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Secondary Education for the Moraly Inept

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11/1/06 12:56 pm - trashcanpoet - I'm a little rusty, so I apologize if this sucks.


I sit with your father
At a table
In a diner
In a wasteland of strip malls
On the West Side
Where people like him never go
Unless they're hunting down
The lost and the stolen
Property line drawn like razor wire
My kind on this side
His on the other
He crosses the line
For you.
The stubble on his cheeks is a measure
Of how long you've been gone.
We sit at our table
Like sparring blue jays
Fighting for every kernel and crumb
Of truth you left us
We spread our scraps on the Formica surface
And peck them apart
Searching for
We push food listlessly
Around on Styrofoam plates
Half-chewed into the shapes of
Continents that don't exist
Places you might be now
Charting the ridges of egg blossoming into
Hills of yellow mustard
Lakes of cold coffee
The exact color of
The reflection of your eyes.
Maybe you found the sun at last
Bright as the dregs of orange juice
In a half-crumpled paper cup
Leaning ever so slightly
Toward my heart.
You gravitate there.
We leave wrinkled bills and scattershot coins
An offering to the gods of
Continents that don't exist
And coffee sludge and parking-lot puddles
That may one day
Sail you home....

9/18/06 01:22 am - dead_kitty - perhaps you could help?

Help the poor, retarded writer?

This might be able to be cut in some places. Your suggestions are welcome.

My Husband Changes the Subject

My husband demands I scratch his back again, hard this time, with my fingernails, like I mean it.

But I’m bored already, trying to avoid the scab where the saddle rubbed him raw, watching our large pink cat at the window, stuck in an impossible yoga pose, cleaning himself. My husband calls the pink cat vulgar, we have the most vulgar cats! he shouts. I keep scratching half-heartedly and my husband tosses his forelock out of his eyes, asks me who’s the best person in the room, no, not just the room, the whole apartment building! I answer that I am, of course, and he exclaims, no, it’s me! And then he asks who is the craziest person in the room and I poke him with my nose, breath in that deep scratchy scent of hay and dung, and say, the pink cat, and if not him, perhaps the little quick black one.

My husband shouts, No! It’s you! You are the most, the most, the most craziest of them all! and I poke him a little harder, this time with my elbow, and I say, No! It’s you! and he says, No, you! and this goes on for about ten minutes, my hand and arm getting tired from all the scratching

My husband changes the subject suddenly: Who has the biggest ass? But I mean, the biggest, biggest ass? So big you can’t fit out the door? So big it eclipses the sun? It has its own zip code?

And I pause, rest my check against the white spot along his ribs, the part I say looks like Bush, but he claims is the county map of Santa Clara, and I say, hmmm. Me?

Yes, he says, It’s so big! Big and splendid!

He then jumps up and stomps his right hoof, once, twice, lifting it way high up, and yells, Everybody dance!

He shakes his enormous haunches in a spastic rhythm, left, right, front, the cats hiss and flee -- he looks like he might never stop.

9/14/06 01:10 am - dead_pony_ink - should i totally delete it?

it still needs a lot of work with periods/punctuation/line break type stuff, but my biggest question is am i being totally blind just because this is about brian?  does it totally suck?  k thanx.

because it will snow soon

and the snow will come down


like mirrors into little worlds

that end and begin at our finger tips


full of the secrets of doorways

and the distance between


our dreams and the world we walk around in

with our daytime bodies.


because leaves have a way of telling you

that death is the eternal savior,


come to gnaw away all of our faults

our misconceptions,


our erratic and ill conceived injustices

because happiness is a car ride


to a man in a sport coat 3000 miles away

and each mile is a marker


for what you are leaving behind.

because every choice we make in this life


is a distinct division between

what we want and what we wanted


and worlds divide like orchid seeds

to sprout something new and unexpected



9/9/09 04:30 pm - dead_pony_ink - What you need to be down with if you want to join our girls club

The Language of the Brag

I have wanted excellence in the knife-throw,
I have wanted to use my exceptionally strong and accurate arms
and my straight posture and quick electric muscles
to achieve something at the center of a crowd,
the blade piercing the bark deep,
the haft slowly and heavily vibrating like the cock.

I have wanted some epic use for my excellent body,
some heroism, some American achievement
beyond the ordinary for my extroardinary self,
magnetic and tensile, I have stood by the sandlot
and watched the boys play.

I have wanted courage, I have thought about fire
and the crossing of waterfalls, I have dragged around

my belly big with cowardice and safety,
stool charcoal from the iron pills,
huge breasts leaking colostrum,
legs swelling, hands swelling,
face swelling and reddening, hair
falling out, inner sex
stabbed again and again with pain like a knife.
I have lain down.

I have lain down and sweated and shaken
and passed blood and shit and water and
slowly alone in the center of a circle I have
passed the new person out
and they have lifted the new person free of the act
and wiped the new person free of that
language of blood like praise all over the body.

I have done what you wanted to do, Walt Whitman,
Allen Ginsberg, I have done this thing,
I and the other women this exceptional
act with the exceptional heroic body,
this giving birth, this glistening verb,
and I am putting my proud American boast
right here with the others.

So if you can't dig that shit you should probably leave before the feminists rape you.  If you're cool with it, come join our little crew.
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