November 2007


Car wins!

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Three Dollar Handjob

There’s a hooker with one arm standing on Polk Street,
Misty Thursday morning and you’re standing on Polk Street,
Spitting bargain rates while you’re standing on Polk Street,
You’re a hooker with one arm and you’re standing on Polk Street,
Your heels are large and tattered; I think you may be a dude.

Interrobang

We kept going,
Shortening running low,
Dehydrated and exhausted
But not tired, oh no
Not that, I keep
Pushing myself into you,
Over and over,
Resist Meth if you must,
I’m-a-gonna tweak-fuck
Until my dick skin’s all gone.

Crowded Spaces

I was fuckin’ you hard, baby,
Verbally, and with my razor
Sharp wit, yeah honey, I was
Givin’ it to you fast and
So sweet, droppin’ into my
Southern accent so easy,
Yeah baby, yeah baby, no
Baby, fuck you, because
I have a microphone,
I’m ampli-fuckin’-fied, and
You’re not getting’ me off
Stage that easy, this is my time,
I’m in front of hundreds,
And if you’re not pumping
My ego, I’ll pump it myself,
Into your fuckin’ blue martini,
Topping off your glass, with
My pearlescent, glutinous liquor.

Yesterday was Halloween. I was at Amnesia, singing “The Meat Song” (I think it’s called “It’s Meat!” but nobody actually calls it that. To those who have heard it, it will forever be “The Meat Song”.) I read some of my Psychotic Love Poetry, too. And for those of you who’ve seen me read the PLP before, I only read seven of them. Fairly short ones, too. All told, they fit on less than three pages. Remember that time I was on stage for almost a half hour reading the poems? This was nothing like that. Five to six minutes at the most. Really. Ask William or Chad or Rachel or Shayna. Fanny and Virginie were there, too, and I didn’t know that they’d be. One of the poems has a line about “la toilette” in it, and as you know, when referring to French in front of the Frenchies, they go wild. They went wild. “La toilette,” I heard, “Ha ha ha hah!”

And then, in the middle of my next poem, I got heckled.

Me.

Do you know how many times I’ve been heckled? Really, actually heckled by a stranger and not Emily or Tiffany or Carrina screaming at me when I’m on stage?

Once. Last night. It was awesome. I don’t know why Michael Richards flipped out and went all racist. Being heckled is empowering. After all … I’m the one with the microphone, right? I mean, have you seen me with a megaphone?

So I’m in the middle of reading a poem, and these three Marina chicks start yelling “Shut the fuck up!”. Which is funny. Because Marina chicks don’t belong in Amnesia on Halloween. So I inserted a “yeah, fuck you” into the next line of the poem I was reading without skipping a beat, and then when I was done, started talking. Because I have the microphone and will get off the stage whenever I damn well please. I rambled. And rambled and made fun of this Euro-trashy guy right up front who wasn’t paying attention to me even when I was calling him out to the entire audience. And then I read two more poems, thanked the audience, and felt like a goddamned rock star when I left the stage.

I think I want to be a stand up comic when I grow up. Who wants to help me write some coherent material?