Hookers or Cake

A Charlie Bronson Thanksgiving (aka Death wish VII)

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Please take 10 secs to watch this vid. Tis a declaration of my love for thee.

Warmest Regards - Hookers or Cake

Walt Whitman was a drag queen
who danced down at the Manhole
he roared the gay grape meat of his heart
all over the entire joint
six nights a week

The building eventually had to be condemned
Uncle Walts love broke down the mortar in the walls
on a subatomic level
a vibration that barked and danced
in the heart of all things

like fisting all the moons of Jupiter
on a Sunday afternoon.

When world famous magician Doug Henning was on his death bed he asked for his old magicians top hat. It was the first magic prop he’d bought when he was a little kid. Everyone gathered around for what he said would be his last magic trick.

With much fanfare and showmanship he twirled the hat around showing everyone that it was empty. He then reached inside and after a long dramatic pause sprung forth his empty hand out of the hat. “TA-DA!” he said with a stupid grin, with tears in his eyes. And then he died.

No one at funerals realize
all the unfulfilled dreams
and desire
seep and slip from the dead
into our lives

Your grandmothers corpse
a trojan horse
full of gin and secret nights of
unfulfilled passion

It belongs to you now

Dancing into the early morning
circling town drunk on the train
looking for an address that no longer exists

Sometimes I don’t understand America. Things were so much simpler in Poland. For instance when one would go to the zoo, you’d give the man at the gate 10 Zloty and he’d take you back into a darkened room and ask you what kind of animal you wanted to see. You’d say, “A wolf?” and an attractive woman would come in and slap you. “You dumb mother fucker,” she’d say, “there are no wolves in a zoo!” and then she’d spit on you and leave.

When I was a small child my father told me that farting made humans run faster. So whenever I had to fart I’d run fast as I could. I never had many friends.

Of course I forgot all about this until I tried to suppress a fart at my fathers funeral.

The memory and the silliness combined with the horror of the moment overwhelmed me. I started crying, running, and farting. I sprinted circles around my family at the graveyard until I just started laughing. I finally tripped over a gravestone and flew into the air just as I let a big one rip… I never landed.

The Trouble With Chester

I’m working on a spec script for a cartoon show about a dead raccoon named Chester. Chester lies dead on the back porch of a model home in an abandoned gated community. The model home is fully furnished with a thoroughly modern kitchen. There is a small child robot floor sweeper that befriends Chester and together the learn all sorts of life lessons. Most of the lessons center around the finality of death and the roaring void because Chester doesn’t say or do anything, as he is dead and rotting.

Though there will be some fun song and dance numbers done by the maggots living in Chester’s body. And heart touching songs that the robot child sings into the void.

Last spring I went down to that new church by the river.

Everyone just looked at their I-phones while the minister

gulped hot coffee and screamed at gods crotch

I was still heartbroken over losing Tammy

but I was happy

I’d decided to go to the old steakhouse after church

to have myself a nice steak dinner and a few highballs

then I’d blow my brains out while I rode the mechanical bull

But once I got a bellyfull of whiskey and drew my revolver, riding that bull

…ohh the screams!

I still get hard when I think about it.

I used to draw when I was a small child. I drew mostly hot rods, gun fights and monsters. But one day it dawned on me, if I wanted too, I could draw boobs. Oh boy, I got pretty excited. Duh! Why didn’t I think of this before?

So I hid under the kitchen table with a stack off paper and my pencil. There was a great silence in the cosmos. Never had a vision of ones destiny been so clear. I bowed my head and the silence listened for the roar. “I will draw boobs!” shouted consciousness in its singular declaration of being.

And thus the master set off to collect his bounty. But oh what great darkness is this? Why dost the gods make me a butcher? I could not draw boobs! I could draw circles with dots in them. I could draw w’s with little eyes on them. I could draw a half circle with a  raisin upon it. But none of these were boobs! Dejected, I stormed off in search of my bubble pipe. Oh cruel vale of tears…

As I stood on the veranda studying the horizon, the neighbor girl walked by. She was a bright eyed giggler full of inwoven springs and tight jostling things that made my mind weak. I could barely breathe. I knew right then I would spend the rest of life being a slave until I became the master, the master of boobs. I turned around and went right back inside, TO WORK!

and there was my mother. She was looking at my boob drawings. Oh shit. The noose hath slipped round my neck.

“Why are you practicing the alphabet?” she asked.

What? She doesn’t know, she thinks I…

“I just like letters?” I said.

“Oh - well, pick up your toys its time for supper.”

That was the moment that I learned incompetency can save your ass. And I thought, perhaps it better to master a different art form.