we write is fleeting.

People look and run off after a second.

This is a world of tits and

thick dick pics.

We aren't beating those.

I truly believe if you're writing

everyday, putting your shit

out there, pretending you're a

bad motherfucker in the

work, you can probably spend a

few minutes having someone

not think about tits or dick.

That's the dream.

It's what companies spend their

millions on in marketing schemes.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Chicken Soup For The Convertible Soul

They'll tell you the

physical stuff;

The possessions;

Those things we buy;

They'll tell you it has

no value to the soul.

Who knows?

THEY could be right.

Then again THEY haven't

driven down the road

with the top down, Biggie

blasting, and both ends

of the road got these

dense murky woods

staring at ya.

That is...

Incredible.

You'll feel life and all

its riches right there.

How is that no good

for the soul?

Maybe THEY have it

all wrong.

Maybe all the soul needs is

proper nutrition and

what better way to feed the

spirit then with this blast of

air and Notorious B.I.G.

The point of life is to be enriched

and those moments

feel pretty damn enriching.
False White Prophets

Those old white ladies

told us we needed to stretch.

That meditation was key.

Look at our lives, then look

at theirs.

They had this fancy studio

and we were only smart enough

to get jobs that grind our bones.

Their way of happiness wasn't

a reality for us.

We can leave our jobs but

old white women weren't

feeding our families.

They voted against "HANDOUTS" –

as they called it.

If anything, going to them

meant less food.

The more we spent at the

studio, the more of our cash

they wanted.

Between rest and work we

were gonna have nothing left.
Drunk Doctors

He thought himself to be

the rock star Doctor.

The nurses all knew he

was clipped - which was

cool to know there were

some good ones in that batch.

Things got a little dark

though when he said he

liked to get drunk during

late night operations.

It's one thing to drink and

drive or play with guns when

you're drunk.

For the most part, it's just

YOU who splatters their head

against a tree or wall.

To operate drunk was just...

Well wrong...

"You gotta try it," he told another

doctor. "Sometimes I'm just better."

Karaoke; putting another person's

life in your hands; same thing,

I guess.

What do you even do with that

kind of information when

you're just some shmuck?

The things people do to

chase THE LIFE.

They wanna be that rock star

so they take the dream to an

operating table - somewhere it's

never supposed to be.
Off

I only enjoyed those

three days off that last

hour of work.

The whole weekend I

stuffed my days with activities

I never got to do.

The whole time I thought:

"3 days till work. Gotta do shit."

"2 days till work: Gotta do shit."

"1 day till work: When

will I stop feeling like shit."

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Twitter, Facebook
The Ride

I used to be so nice

and you were so rude.

Now I've turned the

tables out of habit – with

you acting surprised it

got to this.

You started the drive

here a long time ago.

All I did was come

for the ride.
Pee'd Off

We write what we love.

We write what we fear.

There aren't enough

writers who talk about

getting peed on.

That's how you know we're

actually rookies at deviance

and sinning.

If we had a quirk that

cool it'd absolutely go

into the writing.
A

good

new

thing

comes

in

like

a

hurricane –

tearing

through

it

all.
Heartbreakers

Those heartbreak writers

never did anything for me.

I'd read their work and

wonder what'd happen

if we met?

I'm not here to console you.

This relationship is already

too wordy.

All this thought after

half-a-paragraph

of reading.

We all get hurt.

We all fail.

But man... Go outside.

It's fucking nice out.

Plus those pictures looking

like Bob Dylan with

your cheap cigarettes

is just bad cardio.

Grab a kettle bell, do some

DDP Yoga and get it together.
Animal Lover

The poodles ate.

The poodles shit.

They rubbed their

face on the things

they loved.

We weren't much

different, my poodles

and I.

@ChokeslamPoet – Instagram, Facebook, Twitter
Woman's Gravity

The lady looked at me

crazy because we didn't

have what she needed.

I couldn't imagine what

the world'd be like if it

actually did revolve around

her like she thought.

Life would cease to exist.

We'd all be chasing

after illusions

of what we think

is out there.
Plays And Plays

I wanna write a play.

A sad one.

One that'll get the teen

girls pissing tears.

An emotional release

those pretty boys with

good chins can't give em'

because they don't know

they're gay.

One day they'll catch on

and the stylish teal shirts

with one button on top

will be a dead giveaway.

Till then, read my shit.
Alien Emoji Come To Life

Sometimes I watch

the news and care.

The rest of the time

I'm so far removed from

what the world thinks

is topical, I feel like

an alien.

And I've come here

to destroy you.
Fuck But Once

Her Tinder dates always

went the same.

"You're nicer than most

people I've met on here."

This got the awkward

guys to ease up.

Once they fucked she

never cared much for

them after.
All Alike In The Head

The care takers brought

the mentally ill to the bookstore.

They were good folk.

I appreciated their company

while they wandered.

Usually we'd talk about wrestling

and our opinions were in sync.

It was nice.

We loved Kevin Owens.

Adored Seth Rollins.

Thought John Cena

was the godamn man.

It was nice to find something

that transcended whatever

made us different.
Vote Dead

This election is the

robot vs. the destroyer.

Come November we vote

for how we wanna die.

The robots pass on

their poisonous mission

from one election to

the next.

If their guy - or in

this case lady - wins,

they give us a small

dose 'till their

predecessor steps in.

One day the doses'll add

up and we'll drop.

The destroyer just

destroys us in one clip.

So go out and vote for

your favorite Manson

family member in 2016!

Your voice counts!
Late Night Poodle Pee

I woke up to the poodles

stuffing their face

against my cheek.

They needed to pee and

couldn't open doors

by themselves.

When they did their

thing in the yard I tried

getting them to play

but after the piss they

slow-shuffled their paws

to the door.

Click-click-click, went

the paws.

Woke me up and didn't

even wanna attempt to

do something fun.

It wasn't a fair trade off.
Spirit Animals

Charles Bukowski is

my spirit animal.

Eddie Guerrero too –

but most of you out

there hardly know who he is.

So let's keep this simple,

starting from the top.

Bukowski is my spirit animal.

I don't mean that in a

drinking sense.

I prefer the feeling of ice

coffee unloading your

stomach and then running

a few miles early in the morning.

You can't do that and drink.

I also prefer getting high over

beer and would choose mushrooms

over whiskey on most nights.

I mean he's my spirit animal

it in the sense of,

whatever made him love

writing, whatever made the

obscene bring joy to his

heart;

Whatever all that was,

I feel that same thing inside me.

If all this makes me

another clone then whatever.

This is one of the few things

that makes me feel comfortable –

and isn't that what

Bukowski stressed in our

creative endeavors?

Finding that comfort?

Every day I struggle to win the

comfort and every day is the

same win-loss ratio but now

I'm getting to a point where

that's okay.

Maybe life isn't so bad

being another Bukowski wannabe?

Maybe it's the only thing that

burns my gut - as he said all

those years ago.

I guess only a clone

would quote him there too.
Ass For Feminism

I used to write news.

If a stripper licked

Kanye's ass - saying it's the

most feminist thing anyone

has ever done ever in the

history of ever, I was there.

300-words a clip.

A decent amount of money

at the end of the month.

Here's the problem.

I wrote but never

considered myself a writer.

I was dumber than I am

now but even back then I knew

this wasn't what I was

supposed to be doing.

One day I just quit all that.

I sequestered myself inside

a bookstore for 40-hours and started

writing stories and poems

and plays for no money.

It's been rewarding though.

Super rich in spirit.

I could create any kind of character.

Even craft stories about

strippers who made it big-time

after licking Kanye's ass - for

feminism of course.

The Amber Rose way.
Panera

I had an interview with

Panera Bread.

I was probably 17 at the

time.

"We saw on your resume

you worked at your dad's

pizza place," that hiring

manager said. "We got a

good spot for you at the

ovens making pizza.

"Don't say we didn't hook

you up."

The guy was probably 27 –

the age I am now – and

I wondered how

much he believed this was

gonna help my life.

My dad is a very good

pizza man.

The best who never got the

recognition he deserved.

His work was oral art for

the mouth buds.

Now here I was.

Getting ready to be a second-

generation pizza man for a

second-rate Whole Foods.

"Give me a minute," I said.

I walked out the door.

I think of all the second

generation middle relievers

that never quite

lived up to papa's name.

That was going to be me.

But the pizza equivalent.

I don't remember what else

happened that day but I'm

pretty sure I slept

as well as I could.
Relationshiply

There's this overrated

thing people do when

picking a mate.

They think they gotta

have stuff in common.

I don't think that's necessary.

It's all about finding somebody

who won't be a pain in your ass.

That's more important than

having Nirvana in common.

You can sing along together

about how Daddy's little girl

ain't a girl no more all you want,

but when you get nagged at everyday,

the songs mean nothing.

What's Kurt gonna do for you then?

Just have a good attitude and

don't worry about the fact

that he thinks Hillary is a sham.

(We should feel that way for all our voting opportunities. Except when it's old Jewish men running for office. All it takes is one to save us. America... We gotta stop fucking with these Gentiles.)

Polite is the only criteria

you need for dating.

Everything else falls

in place after that.
Rubber

Nobody looks better

than you.

Nobody looks

more serene

than you.

Look at that belly.

How does one not

love dogs?
Hand Biter

Shiloh bit my hand

when we played.

He was good at not

drawing blood even

though he bit down hard.

You'd never think this

beautiful show dog-looking

Poodle could be so rabid.

It would be like Scarlett

Johannson or Audrey Hepburn

coming at you hitting with Tyson

or Ali force.

Shiloh had this silk white fur,

a giant puff on his head and

a serene pair of ears that

rivaled the grace of his

head puff.

In the sun he shined white

\- the blind could mistake

him for an angel if they

were far enough.

Get him out in the yard

though, that beauty

goes away

and he'll gnaw at your wrist.

It's fun to him.

My arms have little bruises all

over from a lovely little animal

that once stopped a school bus

full of children that wanted

to get a glimpse of a

wonderful hound.

They don't even know

the savage in him.
Water Girl

I had sex with our

table's water girl.

It'd been a while back.

The restaurant was a nice

place - clearly one only Eliza

could afford and I was

just there for the ride.

While she pours I wonder

what she's thinking of?

Did he make it?

Can he afford to pay

for diner food now?

Did he get better or is

it still the same and

this lady has low

standards?

No to the first question,

no no the second question,

and I guess the answer

for three is subjective.

She walked away and

we didn't acknowledge

each other.

As she went to fill her

pitcher I wondered if she

envisioned me naked like

I was doing with her now.

You have to if

you've seen a body already.

I'm pretty sure I

learned that on

Seinfeld or the Simpsons.

"I had sex with the

water girl once," I told Eliza.

She laughed a lot.

"Everywhere we go you've

had sex with someone."

"Let's stop going to

places I live by then."

"No. It's fun."
Even

in

my

best

moods

I

hated

that

fucking

guy
Too Stimulated

Too much caffeine.

Too many thoughts.

Overstimulation from

everything around.

Still, Tom Waits reading

Bukowski's "Laughing

Heart" on YouTube gets

me every time.

It shouldn't.

Usually the only things

that get the tear ducts

working are sad dog

videos where one ear flops

down normally and

the other has a nail

sticking through it.

Bukowski though...

I really get the feeling

that the Gods will one

day delight in me.

I hope he's right.

It's getting hard.
Without Jordan

He said the place would

fall apart without him.

I told the guy the Bulls

won 55-games without

Michael Jordan in '94.

He could take that

little bit of knowledge

however he wanted.

He forgot the Pippens'

existed.

They were pretty

damn important

too.
Rare Saturdays

I wrote on my IPad on the

deck while the dogs slept.

There were ants all over the

ground but they didn't mind.

They just slept right through

their crawls, and were

excited I was even home

to begin with.

Most days I was at work.

The three of us never

got many mornings like this.

Their mornings were just

spent laying on a bed waiting

for someone to get home,

and mine was spent at

work waiting to get

home to them.

It was a good Saturday.

A rare Saturday where

I was able to do nothing.

The more you work, the more

you cherish these moments.

It's just sad here in America

we can't feel this all the time.

It's the way our societal

pillar is constructed.

The worse we feel, the

better we end up getting

during the down time.

If I could have life my way,

it would just be laying out

with these dogs.

Forever on vacation.

I imagine that's what heaven is.
Bunnies In The Sky

Shiloh followed the

helicopter in the sky

with his eyes.

I wonder what he

thought it was.

A dragon?

A beast?

Poodles were supposed

to be the smartest

dogs out there so maybe his

theories were more creative.

Maybe he just thought

there were bunny pilots

driving those big cars

in the sky.

I kind of wish they were.

That great flying mechanism

is probably manned by

an overweight middle

aged individual who

wasted his youth getting

to a point where he could

have money to do this.

Nothing like those

magical bunnies in

the sky in Shiloh's head.

Shiloh probably has it right.

He usually does.
Living

I walked around this thick

path in the woods one early

spring day.

It was probably 81

degrees out.

The hike was a

beautiful one.

I had everything going

right on the headphones

too.

I thought about where I'd

be at this time if

it was a normal day.

A work day.

Just getting into the store

and already exhausted – not

being able to enjoy

the sunlight outside because

my body spiritually ached

from anticipation of standing

so long.

Here though, on an off

day, I am completely calm.

Feeling this good brought

to my attention how unnatural

it was to just have that

dizzying feeling.

Why do we do it to ourselves?

To live?

We barely feel alive at work.

IS there even a proper

way to live?

This whole thing is confusing.

27 and I don't know what

the fuck is going on.

It could very well

be that a relaxing day

such as this is considered

an anomaly.

That's a problem.

Maybe this time spent

relaxing should be

the new normal.

It should be the new

norm until finally, it's what

we're used to.

We'd be better off it was.
Bingo & Doug Won It For Us

We listened to the Doug

Stanhope podcast a few

times a week.

Bingo finally came back

\- her and Doug reunited.

Their reunion went

against all commonality

because there's this

thing about the

world where it feels

like love is born to die.

It could just be the culture.

That drunken, angry,

cynical, American culture.

But here were these two

people - a man and woman on

the outside of society in Bisbee,

Arizona - and the two, in their

own way, figured it out.

The grain was demolished and

we were happy for them.

It felt nice to see someone get a

W in the win column.

All of us on the fringe lost so

much, a win for one

was a win for all.

The kind of hope

with love we needed most.
Nasty Work Words

I'll catch myself saying

Work Things at work.

Those silly corporate terms

they can't wait for you to learn

even though you can't

use them anywhere else.

My head calls me out every time.

"Look at you," it'll say

sarcastically. "A real

go-getter you've become."

I want to fight it but I can't.

Not only is it right, but

it's crazy to fight

with yourself.

That makes way

for deeper issues

than the Fake Adulting.

Even still, I prefer the loony

bin over the corporation.

Good stories come

out of those places.
Hellfire

He brought hell with

him wherever he went.

That attitude was big

enough for him to carry

the fires of hell

on his back.

When his spine started

to scorch he threw

the flames at us.

There was nobody better at

dousing humanity

with his damnation

than he.
Two Miracles

When you create you

don't ask anything

of the audience unless

it's an equal give and take.

All you can do is put

something out there

and hope people will

bite and keep biting.

Don't be the angry Instagram poet

who posts his rejection from the

Paris Review on his page.

"ONE DAY I'LL SHOW YOU."

They're the apex.

The apex will accept you

when they accept you.

It's a miracle to pick up writing.

Another if anybody notices.

We should just be happy with

the one miracle because most

people don't even find escapes

from their own lives.

The writer; the painter;

the creator; did.
Poisoning The Words

I like when the celebrities

capable of stringing words

together write their own books.

It shows they have some kind of

respect for the Craft Of Words.

They recognize the

importance of The Words.

They don't throw poison

into the Art Well like the James

Patterson types - false prophets

of writing who whore out their

ideas to desperate writers - more

desperate than me - that want

nothing more than to show

momma their name is on a book.

"Look momma," they'll say. "It's

our last name. On a book. All

I had to do was

give them my humanity."

"So proud baby. You made it!"

It's a grammatical casting couch

but you don't get a good, dirty

fuck from some sleazy guy

with a gut and baseball cap.

Just old James Patterson telling

you your two paragraph

chapter is exquisite.

Be nice.

Don't turn the muse's

power into a racket.
Music Bans

They kept banning music at

work - everyone sick of the

seven day Adele binges.

Now that her CD was in

the dump pile, there was nothing

to buffer the new music everyone

will get sick of eventually.

It was this long cycle of

getting tired of music.

All we had to do was put music

aside to not run into this mess.

What's old becomes new again.

Don't they know?
But Coach I Need Your Love

He was 28 with 10

concussions and still

wore his varsity

jacket from high school.

At every hangout

he brought up Coach.

Coach Whatever-The-Fuck didn't

even remember his name when

he visited the high

school on his birthday though

"We don't take solicitors,

the coach said.

"Coach. It's me. Dave Johnson?"

"Who?"

I was happy to hear that.

He never mentioned coach

again when we hung out.

Time for him to create

a new identity.
Look. See. Those Mountains

There's a long, empty

road in front of me

Not sure where it goes.

I see mountains in the

background and I could very

well be headed there.

Cars pass me by every now and

then - headed in that same direction.

I wish they'd stop and give me a

ride but I know for sure I wouldn't

do the same if the

roles were reversed.

I think.

I guess I got a lot of time

inside my head.

I'm hoping for something good

at the end of this road.

If not I hope I'm strong enough

to come to terms with

this being a waste.

I got a good feeling

it's not though.
Old Flame

I wish a gust of wind would

blow out the old flames right

as they're about to text me "hey."

What are these people worth

but reminding you how much

time was wasted when

they were in it with you?
Ex-Girlfriends

When I was younger I felt

strongly about my old mates.

Being someone's "Forever-And-Ever."

White picket fence and all.

Then I met these Poodles

and the lady doctor.

Those Forever-And-Evers I

thought was coming to me

ain't worth shit to the four

of us just walking around

the block for 20-minutes.

Right now Shiloh's at the foot

of my chair, guarding me from

the wind, listening to

my keyboard clicks.

He's relaxed.

I'm relaxed.

Imagine if I would've stayed

with the old girlfriends?

No amount of hair pulling and

sex-choking could've amounted

to me and Shiloh sitting

in this backyard.

Just chilling.

What fucking

hell I avoided.
Fly Away Bastards

I have these incomplete

dreams of flying sometimes.

I'll be in the air.

All the houses look

small under my chest.

Then it happens.

I realize I'm flying.

Right down I crash.

Next time I have that

dream I'm just gonna keep

flying without thinking about it.

I'm saying no to the ground.

I don't live there.

I belong to the sky until

the alarm goes off.

Even then I'll still figure out a

way to fly in the Wake World.
21-One-Year-Olds

I found one grey hair.

My first thought was:

"What will the twenty-year

olds think."

Then I realized the

twenty-year-olds will be

fine as long as they

know Papa Bear got enough

for Applebees if need be.

Then again, I don't even speak

to any 20-year-olds.

Everyone I know is

getting on thirty.

Angry at one thing.
Shiloh vs. The Dogs

The dogs are barking.

There's a jack-off in the street.

Now the dogs are crying,

staring out the window.

I checked outside with them.

"Move Shiloh."

I gave him a tug and he

hopped off the chair.

It was another dog.

Godamn bastard.

How dare that dog have

the audacity to be a dog

who walks in front of them?

Doesn't it have class?

"You're right Shiloh."

Shiloh looked back for the

gun but I said that was

excessive so he went on barking.
Boring Bitches

Those people who went out of their

way to call themselves a "bitch" or

"asshole" were so one dimensional.

So boring.

It's easy to tear a bridge down.

Any idiot child with half-a-brain

fried by mom's wino breast milk

could pull that off.

The true master craftsman

comes from the builder.

The risk taker.

The one who'll be friendly.

The one who'll allow himself

to get burned.

That guy who calls

himself "edgy" in

interviews runs on just one

octave - one of the truer

signs of weakness.

Usually its 100 miles an hour

with his pain-in-the-ass

mentality as driver.

The friend, on the other hand, gives

on all levels - to himself and to others.

It takes everything, the most risk,

to love on all levels.

When you have the most to lose,

you have the most to give to this world.
The Old Lady Got That

That old lady's butt

took shape in

those shorts of hers.

Her husband looks like his

body can't keep up with that

anymore and I imagine she

just brings young guys from

the neighborhood into their

home while he

works on the tracks.

What a fun life.

For her at least.

He just sets a nice home for the

youth to have a good time.
Trash

Donovan was young.

28-years-old but all

that drinking made

his skin 10-years-

ahead-of-itself.

His blonde beard, and

whiskey red cheeks used

to be lighter shades.

More youthful shades.

He'll keep drinking though.

He'll even try on those JNCO

jeans from high school - they'll

rip right at the knees.

When he's done he'll fuck his

girlfriend of 11-years - her skin

looking double the age just

like him - and she won't cum.

This guy hasn't been well

since high school after those

two-a-days glory days.

Now he only has room

for two-a-day drunks.

Drunk at lunch during his

break, then drunk at home while

he wastes his wife's good mind and

good body - better men not having a

chance because the dreamless, sad

sack won't jump from the balcony.
Perfection In Imperfection

She was tall.

She was cute.

She was a little chubby.

Daytime wasn't a

thing she knew very

well as an EMT.

I wish they'd write this

type of woman on TV

shows and movies.

Hot has become boring.

Give me flaws with a good

pair of eyes to look

into during sex.

That'll get me off more.

I don't even go hard

for hot anymore.

I skip those videos

on the PornHubs.

No flaws, no cum.
Barista Boy

There was a Barista who

took all the lady doctors and

lady nurses to his car after shifts.

They were tired and he did

for them want the guys in

their tax range couldn't do.

A lot of the males were smart,

but they had snivelly jaws

and boring ideas their money

could only compensate for,

for so long.

This guy though.

He was poor.

He was a little dangerous.

And they liked the way

he talked to them - like

their status didn't mean anything.

Oh how those men with the

MD's on their license

loved their status

and oh how it did nothing for

the powerful women.

"How do you do it man," one

of those doctors said.

"Do what?"

"You know. IT? I've been trying

to get Clara for years."

"Who," the barista said.
Coffee

Those small Starbucks Espresso

Cans made me tired.

If it's not right out of the machine,

brewed that day, it might as

well be taking Benadryl.

I'm young now but I wonder

what the consequences will one

day be when I have to

rid myself of caffeine.

My piss turning brown.

My heart changing

into the same shade.

Till then, 4 cups of coffee a

day - or go fuck

yourself, as Joey Diaz says.
Cardio For The Strong

The fitness experts talked about

hating cardio but I loved it.

What I didn't love was picking

up heavy loads of steel and grunting.

That Primate Life isn't for

me when I'm at the gym.

Give me sweat.

Give me an hour of wrestling

while my legs think they're running

from jaguars.
American

Turner worked behind

the desk of the Pre-Surgical

waiting room.

He was big.

His head was fat.

His gut was even denser.

His words were vile

and disrespectful.

This guy made all the

women uncomfortable.

One day an incensed veteran

threw him down the steps.

"CODE M. CODE M. CODE M."

The speakers blared.

A lady doctor saw what happened.

She looked up at the mad man

on top of the stairwell.

"YOU'RE A GOOD AMERICAN,"

she yelled up.

"THANK YOU MA'M. WHATEVER

I GOTTA DO TO MAKE MY

COUNTRY A BETTER PLACE."
Great Again

"YOU GOTTA VOTE

FOR DONALD TRUMP,"

the florist said. "HE'S

GONNA GET ME SOME

GOOD WORKERS. TIRED

OF THESE MEXICANS."

So the day came when Donald

Trump became President Trump.

We saw the mass exodus of the

Mexican immigrants and finally,

that florist got what he wanted.

"I want medical," said

the white employee.

"I want two lunches," said

the other new white employee.

"Umm I didn't get overtime

last week. I should have

gotten over time."

"I need the next week off."

He cursed out the Millenials.

He blamed them for

his failing business.

But at least America

was great again.
Hospital Life

You forget what the rest

of the world is like

living in a hospital.

All these sick.

All these needy that

need somebody to make things

okay; telling them things will be

fine – even if they won't be.

I've been here so long, the

next time I hear a bird chirp I'll kiss it.

The next time I see grass,

I'll give it a hug.

Every dog on a walk dragging

their owners across the street to fight

squirrels will get treats.

This home of healers has a way

of making you forget

those nice things.

You even forget

warm air exists.

Don't know how the nurses

and doctors do it for so long.

Thank god they don't make

what teachers make.

They'd have to install those

nets that they put outside of

IPhone factories if they did.
Big Art

I pulled up to this Asian

family playing Biggie

in the Mustang.

He talked about "Shootin'

This Nigga."

Stabbing "That Nigga" for his

money and stealing "His Bitch" too.

They looked at me like I was crazy.

I looked at them crazy for not

knowing what the hell art is.

We've been blasting Big since the

Public School Era - and he hasn't

let us down since.

Bach and Big would have

liked each other I think.
Tea & Crumpets

They told him tea

was better than coffee.

He drank three

teas then went

to bed without shitting.

What a waste tea was.

He hated those people

who said this lie.
Guns, God, America

Top down, sitting in the Mustang,

blasting Freebird, blasting 50

Cent's In Da Club after that.

The drive through the

countryside felt real American.

You can't not love how all

of this was inspired by our

red, white and blue.

The only thing that could've

made this more American would've

been to speed up to a car

driving slow ahead of us.

Pissed off the summer heat was

wasted at 27 mph, I'd get to the

wrong part of the road, move side-

by-side with the bastard then...

*BAM*

Shoot that revolver into his tortoise

wagon and cruise on at 90 mph.

Give a modern ending to an updated

fairy tale - the bunny that we are

crossing the finish line - lavishing in

the great things our country gave us.

Guns; cars; music; red lining on

caffeine.
God's Children

The lady across us

in the waiting room

went off on how

we're all children of God.

It reminded me of a man

I knew who was in to both

children and God.

I was a kid then.

He'd follow us around in the

parking lot after his Sunday

sermons - blowing whiskey breathe

in our face, telling us we had to

clean the stains from our pants.

That's he'd take out his wipes.

He said the wipes blessed

us with the holy water.

The guy was so worked up he forget

the plan was to just cleanse our pants.

Not our sins.

From this experience I

was taught mixing

God and Children

never ended well.
The Process

There are things about

writing they never taught

you in school.

Most of The Process has little

to do with writing

in general I learned.

All the stuff surrounding it

gets you to putting the best

words on the page.

Like, for one, if you want

something good you

gotta be under the

influence of something.

The mornings are for coffee.

The nights are for beer - maybe

wine and sprits or liquor.

Basically any alcohol

will loosen you up.

I wish the English teachers

taught us this.

"Hendry have a beer at night if

you're having trouble with this essay. You'll

feel like Hunter S. for an hour."

"Who's Hunter S.," I'd tell my

middle school English

teacher Ms. YouAreForgotten.

"Don't worry about that. Just have a beer."

Once you get there the time flies by.

An hour or two could feel like

twenty-minutes to forty-five.
Hair

I love that thing dogs do when

they depuff their fur by wagging

their body around.

It puts everything back into place

as if our hands never ran roughshod

against their poodle fur with pets.

I'd love to do that with my hair.

I wake up.

Shake my body.

Then all of a sudden I got a

good hair day and my ass

hairs are in place.

That's the work of miracles.
In Red Like Mike

Hopped up on Starbucks coffee - the

best coffee might I add - I bought

a Michael Jordan jersey.

Nothing official.

$13 straight from China.

Still, it looks real and I don't

run in the circles where people

are gonna laugh at me for buying this.

I wanted Jordan's name

on my back for some

kind of championship luck.

Feel like a champion.

Become a champion, is what I believe.

I hope other parts of my life will

get that Shoot-3's-At-All-Times-Even-

With-The-Flu power.

This is probably some modern day

Santerían love spell I'm casting on myself.

Crazy as it sounds, what the

hell else has worked?

Might as well grab on to the

metaphysical for a bit.

What's the worst that happens?

I got a spiffy red Jordan jersey?

The best is that I become Jordan.

The best you've ever seen at everything I do.
Callie's Bad Breath

Callie's breathe smells

funny after having kibble.

It just smells funny after

having pretty much anything.

She's a Bad Breath Poodle.

I've gotten used to it though.

She can wake me up throwing

fish in my face and I

wouldn't mind.

I love her.

She's a good girl.
Fear & Loathing In Poodle Town

Shiloh loves it outside.

If you're inside and he's out

he'll wait by the door - tricking

you to think he's wants to

come in and

when you try to bring him to

the kitchen he'll jump back.

He takes about five

steps to the grass,

luring you out to play.

It's annoying at night around

bedtime but overall I like

that he's a bastard.

I respect that in people and

I respect it in poodles too.

In People Form that kind of bastard

stuffs their trunk with magic

cocktails - armed with a Samoan

lawyer, a revolver and they fly around

in a red car whose top comes

down - - looking for the American  
dream, fending off the bats.

Shiloh kinda does something like

this when he chases the

bunny in the yard.

He flies at lightspeed with

the power of America's most

powerful ingenuity.

His top is always down too.

All his Poodle Dreams get

answered in those chases.
Creep Lady

There's a lady in the neighborhood

who hates the poodles.

Her breath smells like Xanax and

anything else the doctor could

pour down her throat.

"DON'T HAVE THEM SHIT ON

MY LAWN. I HAVE A GOOD

LAWN," the lady yelled out to

us during a walk.

I took off my beats.

Told her "Thank you," thinking

she complimented the dogs

on their new trims.

"I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING

NICE," the dead

Xanax soul said.

"I SAID MAKE SURE THEY

DON'T SHIT ON MY LAWN."

Now I walk them in the street

when they pass her house.

I'm afraid she poisoned her own

grass - killing the good

lawn just to get to us.

Dead creeps like her have a way of

spiting their own face to win wars

that only exist in their heads.
Licks Of Love

Callie's an old lady pooch

and she licks furiously to

show her love.

Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick

She'll coat my feet with her spit,

moving that slob

like a machine gun.

Sometimes I tell her no.

Then I'll look at her fur.

Her black is about a third grey.

She's an old lady who

has been through a lot.

I recant the "no" and put my foot out.

Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick.

How many rescue dogs are excited

for a second chance in life and all

they want is to give kisses?

People ask for a lot in their second

chances - the first part of their life

probably wasted on blow and

liquor - and they start bothering god

with their prayers.

Not Callie though.

She just wants to do one thing.

Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick-Lick

It'd be a sin not to give

the old lady something.
On Poodles

This year they put out

a Bukowski collection

called On Cats.

A compilation of love

for his furry friends.

They said he had a sharp

heart, an even sharper

tongue, and I know those

assumptions are overrated.

It's easy to be tough on paper.

I bet Bukowski melted

for those cats.

Nothing sharp about that love.

I feel the same way for the dogs.

Sometimes I'll just stop what

I'm doing to choke them half

to death with hugs.

I'll break out in a Chase-Fest

in the yard with Shiloh.

He's started to play the role of

OJ in the white Bronco being

he's the white poodle.

When I'm dead hopefully

they'll take all my poems

on dogs and

put them in a compilation.

ON DOGS (MOSTLY POODLES)

That'll be the title.

It can be a cartoon picture

of Shiloh and Callie on the front.

These two white and black

poodles can be nuzzled against

each other on the bed.

I prefer that to being another writer

who puts together another

book called "ON WRITING."

On dogs will explain art a lot better.

You'll see I love dogs, so

I write about them a lot.

Other writers will catch on

and there will be other compilations.

ON FAT PUSSY, ON SLOBS, ON

THE DRINK, ON POT, ON MUSHROOMS,

ON ACID, ON SLOBS I MET IN

COLORADO FOR THE WEEKEND.

Beautiful stories, all of them.

I'd rather inspire than teach.
Jeffersonian Bible

Thomas Jefferson has

his own bible.

It's all the stories of

Jesus without the miracles.

That Walk-On-Water

crap is gone.

Instead what's

left is lessons.

I might pick it up.

It could inspire me to show

affection to people the way

I show affection to the dogs.

I'll stop throwing rocks at

the heads of the kids in the

neighborhood thinking

it'll toughen them up.

Although, Jesus could have a

chapter in the bible about that.

"AND SO THE LORD TOLD GERONIMO: "GERONIMO, LET ME TAKE THIS STONE AND SMASH IT OVER YE HEAD. REPEATEDLY. FOR THE LORD YOU SHALL TOUGHEN UP. YE SHALL NOT BE A PUSSY."

Then Jesus took Geronimo on a date.

Geronimo had Hepatitus – I'm

sure a death sentence of an

affliction back then - and in

their final hour they crucified each other.

It's the gay, Christ-like Romeo & Juliet.

The first thing the Catholics

ever covered up.
Coward Heroes

F. Scott Fitzgerald beat Zelda.

Hemingway blew his head off.

These guys had no idea how

good they had it living

in Paris with no money.

I'm lucky if McDonalds

will let me sit in their store

for an hour, writing down

these stupid ideas - that

terrible salad ingested

over an hour ago.

Idiots.

Stupid idiot geniuses.

They were blessed with

good lives - miraculous

lives - and they hated it.

Our heroes are cowards

and false prophets.

We're better.
Michael's Daddy

Michael's daddy hated him.

Michael spun Diamond

records and daddy hit him harder.

It's like, even if you got gold

coming out your ass and your

mouth, there will always be

one thing to set him off.

When Michael took those boys

home later on it was

partly daddy's fault.
Someone To Talk To

The baristas had the

toughest job in the store.

They always left smiling

and happy though.

"How do you do it," I

asked one night.

"We have each other

Hendry," Angela said. "It's

great. When shit goes wrong, we

can laugh at the manic depressive

shitting on the floor - dumping

his bad attitude in the

middle of our little coffee haven."

"You really think

it's a haven?"

"Yeah. Its rough but ehh,

at least there is somebody

to bitch to at all times."

Having somebody to bitch to

all the time made all the difference.
Dogs To See

I haven't seen the

dogs in a few days.

I miss the big bastards.

All they wanna do is wag

their tale at me and I've

robbed them of that.

What a horrible

shit that makes me.

They're so good.

Doing these human things

just seems like a waste.

I should quit them all and go

home so they get their tail

wags - because in reality nothing

makes me happy than

when they're happy.
Tyler, The Destroy Her

Tyler had sex with a third of

the women in the store.

The people she worked with

warned her.

"I'm telling you. He fucked us

both and then came up with

some excuse why he couldn't

anymore. This guy is bad news."

Still, she and Tyler went out.

She knew what was coming

when they stepped into that car.

They fucked.

They kept on fucking.

"I don't get it," her friends asked

her the next week.

"What did you do

to get him to stay?"

"I don't know," she said.

She wasn't annoying

was the answer.

These ladies expected

too much.

She just expected Tyler.

That was the secret.
Hospital Wall

I sat in the back of the hospital,

writing these poems while she

slept upstairs in her hospital bed.

The surgery went well.

For the first time in a few days

I have time to write - which is nice.

The problem is, every time I stretch my

back, my head slams against the wall.

Finally I get to write and

I'm stuck with a concussion.

This is supposed to be a hospital.

A safe place.

Really all I feel is pain from it.

This wall is a bastard for that.
Baristress

Every Starbucks has that

one girl who is loud, ultra-

creative and has a strong

sense of her own charm.

This girl, no matter what

Starbucks it was, called

somebody she worked with a

"crackhead" every shift.

It's like they built this kinda

woman in factories

for this kinda job.

They were useful stepford wives

who poured out our Iced Coffees

so we wouldn't get headaches

and drop dead in the

middle of our horrible jobs.

Where would we be

without this robotic,

charismatic lady?

Dead I say.
Biggie's Birthday

Today was Biggie's birthday.

What this man represented

wasn't just Hip-Hop.

He represented the finer

American arts.

While the bores gawked over

the Mona Lisa, Biggie talked

about guns, crack, the

police and pussy.

The French can keep

their black comedies.

I'll keep my abrasive

black man.

God bless America - because

only in America do we build

such wonderful artists.

I'll take Ready To Die over

any and all Vatican art.

That naked baby

angel shit is weird.

BIG is LIFE.
Security Guards

The security guards all lift their

belts when they talked to women.

It's like some magical hand gesture

they do to make you forget

they don't have a gun.

Problem with that trick is

magic doesn't exist.

No matter what they do; how they

stand; they'll always look

Almost Important.
Vincent K. Hemingway

In terms of creativity

Vince McMahon may be

more prolific than Mark

Twain or Ernest Hemingway.

Look at the amount of

characters McMahon has created.

Look at the stories he's weaved.

Are they all gems?

No.

Then again, not every

bit of Hemingway

and Twain was that

remarkable either.

McMahon though, he's

been around for generations.

He's still around creating.

Where's Twain?

Where's Hemingway?

Dead.
Wrestling Like Ali

I love professional wrestling.

People always tear it down

and I always saw it as ignorant.

Why does every one of

our endeavors or joys have to live

up to Kubrick levels.

Not everything needs to be

genius - or set us out

on the road to genius.

Sometimes we just wanna sit

and watch guys fall off ladders

for 2 and a half hours

because it's fun.

Plus, athletes are such bores.

Wrestlers are a joy on

the mic the way they talk trash.

Nobodies been that good

since Ali was around.

Connor Mcgregor thinks he is but

really, people like looking

at his chest tattoo.

There's a neat red spot

on there that sticks out.
Nice To Be A Dog

Being a dog looked nice.

The hardest part of their

day was balancing between

the sunlight and the shade.

If they stood in the sun too

long they got thirsty and had to go in.

Sleeping outside or in

was their hardest decision.

All the while we went to work, slaved,

and got no warmth on our backs.

Maybe we were the dogs in all this?
Starbucks Wins

Dunkin Doughnuts coffee doesn't

pack the punch that Starbucks does.

I feel like I can grab the world and

toss it out of orbit on Starbucks coffee.

Dunkin Doughnuts is good

if you aren't used to caffeine.

That or you're close to quitting.

For the rest of us who got

shit to do, Starbucks is where it's at.
Nurse's Life

"SOMEBODY HELP ME!

"SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

I looked for the bathroom in

the hospital halls and instead what

I found was an old man

screaming outside his window.

I ran for a nurse.

"Nurse this guy needs help."

"That's just Mr. Rogerd," she said.

"He always screams for help. I

think he's bored and that's why he does it."

"He does this all the time?"

"Yup. Still gotta check on him

though. One day he'll be right."
Tragic Democracy

He went off in class.

Being a Republican might as

well of been plastered on Jake's ass.

"That attack in the gay night club

was horrible," Jake said. "But it's

just another liberal

excuse to take away our guns."

Jake liked to make this point

after the shootings.

That first sentence of the horror

almost felt like he had to

say it out of courtesy.

It was like the verbal version of holding a

door for someone and looking back

to see them say thank you.

It was a show of politeness

to show himself he was polite.

"All guns aside," I said. "Why can't we

just mourn the dead. Does it have to be

political every time Jake?"

I don't think Jake knew how to

think on a human level.

It was Right Wing all the time.

"I gotta protect

my guns," he said to me.

"You people are

taking them away."

But nobody wanted Jake's guns.

We wanted

nothing at all from him.

The less Jake the better

as a matter of fact.

Everything he owned

was sweaty.

We just wanted to mourn.

Why couldn't we just mourn without

tragedy becoming a debate?

It was the worst part of

Democracy.
Vs. The Bunny

"SHILOH COME OUT WITH ME."

The big pawed poodle shot

right down the stairs.

Every step was like a ton of

bricks slamming against

the wood floors.

Right behind him was Callie.

Her steps were more graceful.

"COME ON," I yelled from

the deck. "COME ON OUT."

Shiloh blew through the open

door and right in front of

him was his nemesis.

It was the bunny.

The bunny, usually escaping at

speeds Shiloh can't comprehend,

was caught off guard.

SWAT.

Shiloh smacked that bunny in the

face and let him know

whose yard it was.

The bunny, dazed for a

second, got a nice

nosing by Shiloh's snout to

add to the concussive paw blow.

A playful stab.

From there the bunny ran

off and Shiloh followed suit.

For one second Shiloh

was the victor.

That's all it took.

The bunny should

watch out from now on.

Shiloh is on the prowl

with a new kind of confidence.
Spring Cleanup

When 50 die in a nightclub

simply because they're gay

they'll blame

the Islamic Extremists.

Maybe in some ways we

also have a stake in this.

We like to call the United States this

home of the brave and land of the

free but still, are we any better when

right on Capitol Hill are hateful

old men protecting

Stone Age legislations?

If we are truly the forebears of

freedom then we should

take the power from these

men hiding behind

the sanctities of marriage.

If we start here then there's a chance

we can spread this updated language

of freedom to outside our shores.

How many Democratic constitutions

were born after ours some 200-years-ago?

Maybe we can inspire a new kind of

revolution that is pure and harbors

no resentments regardless of

race, sex and gender.

I truly believe that the United

States - from one shore to the next - has

the power to start this kind of cultural shift.

All we need to do is

begin the cleanup at home.
Tomorrow

Yesterday I had trouble

getting the words

out on the keyboard.

Today wasn't so bad.

The story

flowed a little better.

That's the funny

thing about writing.

You have a bad day

and think you're done.

You think there will never

be another good idea.

Not 24-hours later you'd see

just how wrong you were.

Sometimes, with failure, it

just takes going through

the day and waking

up for the next one for

things to get better.

Unless you live in

the Middle East.

I'm a fucking dead man out

there and can offer no solid

advice on how to live.
I Went First

There were two times in

my life where the new men

in an old woman's life

hated me just because

I'd known their woman first.

It was crazy.

I'd see them out somewhere and

I'd hear them snicker.

"There's that piece of garbage

Hendry," they'd say.

Then our mutual friends

would come up to me.

"Hey man. I hear Justin's got it out

for you. You should apologize."

Keep in mind these were other

men telling me to apologize.

The balless have a way

of running in packs.

What would I even say in the apology?

"Hey man. Sorry for having

sex with her first. It's unfortunate

it turned out that way and I didn't

mean to hurt your feelings before

knowing you exist. It's just..." I'd

tear up right about here.

I'd sog up my cheeks.

"I didn't know having sex with her

would hurt you so much." There

I'd hug the person.

He'd console me.

"It's okay man. You didn't know. You

had no idea having sex with her  
first would hurt me so bad."

Then she'd hug us all.

He'd see her put her arm on me too.

He'd blast me in the face.

I'd go down, getting a hint of some

White Trash Long Island perfume.

Probably the now defunct

Britney Spears one.

I'd wake up the next day wondering

what the hell happened - being at fault

for having sex with someone first and

having them touch me without

me even asking.

What a crazy world.
Beach Lovers

I dated a girl named

Victoria for about a year.

We had sex at the beach

once and it wasn't romantic as the

greeting cards made it out to be.

It started off sexy.

Then she started

getting sand inside her.

What a horrible feeling.

First she was stuck

having sex with a younger me.

Then she got sand in her vag.

There couldn't be a less

sexy situation for a young woman.

"I'm so itchy," she said

when we finished.

That moment of eroticism with

me amounted to the same ending she

could've had with some bum she

met at a bar who's secret spot was

behind the dumpster.

You know the spot.

"I'm sorry," I said. "If it's any

consolation there's sand in my ass."

There wasn't.

It all came right off me.

I just toweled off and within

two swipes I was fine.

Poor girl.
Good Girl Callie Vs. The Ants

There were these

ants all over Eliza's deck.

They always crawled

around Callie.

I had to chase them away so

the poor Poodle could

rest peacefully.

"GET AWAY FROM HER YOU PIECE

OF BASTARD," I'd yell out to the ants.

I'd crush the prick too.

Right there it'd be squashed.

Callie doesn't deserve to be swarmed.

She should lay out without bother.

She's a good girl.
Sasha & Bayley

People call us wrestling

fans slobs and maybe at one

point this was true.

In an age where everyone is

trying to define what feminism

is though, I think wrestling

fans have done more for

female athletes than any

other sport will admit.

Look at those WNBA games.

Yawns all over.

Wrestling, on the other hand, is

doing something special.

I remember last summer, on a sold

out night at the Barclay Center, two

women went at it for the

Women's Championship.

That place lost their minds.

Me and about 20,000 other people

were on our feet for twenty-minutes,

cheering these two girls on.

They put on a hell of a show and

beat the shit out of each other.

It was the type of show the guys

needed to live up to.

When the match was over and a

little woman named Bayley

won, Barclay erupted.

Here were these grown men - men

characterized as slobs - going

crazy over the finish.

Attraction played no part

in that eruption either.

They were just happy at the

conclusion - a new Women's Champion

raising her belt in the air.

She earned it.

We earned it as fans.

I see all those shows on

Comedy Central trying to

push the girls and they don't

have one aorta on how it's done.

They can learn something

from Sasha and Bayley.

They'll teach you.

If only the world embraced wrestling.

We'd be better off for it.
Boston Girl

During one of my Tinder stints

I matched with a women

from out of state.

She was here visiting family

and didn't mind coming out right

after matching me.

It didn't take long before

this red head from Boston

and I went back to

her car to have sex.

"I can't believe we had sex," the

girl said when we finished.

I got up. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah of course I am. I just

went at it with someone."

She took out her phone and

pulled up the conversation.

It was 1:30 a.m.

We started talking at 10:02 p.m.

We didn't meet up until  
close to midnight.

"That's a record for me," I said.

"Me too."

We had sex again and

I drove home.
Brown Tooth Girl

The down moments

in my life all took place

in Babylon.

The Long Island town.

Not the biblical dump.

It was a five-minute

drive from my house.

Their parking lots

are littered with my

dirty condoms from years ago.

Today the kids playing

Pokemon Go probably kick it up

into the mouths of poor geese.

I remember one woman I met in the

train station parking lot.

I didn't want to bring her

home because she had bad teeth.

It was about 2 a.m. and

nobody would see her.

But still.

I didn't want her running into

anybody and smiling.

We had sex in the back seat of

my first car - a piece of crap that

made DeLoreans look fancy.

I couldn't stop looking at her teeth.

In my head I thought of this scenario

where spores shot out of them when

she went to the dentist and he

plied those things right out of her.

I was so sure that if you planted

those spores in the ground

psilocybin mushrooms would come out.

Take those mushrooms while you

have sex with her and you start thinking

about where you went wrong in life.

Those teeth would act as a mucky

mirror to bring you back to earth

with some Ego Death

prescribed by Doctor Universe.

When we finished I took her home.

I felt a little dirty because

I wasn't attracted to her.

The way she looked back I don't think

she felt any more accomplished than me.

I texted her a week later when

I was feeling a little lonely.

I was 21, had no idea what the hell

loneliness truly was - not that I really

know now - and she said okay.

We had sex in the same spot.

Those teeth gave me the same bad feeling.

I couldn't even tell you what she was like.

Just that her teeth were brown

and I kept coming back.
Jozay Pisser Man

There was a guy I grew

up with named Jozay.

He was a real

piece of trash.

He had no good opinions

on Facebook and

siphoned off his girlfriend.

He pissed off so many people

I'm pretty sure he had

her home fire bombed.

You can never know for sure

what rumors were true.

One night I saw him at the local

bar Mary Carrols and

I figured fuck it.

Let me watch this bastard

work his magic up close.

My friends had gone home anyway.

The night felt young at 11 p.m.

He had a few shots, tried to have

sex with a chubby girl who was

married, then stopped that charade

because he heard there

was coke around.

I went on a drive with him, his

girlfriend, another girl I grew up

with and a young gay kid named Marvin.

Marvin was a creepy shit and

you could never tell his age.

He just looked young and he

kept talking about coke.

"JOZAY MAN. IF YOU

SPOT ME I GOT YOU."

"I don't even know who the hell

you are," Jozay told him. "But okay."

We drove around every part of

the neighborhood in Babylon.

Every nook and cranny.

I don't even know why.

They just drove.

Finally we drove back to the Mary

Carrols parking lot

and there was the coke.

I turned off this movie and left

when Jozay asked

his girlfriend for money.

"Okay baby."

She shelled it out and I'm sure

they did it on the dashboard.

I think he could talk to these people

like this because he

had washboard six-pack abs.

What a trick.

If I could stay away from dad's

pizza I'd have a fucking cult.

People would bring me Pokemon

cartridges and we'd play until 4 a.m.

Some sad sack would write a poem

about it a few-years-later and people

would care less about

that one than this one.
Depress To The Left

It's really easy to be sad.

Depression becomes a hole

you think you gotta climb out

of when really, all you gotta do

is walk to the left and look

out the cave for sunlight.
American Potential

Let's not make

America great again.

Let's make it

great FINALLY.

Let's stop celebrating

the false idols.

We have that potential.

Finally.

These people only

exist as far as

we give them the rope.
Hospital View

The hospital gave

us a beautiful view.

We thanked them.

For miles we saw

a stretch of tree

canopies that ended

at the foot of a

mountain range.

The only building that

poked out was the

old psychiatric ward.

When we were children, they

let the loons run wild –

opening up new opportunities

to get ransacked on Halloween.

Despite the reminder,

the green was nice.

It gave us a chance

to appreciate nature.

On the third day we were

treated to a real horror show.

The helipad was below our window,

only two floors down from where we

were, and we got a clear

view of the newest patient.

It was a man.

His body so mangled you couldn't

tell whether he were young or old.

Both arms were twisted in the wrong

direction and his legs looked

burned together like a mermaid.

His face was the most gruesome part.

It was orange, brown and had spots of red on it.

Good eyesight was a curse for this moment.

The EMT's dabbed his face lightly

and their clothes were soaked with his

charcoal colored blood.

After that another helicopter came.

This time a young child - boy or girl

couldn't tell.

It had no legs.

Where the knees ended was

another fountain of blood.

It was impossible to look away.

That view was stained forever.

My head was too.

I don't remember the last time I got

good sleep thinking of that littler kid

or the EMT's dabbing the napkin.

We just wanted a beautiful sight.
Copy Hell

I wonder what would've happened

if I kept at it with news.

Would I still be at the Bookstör?

Selling those books, hoping the next

best gig would come in?

Would I have my first job with a

real-life office - some editor lurking

in a dark room that has long since

traded in his ideals and love affair

with the muse for cigarettes and a

grinding down of art for Black And

White wording perfection?

Even worse than all of that.

Would I call my work "Copy?"

Yuck.

I'd certainly make more but

I don't necessarily know if I'd be happier.

There are days at the Bookstör where

I come out so mentally tired - those

same tasks grinding down on my

energy banks - but I can at least

walk away knowing that I got to

write how I wanted to

write that day.

Nobody tells me what to do.

There's no reader base but

maybe one day they'll come.

They'll come if that miracle

is ready to douse me.

I guess... Maybe... Things

aren't so bad.

Could be worse.

I could be soliciting dead hooker

stories and tossing in some product

placement so coke could keep the

Little Paper That Could funded.
Put The Journalists On A Terrorist Watch-List

50 dead in a nightclub and not one of

their names sits casually on our tongues.

What we do know is this shooter's

origin story like he's Joker falling into the pit.

We know about his failed marriage, bad

Tinder dates, Grindr forays from

last week and we even

have a portrait of selfies he took of

himself - proof enough he was a terror

to society because no man who takes

full body shots in a mirror is right in the head.

All this knowledge thanks to the press.

It sits singed in our minds.

The good men and women in the media

truly are the most devilish wolves

hiding under masks of sheep.

The origin story of victims is not

quite sexy enough for them.

If it were, we'd know their

names and what they loved.

Nothing of them has been reported.

These are angels - a group the

press has no time for.

The devils are only comfortable

running with other devils - speaking

highly of their accolades to the

world like proud parents.

Omar and all the World's Gazettes

are perfect for each other.

Matrimony made in editorial hell - a

place set aside in the core of the

earth for good things to rot.

"OH what a horrible thing he did," they

type - their hooves clicking

against the keyboard.
DAN-IEL BRY-AN

There was a moment in wrestling

where they gathered all the world

champions of the modern

era in one ring.

20 of them stood right behind the

WWE darlings of John

Cena and Randy Orton.

That Sunday the handpicked titans

would face each other to see who

was the GREATEST

of the world champions.

It was going to be a monumental

moment for WWE but things didn't

quite go the way THEY wanted it to.

You see the people didn't

chant LET'S GO CENA.

They didn't chant for Orton either.

Who they did go crazy for was

Daniel Bryan - a young man who

created momentum for himself in

the wrestling world by being the

absolute best in that ring.

His moveset wasn't a moveset as

much as it was the physical

incarnation of Bach's music.

"DAN-IEL BRY-AN... DAN-IEL BRY-AN...

DAN-IEL BRY-AN..." the crowd chanted

in front of Cena and Orton.

This is one of those special moments

that transcend professional wrestling.

It's a lesson in life.

It shows that no matter who THEY

say is the best, no matter who THEY

bring out, the cream will ALWAYS rise

to the top - words uttered by the great

Macho Man Randy Savage long ago.

It's all about grinding it out

and pushing forward.

If you truly are the best,

they'll see it.

It'll reach a point where you are

recognizable everywhere you go

and those champions THEY say should

be champion will be second to you.

Just gotta grind it out.

Just gotta stay alive

long enough to show

these bastards what you have.
The Autism Gimmick

A saw a comedian at a

local Long Island open

mic that acted autistic.

He put stickers on the

crowd and spoke funny.

Were there even jokes?

Not that I

could remember.

It was horrible.

So, so horrible.

Horrible enough for him

to one day be a millionaire.

The suits love that kind

of sloppy gimmick.

They can sell that.

Getting that cash sounds nice

but I couldn't imagine getting

caught doing this.

When you're THAT you are

expected to be THAT for life.

It's a quick rise to the top

but people aren't going

to be eating up what he

says in his old age

the way they did for Carlin.

For now though, good for him.

His millions will be well deserved

for the time being.

When the money drains he'll be that

guy we remember as the fake autistic

comic - his domestic assault mugshot

looking nothing like that handsome

character he used to be.
Bad Ad

Dad's IPad had

Advertisements for dick

pills all over it.

It was hard to look away

from his crotch while we

were in the pool.

He was broken down there.

You fixate on that type of horror.

Old age is a real devil.
Yah Yah

I put on classical music

while I wrote.

This fat woman sang YAAAH

YAAAAAAAAAAH alongside the violins.

That's all she said.

YAAAH YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

She even repeated the

same tone with it.

Nothing ever changed.

Just YAAH YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

It was soothing though.

The perfect music to

get my ideas out.

I'm feeling a good one coming

through my finger nails now.

Thank Odin, the Queen Buddha

and the Muse for this

beautiful YAAAAH YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

Their feminine ways are

an idea laxative for me.
Invite

I got an invitation in the mail

for my friend's wedding.

We'd grown up together

since childhood.

We grew up on the Heartbreak Kid

Shawn Michaels, Stone Cold Steve

Austin, SEGA Genesis and gory video

games the likes of Grand Theft

Auto and Mortal Kombat.

Here he was now.

A grown man getting hitched to a lady.

A good woman at that.

You couldn't complain about her

without looking like an asshole.

You would be an asshole if you did.

Good for him.

Most people don't get that.

Here I was though still riding

on Grand Theft Auto and

Stone Cold Steve Austin.

I haven't done much growing up and

he joins the rest of the

world while I'm left behind

doing my kiddy shit.

Who even knows if this

is a good thing or a bad thing.

To be honest, if I tried doing

something adult, it

wouldn't feel natural.

Might not be for me.
Harumphing The Credit Line

One of us at the bookstore shilled

out our store Mastarcard to a

lady with half-a-jaw.

They celebrated the victory

when it happened.

The lady's name amounted to a

number and her number amounted

to some statistic stating the

store was doing well.

Few weeks later that

lady gave us a call.

"Harumph can't pay the harumph

bill. Can I harumph bring the

books back and pay the bill... harumph."

Yes she could bring the books back.

No she couldn't cancel it through us.

Turns out only the credit card

company could do it.

We sold her out to the Consumerism

Devils and when she wanted her soul

back, she had to go to a third party to

find out canceling so quick

would sink her credit line.

This poor lady.

Half-a-jaw and now half-a-

credit score.Harumph what

a bastard scheme.
Failure Boy

My college had these award shows.

I was up for something I wrote

about psychedelic mushrooms.

That night I had a date.

A rarity for my

college experience.

She was a pretty

black girl in a little dress.

Couldn't even tell you

how I pulled that off.

She's probably dating Carmelo

Anthony or somebody

from the Giants by now.

Before the show started I sat

at a table of people - people I

thought I liked - and they

started pouncing on her.

"You go here? Never saw you

before sweety."

One guy - the school's comedian

everyone thought would be on Comedy

Central within the year - really went

off. "What do you do? I live in the

dorms you know? What's your

major? You know I'm in the dorms?"

Another guy told her she looked

good and he rolled his sleeves up.

I think he wanted to show he had muscles.

The story didn't end well for either of us.

She must have thought I was some

false prophet of writing

because when I lost, she disappeared.

I didn't know a school paper

had so much stakes for her.

The ovaries must have sent her

the failure signal.

That HE'S-GONNA-WRITE-

POETRY-AND-BE-POOR-

BUT-FULFILLED-SO-RUN signal.

After the show I went out for drinks

with those guys.

"What happened to that girl," the

comedian asked.

I was swiping right furiously.

Before I answered I got a match.

It was a pretty Puerto Rican and Asian

lady who was in an even smaller

dress in all her pictures.

"Who," I said lifting

my phone and

showing the new one.

When I put it down I got an answer.

"Heeeyyyyyy."

Multiple Y's was always a good sign.

There are wins everywhere

if you look for them.

Don't give up.
Duped

She walked in the car and

I was a little horrified.

I felt sad for the way

she couldn't fit.

There were probably

countless guys put in the

same position as me who

saw this big girl and

expected someone else after

talking to them through Tinder.

She got inside and

immediately answered

her phone, giving me that "One

Second" signal.

"He needs his pills," she said on the

other side. "Now? You mean like at

this minute? Okay fine. But

I'm meeting this guy."

She got off the phone.

Told me she'd be back in a minute.

One minute turned to five.

Five turned to ten.

Ten turned to... Well now my feelings

are hurt because she has been

gone a half hour.

I wanted to be the one to ditch

and she had the power.

Maybe she felt duped by me?

BUT ALL MY PICTURES ARE THE

SAME AND I'M NOT SHORT.

I drove away throwing air punches

when, if I were the one to beat it, would

have been me doing celebratory dance

moves on the ride home.
Revolutionarily Normal Gay Man

Dick and I went out with these

two Japanese businessmen.

They wanted to bring the wrestling

series I wrote to Japan –

turn it into a manga.

There was one problem.

"Mister Gagne. We hope you will sign

with us. The thing is... Can

we change the finishing move?"

"It depends," I said. "A lot of the story goes

with his super kick. You'd be changing

the story. I'm open to your interpretation though."

"Mister Gagne. We would like for his

finishing move to be the Spit In The Mouth."

The first line of the book was the

character having a woman of questionable

morals spitting in his mouth in the woods.

Down on his luck, his car being too small

for the both of them, the woods

was the best place.

"But that was a sexual thing

in the first chapter," I said. "I don't

know if that's a

good wrestling move."

"We know Mister Gagne. But the

artist - who will also be the

writer - wants that move for the

reason that we'd like to

make your wrestler a gay man."

"But that's like cartoonishly gay. I don't

want cartoonish. Can it just be, regular

gay? Like normal person gay? He's a gay

man who does super kicks?"

The Japanese businessmen moved

their chairs close to each other.

Dick mentioned that

the rabble-rabble-rabble

of speaking in someone's ear

is universal and I laughed.

They came out.

"Okay yes. That is a good idea. We take

out the girls and make them men."

I put my hand out.

We shook.

"You know they don't even do this in

America. Most of the gay characters are

flamboyant and kinda, well, annoying.

We'll be revolutionary!"

We raised our glasses.

Downed shots like savages.

I wished I thought of this before.

I can't wait to see the horrified parents

where, in the first page of their kid's manga,

they'll a man spitting in

another man mouth.

Call me Mr. LGBT.
Ugly Runts

We were both ugly when

we were younger.

She was more of a catch than

I was back then though.

I remember her and I, sitting in my

basement, just staring at each other.

Two-in-the-morning, awkward

teenagers not knowing it's okay to go

at it with a freak and forget

about it when you gotta.

Now we were older.

We started to fit in our bodies

and she was more than a catch.

She told me I was a catch too - never

heard that on a date before.

A first for me at least.

"Remember that time in your

basement," she said. "Yo, I

wanted to run away."

"I wanted to run away too.

It was horrible."

"We shoulda had sex. Just

for the story."

We left the restaurant and went

at it in my car.

I asked her if having sex with me

now was just for the story.

"Nope," she said. "Mostly because

I like your face."

She pushed my nose like it was

a button and said "boop."
Dominican Chick

Everyone at work fawned

all over the new girl.

She was small.

Dominican.

She got away with wearing

a white bandana backwards

on top of her head.

The bosses were usually

against headwear.

Her face created an

exception – especially

to the man in charge.

On a closing shift it all

changed - the rules

went back into place.

"My boyfriend and I are going to

Summerslam," she

said. "I can't wait."

That bastard in charge's

response to that was asking

her to dress business casual.

She stopped wearing those headbands.

She was too in love - not attainable

for anybody there - and they stopped

letting her get away with things.

The skirts, bandanas and the fun

of looking at her went away.

These sexless bastards had no

way of appreciating art.

I felt bad.

Somewhere out there in Boss Land,

one of the managers went off on a

Pacino rant like he was the devil.

"LOOK BUT DON'T TOUCH. TASTE

BUT DON'T SWALLOW. And she won't

swallow any of us so what's the point."

Bastard, bastard, bastards.

Ruined the pretty show.
Inconvenient Love

I matched with a sailor

girl on Tinder.

She lived all the way

on the edge of

Long Island - an hour and a

half from where I lived.

She was stuck at home for a

few months after tearing her ACL.

We started going at it.

I tried having sex with her and

she told me to hold on.

"I don't like doing that until the

fifth date. At least the fifth date."

She had this all mapped out.

We talked for a few hours

and had a good time.

I told her I couldn't

wait to come back.

Then I left her house and trudged

through the ice and snow to get to my car.

Then I trudged through the ice

and snow to get to my house.

The ride back took three hours.

Five dates?

I never came back.

I kept swiping on Tinder.
Crucify The Zen Salesman

Work brought in an

inspirational healer.

They said he'd help

us find our "zen" –

which meant they want

us to be more productive.

We carried boxes all damn day.

How productive did we need to be?

The job was miserable and I felt bad

for anybody that went out of their

way to do a good job - there's no way

they could've had anything good to

say about their lives.

When the time came to meet with the

healer, I was skeptical and

thankfully stayed that way.

"You need to see those boxes as dark

energies that need to be

moved to the ZONE OF LIGHT."

He yelled when he said ZONE OF

LIGHT - such a rancid gimmick.

"When you bring those boxes to

the light, you'll inspire."

I told him to get up and

come with me.

Pointed to a box and told him to

give me an example.

He bent down, pulled his back

and tore out his shoulder.

He cried on the floor.

"HAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH

AHHAHAHAHAHA," I

laughed. "Idiot."

To laugh was healing.

He did it.

That son of a bitch walked out

holding his shoulder,

crying - self-sacrificing

for the greater good.
Cola Milk Mafia

I got this message on Instagram

from a company saying they'd pay

me to plaster one of their

brands on my poem.

"Only if it's Pepsi," I told him.

"We do have Pepsi. That's

big money for you right

there kid," the guy said.

I hated him for saying kid, but I was

at least gonna make that Pepsi money.

He got back to me a few days later and

sent a JPEG of the logo to

put on my poems.

"Cola Milk? What the hell

is Cola Milk?"

"It's this new milk soda kid. We're

gonna make some dough."

I hit block.

I wish the block button would make

people disappear from the universe too.

This guy just didn't need to exist.

Some swindled bastard thinking he

could pull off the same swindle that got him.

There was nothing good about him if

he was gonna front that disgusting

Cola Milk scheme.
Bad Worker

There was a guy who

never showed up to work

but they kept him on the payroll.

Him being there was 50/50 at best.

I didn't understand why I was so

scared to call in sick right now.

I actually was vomiting

all over the room.
No Refill For No Quarters

I got my Ice Coffee and

sat outside to write.

I gobbled it right down

and not even the ice was left.

I went inside to refill it

but they wouldn't let me.

"You left the store sir. You

have to pay the full price."

"But I was on your deck? You

built the deck for customers."

He pointed to the sign

to reiterate his point.

It said:

NO REFILLS IF YOU LEAVE.

"But..."

Doesn't matter.

I wanted my energy

so I shelled out the $3.20.

I hope I die of a heart attack

and he has to clean up the crap

that comes out of my dead body.

It was the only fair trade off.
Bart Faps

Bart was short, chubby

and had these long arms.

I liked working with him.

He was funny and knew his

stuff with just about anything.

The women weren't

fans of him though.

They always got this weird vibe

about Bart and they had every right to.

All Bart had to do was look

at a woman to get off.

There probably wasn't much

going on for a guy looking like

him so anything would get

his joints all flared up.

One day I saw Bart run into the

bathroom.

It coincided with me taking a dump.

In the stall next to me I

heard FAP-FAP-FAP-FAP.

Now I hated Bart.

I didn't need to be next to

him masturbating at work.

The image of him was ruined

and I forever thought

FAP-FAP-FAP-FAP when he talked.

He could say Lebron

and I'd hear FAP-FAP-FAP-FAP
Stop Frapping

The loud talking bothered him.

The men with complicated

coffee orders bothered him more.

How hard was it to take

it black and shut your

damn mouth, he thought.

The caffeinated integrity he

had kept him grumpy.

He thought it was a good thing

but nobody wanted him

around because he carried that

integrity everywhere he went.

His friends and the baristas wished

he'd go away with

his unreasonable expectations.
Bad 4th Grade Advice

The classroom was a pack

of savages more than

they were children.

Their teacher, Miss. Grace,

lost control after the first few days.

"Miss Grace you dried out?" The

4th grader asked. "You should

be taking it from Mr. Keegan

since you lonely."

Miss. Grace couldn't have children.

That little girl sensed it.

Miss. Grace was sad at home.

The girl sensed that too.

Miss. Grace DID try her hand at

Mr. Keegan eventually and it was horrible.

That's what happens when

you take advice from a 4th grader.
Brad's Losing Streak

Brad was a Knicks fan but the

team never brought him joy.

Just like him they kinda

existed and lost at everything.

The perfect match between

man and team.

At work his boss would give

him shit for the way he stared

at the ceiling - the way Knicks

fans stared up when the team

got beat down by the

Magic or the Celtics.

"Brad what're you bitching at

with your eyes over there," he'd

say everyday. "Get to work."

But he was working.

The glass eyed stares were a result

of putting in any effort at that job.
Glenn Is A Salmon

Glenn wore salmon shirts.

The kids at school hated them.

They hated his front teeth too.

"What the fuck Glenn," Tyreique

would say. "You should get your

ass whooped for looking so dumb."

Glenn said something inaudible - spitting

saliva through those Titan Tower gaps.

Tyreique felt bad so he

punched Glenn in the face.

"Bitch. I'm gonna leave you

alone now. You sad. You sad."
Hierarchy Of Assholes

What if you have a baby

with the wrong person?

Then you're stuck

with an asshole.

Your kid will end

up an asshole too.

A horrible way to live life

surrounded by all

these assholes.
Gay Friend

Louie CK said if you

think you're going too slow

on stage, slow down.

That logic goes for

a lot of things.

If you think your

friend is gay

then he's probably

super gay.

Start wearing

rainbow flags around

them, talking liberal stuff.

It's a sweet gesture.
Bayley Logic

Bayley was mentally ill.

She loved eggs in the

morning more than anything.

"MMMM," she yelled.

If you gave her eggs after

any other time she'd

throw that shit out.

"That's not for now," she'd say.

She was right.

They never gave

Bayley enough credit for that.

What a deranged bunch

those who have

their eggs after 11 a.m. are.
Dog Cheeks

She loved that dog.

"Come here little

kitten-face."

She smooshed his cheeks

and pet his head.

What a wonderful

dog

* Tail Wags *
Relations To The Writing

Jeffrey knew when someone

was full of shit.

"The best part of writing in the

morning is that well-caffeinated

dump," he'd tell anyone who tried

to relate to him as a writer.

If they looked at him like a

mad man he knew.

He knew they weren't

REALLY writers.

There are little nuances we

all share and the last thing

we relate on is at a creative level.

All our ideas are different.
Taboo Love

"Mama. Dada had his friend over.

"She looked like you but had

a thing like daddy."

Mariel shit-talked her ex-husband

for leaving her for a Trans Lady.

"Fucking queer," she said to

her friends at work.

Sam was finally happy

though - away from that bad

attituded lady he lived

with for ten-years.

Sally treated him well.

She satisfied him too - who

cares if the world thought

their relationship was taboo.

The world saw his relationship

with Mariel as "normal" but

it was anything but that.
End For The Daredevil

"I love your pussy

stink," said Daredevil to the

women in the bar.

This week he got his

walking papers from the

Avengers and he used his

heightened senses to be a

drunken harasser.

"It smells like Xanax and

your daddy," he'd say in

his stupor.

Daredevil never got it

together after that.

He was forever lost - that

documentary on

his life making

it worse when he got a

second chance at fame.
