poems – aMediocreMan

political limericks

“Barry”

There once was a man named Obama
His daddy was black not his mamma
He won the election
Cuz of his off-white complexion
Now all of the whities are in trauma

“Rush”
There once was a man named Rush Limbaugh
He turned into a pill eating dildo
But his maid did tell
When her check didn’t swell
And off to rehab did he go

“The Reverend”
There once was a reverend named Jackson
Who walked the fine lines of attraction
His dick it did stray
To another woman they say
Now his wife gets the last satisfaction

pelicans

Finishing a beer, standing on my hotel balcony looking into the Atlantic Ocean, beautiful.

Several pelicans were flying by, gliding in unison, almost looking at me.

Every time I see a pelican I think about my grandfather. He loved pelicans. They were his favorite birds.

I can’t help but think that it’s him flying above the water, watching me, wishing to hug me again. Wishing he could give me advice again. Because his advice was always fucking great.

Wishing to sit with me again and enjoy a cold “Green Hornet,” that was his nickname for Heineken.

He was an intelligent man.

He was a great man.

His heart was true.

He was real.

I miss him more than anyone will know.

Tonight, I look into my hotel mirror, a couple tears rolling down, wishing I could be more like him.

Because he was real.

I have so far to go, so fucking far

to be as good as him.

beach bar- (florida east coast)

(This is a crappy bar I go to sometimes while working. It’s always an incredible trainwreck and I can’t stop going. I know I’m an asshole, thanks.)

It’s a Wednesday night around 7:30.

Barback– guy with American flag bandana, dancing behind the bar, throwing his lighter in the air like a drunk Muppet, trying to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but he’s fucking not at Burning Man

Bartender– cute, but worn, searching for something more, she could do better than this. She meanders behind the bar languidly, like a beaten puppy, just hoping for some decent drunk to pet her and scratch behind her ear.

Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, talking to one of the regulars at the bar, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck-up, if they only knew…..

New couple- sits next to me at the bar, she’s cute, but you can tell the husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching about wanting a frozen drink, fat husband remains indifferent to her bitching. She’s definitely tired of his dick, sad because he actually seems like a nice guy, but damn she’s such a bitch. Continue reading “beach bar- (florida east coast)”

An ode to Mountain Dew

According to Wikipedia, in 1940 two Tennessee beverage bottlers named Barney and Ally Hartman invented the formula for Mountain Dew.

Below is my tribute to those two fine men:

I walked into the 7-11 and quickly made my way to the back of the store where the drink coolers are located. Immediately, I could see it staring back at me.

The 12-ounce, green canned goddess looking into my eyes.

It was screaming, “Touch me, open me, drink me down you dirty boy. I won’t quench your thirst, but I taste so good, so slippery and so sugary. Everyone is drinking me, just take me, take me now.”

I couldn’t resist, I grabbed it and jumped to the cashier and butted in front of an old lady with blue hair and a walker. I couldn’t wait.

Beads of sweat began trickling down my forehead towards my nose. The cashier looked at me like I was a crack or meth head looking for my next hit. Well, she wasn’t that far off.

Much like meth addiction, if I continue my assault on these green canned goddesses, my teeth are sure to start dropping out of my mouth indiscriminately.

She scanned the bar-code, “that will be $1.06 please,” she said as she annoyingly chewed her gum and twirled her poorly bleached blond hair. Continue reading “An ode to Mountain Dew”

red, white and boo

I see your Katie Perry

And I raise you Beyonce.

What ever happened to real art, like the Fat Boys?

Now, just splendid drivel cascading from the youthful mouth

Texting, sexting, pursed lips and Jersey Shore dreams.

Find China on a map? Fuck You, I’m getting my nails done at 3.

Be careful young ones, the noodles and puppy nuggets are coming to a store near you.

I see your E Hollywood News

And raise you Dancing With the Stars.

Posting every mundane bit of your daily shit for all to see

Facebook, Twitter, Insta, Snapchatting your fucking life away

My eyes; dried and burnt from your “Do you like me?” poll.

Keep your pom poms clean and your cell phone charged.

I see your De-evolution

And go all in with your soul

Shouldn’t be difficult to call my bet

You are another failed demographic, another vapid target market.

melt (Glee on Ice)

I wish, I could produce

Glee on ice

I would heat the ice pieces

And watch them fall like cute, teen-aged bowling pins

Struck down by the real world to the ice below

Then I would scoop up the shattered pieces

into my extra large pan

And lock them in a vault

Forever.

in San Fran

parade First trip to San Fran, first trip to Cali, first trip to the Left Coast

Too scared to stay outside the financial district,

my pussy wasn’t ready for that cherry pop.

I like to hang around the less smelly creatures when I travel to big cities,

That whole piss, patchouli dread-locked stink doesn’t appeal to my golden spoon upbringing.

San Fran is a different breed;

More Asians than you could throw a noodle at

More homeless than New York

More trendy than Miami

Oddly polite, like how white people treat other white people in the deep south

Did the good society thing and went to the SFMOMA and stared at some cool artwork with meanings I will never understand

After that, Wifey and I started drinking at the Hyde Out, a local bar with plenty of flavor; Continue reading “in San Fran”

ready for the asteroid

When the horrible day arrives

the clouds will blacken and melt

a searing, tumbling ball of rock

will head our way

We will finally all understand our smallness

I will crawl into my roach skin costume

and hide between the walls

Because roaches, I’m told, will survive

email #10

Email #10

Hi, it’s me again

I know, another email

Can I

be your friend?

just click “accept friend request”

it’s online, safe like your gated community

no realness, no weekend barbecues

no disjointed, clumsy

bar stool meet n greet

where you flip

your bleached hair

5, 10, 15 times

and pretend to look into my eyes

between Miller Lites and Jameson shots

thoughts dusted with cigarette ash

no excited stumbling

back to my place

where soiled sheets don’t matter

your hooker skirt doesn’t matter

but your unbathed, glowing cunt

breathes freedom around my cock

just click “accept friend request”

email #10

extra mayo

steak When I asked for extra mayo on the side, she stared at me with those banjo eyes. You know the eyes I mean.

The eyes that seem to be much farther apart than they should be. Eyes that have watched cousins touch each other in the dark, warm areas only non-relatives should be allowed to touch.

Her quizzical expression reminded me of how a squirrel’s mind must feel when it crosses the road in front of a car safely, then darts back from where he came from. But her expression was far less urgent than the squirrel narrowly escaping death.

“Extra mayo? You sure about that,” she said with a southern baptist twang.

“Absolutely dear. Haven’t you ever had mayo on a philly cheese steak?” I answered a bit angrily.

And why did she give a shit about my mayo ordering habits? After all, this was an Applebees in the deep south and not exactly a bastion for health nuts. I naturally assumed that mayo was quite popular here. Continue reading “extra mayo”