The Only Life I Ever Intentionally Ruined

I grew up in a hard-hitting white-knuckle town, where the boy scouts burned crosses in people’s yards for impure blood and got badges for it.  My principle was the head of the KKK and they expelled the local faggot because when they’s throwin’ pennies at him, he was the reason for all that unruly behavior.  And we were some hard-hitting faggots who didn’t take no guff from nobody, penny-welts and all.  Nobody gives a shit out there, and can’t reach out far enough for a hand to tell us it’s all… going to be…okay…and that’s the daily American life for most of us, alone and on the defensive.  And then I just couldn’t do it anymore.

Some faggot-hating freshman leaned over on the school bus home on the wrong day at the wrong time, when I told him the truth.  Quarterback Jim was boning my good gay friend on the sidelines.  Gay Jason called Quarterback Jim from my house, and I listened in.  Wildfire took notes on how to spread more quickly from a maelstrom of teenage gossip.  By five o’clock, a posse arrived at my mother’s house, though I no longer lived there.  I very nearly skipped school the next day, but decided to get at it with all the chagrin of the doomed.

Thrown into High School Politics, I denied outing myself—for it would merely discredit me in the eyes of thine enemy. Teachers could barely maintain control during my classes as I fielded the PR catastrophe of outing Gay Jason, which was no secret to anyone—for he boned  every dude at that school, except for me of course.  As my credibility was attacked, my first failed love turned turned against me, telling everyone I wanted him to pee in my butt.  Since Internet porn had yet to prove this impossible, I sprung this physical impossibility on my health teacher.  “Coach, is it possible to pee in someone’s butt?”  Flustered, and knowing every detail about the current scandal said simply, “No.  That’s impossible.”  I thanked him in front of my detractors, proving my lover-turned-hater a complete idiot.

We ate silently while flecks of cooked carrots came our way until Quarterback Jim came at us in a fury of curses as his close friend, camping neighbor, and wrestling partner, Wrestler Armando pulled Quarterback Jim suspiciously away from us.  Wrestler Armando told the fallen star it just wasn’t worth it.  Wrestler Armando now fell into question aswell, sending everyone into a Lavender scare: suddenly everyone was gay. But yeah, Armando was totally tappin’ that, too.  We left the outed football player in tears and walked through the gymnasium and into the loudest hate rally ever: pennies chimed off the basketball court and deafened louder than any pep rally or homecoming game win.  At the other end of the hall, our stout Principal waited, arms crossed and scowling because of the mess we made, and forbade us from ever coming into the gymnasium again.

We had to run home that day, chased by a pitchfork-wielding mob.  Everyone has pitchforks in the Midwest.

Coach pulled the football team aside at practice and said, “Not anymore.  Kids die from stuff like this and what you are doing is very illegal.  If I hear so much of a word to those kids from you, you’re not only off the football team, but you’re expelled for the rest of the year.”  Looks like Coach wasn’t all bad.  He didn’t even bust us for having such a good time playing baseball after smoking weed in the parking lot.  We were enjoying sports, finally.

Well, Gay Jason ended up on the Ricki Lake Show.  Wrestler Armando got married, had two kids, works at a fitness center and goes camping with his buddies.  A lot.  Quarterback Jim was the most scorned man in high school, unable to get laid his senior year and throughout most of his college—too gay for the girls and too much of a hypocrite for the boys, what there were of us.  I sometimes feel bad about ruining his life, but it just goes to show Quentin Crisp was right:  Some roughs are really queer, and some queers are really rough.

ARRR!

Once upon a time, my pirate father and I were stranded on an island.   He had a bag of rations, as did I.  After three weeks,  I killed him.  Only natural for an eight year old.  When I ravaged his rations, I only found stones in his bags.  When I ate him, I understood sacrifice and never stopped sacrificing.

The Forty Year Old Hipster

That tandem bike you’re riding alone after you broke up with your bartender girlfriend really takes you down a notch, don’t it? And your blazer with the elbow pads and Buddy Holly glasses (or as you call them “elvis costello glasses”) just make you look like an even more undateable, pathetic douchebag.  Say hi to all those neighbors you have in shittown, buddy.

Catering at The Consuuuuurvatory

In my white dinner jacket, I avoid the lusty attempted eyeraping of misinformed cougars.  Sadly, they are dairy cows to milk.  They could never survive in the wild.

Whore envy #2

Oh, the ex-boyfriend that I never got over, why do you poke me?  Do you do so to rekindle what we had together that you gave up for a college crush who left you out to dry and which my wrath will delete you from my friend list for ever?  Are you starting a slow burn to put this bitch In heat? It doesn’t matter.   Delete, my long lost love, where we can be eternally in each other’s trash bins and finally agree on something.

Whore envy

His dick is so big, his foreskin is partially digested.  He gets so much ass, you need a colostomy bag to keep up.  He’s so versatile, you might as well fuck a Swiss army knife.  (ugh) He’s such a cunt, his tongue doubles as a maxi pad.  And it’s so about him, you better be his autobiography.

Catering poem #12

And here, you sit in some tunnel forgotten by god, hoarding food like light starved vermin, hissing about the length of a break eating lukewarm chicken in a graveyard of dreams, concocted by hateful immigrants too ambitious to wake up.  I pass no judgementfor I too am suc an undertaker of dreams, channel surfing with one eye open.  The lighting is bad and I sit on the bleached tile in the shadows.  They can’t get you when you slouch, protecting the queer shoulder from being flayed by the wheel, fired for being a poet.  The grand hall is em pty.  Only then will I dance.

You Are Not Going To Date Me

Look dude, you are so pretty you actually make a mockery of beauty. You’re like a Hobbit eating an Ice cream cone in a bunny suit on a pony surrounded by hula hooping corgi puppies. I just can’t take you seriously. And you don’t have to keep telling me you’re 19.  I get it.