About Pussies

It is completely absurd that

people use the word “pussy”

As a symbol for weakness

and cowardice.

A woman’s pussy is tougher

And more gallant

Than any man who has ever lived.

Our entire species

depends

on pussies dilating

--often ripping--

in order to usher in the next generation

of human beings.

You could lay a path

from the Earth to the Moon

and back again

a hundred times over

using only the vaginal tears

of the unimaginably resilient

and courageous women

who have faced this horror,

but still,
we have the nerve

--the sheer fucking audacity--

to refer to pussies

as symbols for the
weak and cowardly.

Meanwhile,

we use “balls” as a symbol

of strength and courage

when they are actually the most

sensitive and

vulnerable real-estate in

the observable universe.

It’s just

unconscionable.

What We Do

I was at my dad’s apartment

when my sister called to tell us

that my mother was Stage 4

and the doctor’s only gave her

6 months left to live.

My father and I looked at each other

and without one word

we immediately,

and simultaneously,

began cleaning his apartment.

I took the coffee table.

It was littered with coins and

half-eaten packs of mint Rolaids.

He took the carpet next to the front door,

gathered up his dirty clothes,

wound an orange extension cord around his arm

which had been tangled against the wall

and plugged into nothing.

I picked a book up off the table.

Can’t remember what.

Probably Clancy.

The pages were warped by time and weather.

I tried to close it

But it wanted to stay open and contorted.

We didn’t cry then.

That’s not what we do.

We fix things.

And by God, we’d fix this.

We’d organize all those coins

into tightly pressed rolls

fit for a bank deposit.

We’d plug that extension cord into something useful

And iron out those unkempt Clancy pages.

Then we’d do the dishes

And the laundry

And paint the walls

And steam clean the carpet.

Then we’d get fucking serious.

We’d take it outside.

Sweep up all the deserts.

Towel off all the oceans.

Organize the stars into a nice sensible grid.

We’d take all the chaos

And give it structure,

Give it meaning,

Finally make some sense of this goddamn madness

Once and for all.

Because that’s what we do.

Period.

The period is

by far

my favorite

punctuation.

Commas are so neurotic,

so unsure of themselves,

always needing something extra to add,

something to rephrase,

so fucking afraid that they haven’t put it

quite right

Or said enough.

Noncommittal pussies.

Dashes are like children

constantly interrupting

while adults are trying to have

a real conversation.

No. You may not say just one more thing really quick.

You just interrupted someone

who knows about a billion times more than you.

Shut the fuck up and wait your turn.

Someday you might grow up

And be a real sentence someday

But until then

Stay outta my goddamn way.

You little shit.

Semi-colons are like that dude

at that party

who’s covered in cat hair

and totally up his own ass

And he’s like, “Oh, I know this thing,

Aren’t I sooooo fucking smart?”

And you’re like, “Whatever, dude.”

Pompous douchebag.

Then you’ve got the contemptible parenthesis,

A punctuation

designed specifically

to be ignored.

The exact fucking opposite of what writing

should aspire to be.

Be bold, parentheses.

Be vital.

Stand up for yourself.

Refuse to be ignored.

Own the sentence you’re standing in,

You limp dick fuck.

Then there’s a whole bunch

Of other punctuations

I’ll skip

‘cause fuck it.

Exclamation points and ellipses

Are better than the rest

But they do call attention

To themselves

And tend to overstay their welcome.

Question marks are the worst.

Anyone can ask a question.

Questions risk nothing.

Writing that doesn’t

risk anything

is worthless.

Dare to make statements.

Dare to be wrong.

Dare to be ridiculed.

Dare to give people
good reasons
to hate you.

Dare to look like a pretentious, egotistical, narcissistic, regressive, shallow, heartless, pathetic asshole.

Dare to be human

and put a period at the end
of your goddamn sentence.

Because I Must

Death is like basketball.

Put better,

Death is like a basketball 

hitting you 

in your big stupid face.

You’re playing the game

And someone passes you the ball

But you don’t
see it coming

And the second 

before the ball smacks you

in your big stupid face

you look up

You see it

but there’s not a
goddamn thing 

you can do about it.

And it’s unfair.

And it’s going to suck.

And some people will care.

And some people won't.

And that 

will be 

that.

No words can compare to
the movement of a
spiraling basketball
ripping through the air like a comet

headed straight for
your dome
to so perfectly articulate
one very specific message.

This is
fucking
happening.

And in that second 

you understand
perfectly

beyond words

beyond reason

beyond even
thought

the futility of every plan

you've ever made

or action

you've ever taken because

from day one

this was your 

immutable destiny


The ball
was always on its way
to you.

You understand
in an instant that
everything has led up to this

and it has all ready happened

and it will continue
happening

forever and ever

and it is equally
hilarious and tragic

but you will not feel like
laughing or crying

you will only

accept.

A Million Dollars In Jewelry

This time wasn’t staged.

This time was real.

A real 13-year-old boy

was shot in the back

by a real 9mm pistol

and for once

it wasn’t just a flesh wound.

He won’t be getting back up.

He won’t be coming back

bathed in white light

LIVE

Via satellite from Heaven

to reassure you that everything

will be okay as long

as you follow your heart.

His mother will

receive no

Best Actress Award

for her grief.

She will give no

acceptance speeches

or wear a million dollars

in jewelry.

His father won't

go on a rock ‘n roll revenge spree,

tracking down the killer

with lame puns

and long action sequences

set to techno.

This time there won’t be

anything

artistically redeeming.

This time

the credits

will be

empty.

And he didn’t have any

Grand epiphanies

before he died.

He just kind of died.

Just like you will

Just like I will.

Just like everybody.

The real world

isn’t concerned

with plot arches

or dynamic characters.

Nature

will get blood

the perfect shade of red

every single time.

Your Guardian Angel

It’s true.

What you heard.

All true.

We tapped her phone.

She calls him during her lunch breaks.

Just to talk.

He doesn’t mind.

We bugged her bedroom.

They haven’t done everything

yet.

He’s a decent enough guy.

You might have even liked him

under

different

circumstances.

Yesterday at work

she rang up a customer 

who smelled just like 

you.

After he left

she took her fifteen-minute break

and cried in her car

The whole time.

Just thought you’d like to know.

The Preacher

You can usually find him

inside the old downtown

train tunnel.

At his feet will be

a jug of water.

In his hand,

a Bible.

He won’t rant to you about

the end of the world

Or ask for your money.

This preacher will just stand

in his tunnel

with his supplies

and express a love

for Jesus

in an honest,

Almost touching way.

Sometimes

he sings hymns

which I’m positive

he’s making up as he goes.

Other times

he baptizes staggering tourists

as they pass by

on their way to the

Little Nugget.

(That’s what the jug of water

is for)

There’s a fanny pack under his

protruding gut;

its bright yellow color,

a relic of the 1980s.

No object,

article of clothing,

or hair dye

will ever be manufactured

with this

reckless shade of yellow

ever again.

The only thing in the entire

physical world

that shares this fanny pack’s hue

are the lights

lining each of the casinos

here in Reno.

And that’s when it finally hits me.

This man.

This town.

They’re made for each other.

It’s a leather-bound Bible

with whiskey-stained pages

And more quotable lines than The Big Lebowski.

It’s a jug of holy water

with a gallon full of hope

And a blue Save Mart label on the side

It’s a tiny yellow light

That blinks like Crazy George

And replaces all the stars in the sky.

It’s a preacher

who doesn’t want to save you.

It’s a town

that doesn’t need saving.