The Bad Tenant

You are a bad attitude: an irresponsible tenant with 6 rabid pitbulls

who shit everywhere & you never clean it up because you like it.

At first I invited you in to rent this place—affordable to you, extra

income to me so it would be a symbiotic relationship. Idealistic.

You’re delinquent on the rent & every month I threaten you to pay

& you rarely do. I’d kick you out but I feel sorry for you & I’m not sure

if anyone else would rent out this Dump. I’ve meant to fix

the septic sump that discharges shit water into the backyard

& the hole in roof that was caused when God sent His

lightning bolt plummeting to punish you, but since you irk me

& shirk our agreement, I let you & your 6 beasts live in this shithole,

like leeches, for free.

You scattered the broken articles of your holidays past upon the

barren ground, all the grass & flowers (of the front “lawn”) dug up

& pawned off so you could buy more fixer-upper junk to hoard.

You shattered most of the dirty windows with your bad juju

& I nailed boards over them.  Like a good landlord.

Now termite eaten, they’re Godholes, portholes, empty eye sockets

that the whole neighborhood can see straight back into & judge

the blackness of your Dump surroundings where the bulls are chewing

on stray cat bodies & drinking CLR toilet water & the longer you live here,

the more trashy, stinking, & cavernous your aura & the Dump become.

This property has been devalued—no one will ever want it.

But what will I do with the place since you’re gone? Without the darkness,

light exposes the dusty, dingy surfaces. The relief of your departure lasted

only until I realized this Dump is empty & now the ephemerality of joy

makes my temples pound. At least I could depend on you.

You might have been a piece of shit, a bad tenant, but at least the

putrid negativity was dependable.

Without you, who will be my scapegoat &

who will victimize me?

Without you, the stanchions that are your stench & bitterness

don’t support this dilapidated Dump.

Without you, it’s empty, then caves in on itself.

Happy Valentine's Day

I.

Squashed crabapples on doorsteps,

brains & seeds & outer skins in shattered chunks,

worthless, inedible fruits,

abandoned for someone else to collect & throw “away”

with the rubbish, out of sight, but still existing

in a different form in the purgatory

of don’t love you but won’t let you go.

You’ll never reach Nirvana.

You’re someone else’s problem to deal with.

II.

Slumped cheeks & humped spine

is leaving the eleventh interview knowing

that the rejection email she’ll receive is directly correlated to:

The shiny spot on her forehead, her subpar college degree, & not enough solid experience kissing ass & rubbing elbows w/ the privileged.

Same reasons no guys approach her,

when she's ready & willing to fuck, at the bar or the library.

Back at home, where she lives with mom & dad,

she pops open a bottle of whiskey, bottle of Valium,

counts out fifty-two, fifty three, then three Phenergan.

To be safe. Then that’s it. No more.

III.

It doesn’t have the words to tell you

what it felt like, but I do.

I don’t know how it feels but I know what I saw.

First fork prongs pressed against the meat,

blood pushed out the sponge, medium rare.

This steak was on a Styrofoam plate, then the

Saran wrap torn off . $5.95/lb. Chuck-eye.

Born & raised in the USA:

shot up w/ antibiotics so it wouldn’t

catch sickness from other sick ones.

All alive, but atrophying in the dark warehouse

the zombie livestock didn’t have much

cognitive capability, still—nerve endings functioned

as it rode, strapped on a conveyor belt then

blunt force, it was knocked out. Eyes open

watching but unable to move away from

the protuberance, fast, and between the eyes

then blackness.

Not dead yet but black & only pain.

No more moo’s.

Then into the grinder to be shredded alive.

We'll All Be Cold Corpses

Give me a kiss before you leave me.

I see each person & I know

each will die,

I picture them dead,

withered, pasty, and grey.

Your currently bright & gorgeous

blue-eyed, electric to my soul, face—

bloodless, blue, cold, soul gone.

My brown-eyed Susan who emanates

compassion & agape, uplifts everyone—

bloodless, breathless, spirit elsewhere.

And the waitress, the pianist,

that bitch I don’t know…

will all be cold corpses.

And it makes me want to treat you all better,

myself better.

Life is impermanent,

all the more special.

Winter Love Poem: You're My Heaterbox Baby

For J.R.C.

The icicles on the willow danced & the heaterbox hummed.

You’re my heaterbox honey and your blood is hot,

the sweetest whistled harmony, you’re my wound’s blood clot.

You’re my heaterbox baby and your blood’s boiling hot,

you’re like gold on my soul, you make my eyes bloodshot,

while dilated, stark open, so I can look at you til time collapses.

Addicted, perpetual & unavoidable relapses, because you

warm me from the outside in and make my idle mind spin

nightly, fantasizing about you, my heated blankie.

You’re my yellow-letter hoodie-wearing vampire,

awake at 5 am in the dark. The winter is your season

if for no other reason than short days, long nights.

 I see the breath from your dear Whistles,

as they’re fluttering out your pursed lips

in perfect harmony. You’re winter squash with sweet honey.

Shovel scrapes the driveway, winter crackling, still silent.

I plug you into the wall, I turn you high. Even when you

come in from the cold, your skin is hot. Heaterbox.