Are boring. And that's what gets you
into trouble. Out of sheer boredom
you drink too much, hit on women
with boyfriends, start arguments
about politics that turn into fights
and, toward the end of the night,
grow maudlin. You cry in your beer,
blubber over how your life
has been one big failure and,
eventually, drunk as a skunk, you puke
all over your shoes, slink off
to your apartment, pass out on the floor
and wake up the next morning
with a shiner and a hangover
wondering what in the hell happened.

Sure, I win my fair share
And more of Scrabble games
And, yes, I’m the one who keeps score
But it’s not just that.

Nearly every day I practice
Drawing tiles for an hour or so

So, when I draw good letters
On my way to victory,
I think of how all that hard work
And preparation is paying off for me.

Nope. Don’t want to hear
Any more about ‘em.

If you talk about a laundry list,
It better be about ***** clothes.

If you say you put a nickel
In the piggy bank
It better be about your latest deposit.

And if you tell me you’re riding the tiger,
I’ll say you **** well better
Have a saddle.

The song that got me,
The song that captured
My imagination, the song
I played again and again
And again—

Now, I can’t stand
To listen to it.

Let's not kid ourselves,
it's a vice. Not
as destructive as snorting coke
or repulsive as Big Game
Trophy hunting but still a vice.

A quick high
that quickly wears off
followed by gloom
and postpartum depression.

Craving.
Hit.
High.
Withdrawal.
Depression.

The cycle repeats
ad nauseam.

Tried to quit.
So did you.

Sound familiar?

A live lobster.
A *** of boiling water.

Don't do it.

In Heaven, they spell your name correctly.

In Heaven, you have your own parking space.

In Heaven, you don't need a spam filter on your computer.

In Heaven, there are no sprained ankles or torn ACLs.

In Heaven, they play Tori Amos songs.

In Heaven, you neither sweat nor bleed.

In Heaven, there are no concussions.

In Heaven, there are no flat tires.

In Heaven, there is no male pattern baldness.

In Heaven, *** is optional and always consensual.

In Heaven, crutches, walkers and wheelchairs are superfluous.

In Heaven, meat is grown in a lab.

In Heaven, there are no guns.

In Heaven, the mailmen are friendly.

In Heaven, there are no brass knuckles.

In Heaven, the dogs do not bite.

In Heaven, the pharmacy is always open.

In Heaven, there are no hangovers.

In Heaven an afternoon nap is de rigueur.

In Heaven, we're all BFF.

What shocked her most
was how angry they were,
as if her very existence was offensive.

The gang of armed men
and their dogs hunted her down,
cornered her in an abandoned shack
outside of the city proper.

They dragged her by the hair,
ziptied her hands,
as if she were a threat,
as if she could fight back.

They beat and defiled her,
then put a bullet in the back of her head,
dismembered her body,
cut up the pieces and scattered them
across a fallow field.

A year passed before
they allowed her loved ones
to search for her remains.

When her family came to the field,
to everyone's great surprise,
all they could see was green.

I

I think it a clever
pre-emptive move when
I order him a vest
with the stitched message:

"Please Don't Kick The Dog."

No need to tell you
how that works out.

So I take the vest back
to the fire pit and he and I
watch it burn.

                 II

I take my dog for a walk
and, tugging on his leash,
he pulls me along, nose
to the ground, wandering
here, there and everywhere,
stopping now and then
to strategically ***,
living an adventure I can
only remotely share.

                 III

My dog, seated, lifts a leg
to lick himself down there
and looks a little puzzled.

They're gone, of course.

I pat his head,
offer him a meaty treat.

"Sorry Butch," I say,
"I was only following the vet's advice.
Try not to hold it against me,"
then I offer up my hand.

Lick or bite? It's up to him.

This squalling babe
who pukes and poops
and keeps you awake
at night will, one day,
years from now,
and on her own,
hold your frail, dying
hand as you prepare
to depart this world.

Announce a competition, any competition
feature the word "Victory,"
offer a shiny Gold Medal to the winner
and watch them beat a path to your door

***** words on a page.
Edit and rearrange.
Repeat. More *****,
more edit, more rearrange.
Repeat.
Repeat again.
Tack on sassy ending.
Done.

Forget those silly Charmin commercials
Forget the family of bears

When you have mud ****
You can wipe until the end of time
And never get clean

Give up, surrender

And jump in the shower

Three Georgia Crackers
went ++++++  hunting
and bagged themselves
a  ++++++. Not a black man,
not a human being, a  ++++++.

His name was, is Armaud Arbery.
The Crackers did not know
his name that day, nor did they care.
They were proud of themselves.
They thought they got away with it.
The jury thought otherwise.

Thank goodness.

In regards to the incident in question
and its unfortunate aftermath,
I want to assure the public
and anyone directly or indirectly
involved that I have conducted
a thorough and exhaustive investigation
on myself and have come to the conclusion
that I acted entirely properly and that
I consider myself completely and unequivocally
Exonerated, case closed, and thank you very much.

Dear God-Fearing, Pro-Life Evangelicals,

This is why you held your collective noses
and voted for a ******, corrupt, creepy,
money laundering, freeloading,
traitorous sociopath. Your fat, ugly,
***** grabbing, Putin-loving ******
came through for you. Congratulations!

The needle, the vein:
conspirators.

The body, the brain:
accomplices.

The sweet poison:
irresistable.

Ten years of sobriety?
Those good intentions?
A child's balloon
snatched by the wind.
Gone.

Stuck?
Start with "Once upon a time,"
End with "and they lived happily ever after,"
Write some **** inbetween,
Then send if off to The New Yorker.

Now grab a beer, sit back and wait
For the acceptance notification
And a generous contributor’s check.

Dressed in Sunday finery,
Feeling virtuous,
I’m reading the Gospel
And listening to the preacher’s sermon
In my head: "I will think good thoughts.
I will tread the righteous path.
I will avoid sin like the plague—"

But come Saturday night,
Several beers in at the meat market,
I'm thinking otherwise.

You’re not allowed to say it.
You’re not allowed to even think it.
Not when the two thousand pound bombs are yours.