Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Rick and Donna

I'm pre heating the oven for a pizza when I see my upstairs neighbors, Rick and Donna, walking their dog in the back lot
Rick and Donna, the perfect little poster children for twenty something love
Rick and Donna, golden athletic statues with the perfectly groomed little dog
Models for the sappiest fucking magazine cover you've ever had the opportunity to gag over
I fucking hate them
I hear them having glorious sex right over my ceiling almost every night
I can hear their bed posts grinding trenches into their hardwood floor
Rick pounding her as if HER life depended on it, like her vagina was dying and he was giving it CPR
And he always laughs when he comes
This exhausted, "I can't believe I just came that hard" kind of laugh
The "I can't believe the sex is that fucking good" kind of laugh
The sound of it just bleeds down into my bedroom below
And I start hearing the "you don't even remember what this feels like anymore" kind of laugh
I hear the "hows that hand working out for you" kind of laugh
I hear the exaggerated last chuckle of Rick as he rolls off her sweat drenched body echo around my empty walls
Donna just lying motionless, glistening with liquid sex shimmering off her Olympic abs
Both of them sporting carefree bed suave hair styles that say "I just had an orgasm like a prison riot"
I fucking hate them
Just one night I'd like to replace the cries of pleasure as two lovers satisfy each other in every way they desire
Instead I want to hear dishes being thrown, obscenities being shouted, and open palms meeting the gruff terrain of Rick's rugged poster boy cheek
I want to hear doors slamming, and sirens approaching while the smoke alarm is going off
I want to walk outside in my robe with a cup of coffee just in time to see the dog run out with his ass end on fire while Donna chases him with a blanket and tries to put him out
And Rick stumbles outside naked hacking up a lung with bottles of creatine and protein shakes wedged between his beefy arms
Donna bellowing about her neuvo plush couch being ruined while Rick's using a copy of Meathead magazine to cover up his shrived little cock
And still arguing, all the while, beautiful hate fulled arguing while I take another sip and breathe it in before the cops show up to work out this whole mess
After which I walk into my bedroom with a huge shit eating grin because I can finally jerk off without any jealous disdain and sleep for the next two fucking days
And I laugh hysterically to myself
When my roommate comes into the kitchen to find out what is so goddamn funny
And I realize I've just been staring at them for the last ten minutes when he asks me if I know that the oven is on

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Little Ray of Sunshine

When I met you, I saw you as the yin to my yang
Me being the brooding little musician poet that I am and you were the bright little ray of sunshine that lightened up my days
Every moment I saw you becoming more focused and intense until you set me on fire
Like a Great White concert you engulfed me in a flame that caused me to burn circles into my carpet screaming in pain until I bolted through the doorway leaping into traffic until one happens to nail me and my head becomes severed by the windshield and lands in the passenger's lap when a rainbow sprouts from my neck and a leprechaun jumps out of my ass which makes as much as sense as why I fell for you in the first place
You pretentious, flaky, hippie bitch
But there were those moments when you uplifted my spirits to heights I've never seen
Helping me fly you were the wind beneath my wings
Soaring to elevations that I never thought possible till I left the atmosphere and suffocated from the lack of oxygen, plummeting back to the earth like comet when I landed on your cloud of illusions receiving a handful of hand jobs and bottle of booze where I gained the enlightenment of the men that you used, which you so fondly refer to as "history", but the last time I opened a history book I didn't see a listing of everyone that Abraham Lincoln fucked
Since we're on the subject of history lets get down to some facts
Hilary Hanson is an eighteen year-old poet from Rockport, Maine. Her favorite things to do are looking at the stars, shopping and making cookies and cupcakes. Her loves include rocky beaches and poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
She of course shares some similarities in hobbies and even name to one of our own Austin poets, who is a magnificent woman and has absolutely nothing to do with this poem
The point that I'm making here is that love is a hydra with a barb wire laced vagina and nine heads that grows two more for everyone that you cut off so if you're fucking and fighting every head that you're facing your going to find yourself devoured by the mob that's replacing the last worthless battle that you just spent on a serpents kiss when you should really just go home and jerk off
Speaking of jerk offs
Dwayne Williamsburg is a forty three year old investment banker in Blue Peak, Washington. His favorite things include taking long walks on the beach, listening to Kenny G, cliches, and sacrificing small animals to our lord Satan
He of course shares a love of some hobbies and a similar name to myself, Dwayne Williamson, who is speaking completely in third person on the topic of this piece, which is definitely not referring to any one woman that may or may not be present in this room
But love is a sensitive subject that should never be swept under a rug by a broom, you approach it head on without leaving out any of the truth, but some people are just ashamed of how they met, telling everyone that they ran into each other in a coffee shop instead of over the Internet, which seems really odd to me, but how would I know I’ve never done anything of the sort, but sometimes there are statements that deserve a retort, so you shouldn’t be surprised when unmentionable words come back around to bite you in the ass, so everyone raise your glass and toast the past because little white lies are never going to last , and one day someone is going point out the cracks in your mask, but it won’t be me…….because I don’t know anyone I could write something like that for, but its kind of fun to write poems pretending like you do, right sweet pea?

Monday, December 17, 2007

Things You Need to Understand Before You Date Me

Things you need to understand before you date me:
The stereo in my car is the stereo in MY car, which means that I control what we listen to while we're in it
This of course means that you can have full dictatorship over the musical selection in your vehicle, however I still reserve the right to pout silently in the passenger seat
While I probably won't be listening to your favorite band I will attempt to find something that you might enjoy, but if you decide to torture me in your car with Ani Di Franco or anything in the weekly top 40, expect to hear the most brutal death metal ever the next time you sit down in mine
Now there's only one volume level on my speakers, and that's as loud as fucking possible, if you even entertain the thought of trying to turn it down I suggest you say something to me first, so that I may pull over and provide you the opportunity to leave on your own free will
Otherwise, godspeed, sweetheart, and remember its best to tuck and roll
If I actually like you a lot and you manage to decrease the volume while remaining in the car, realize that while the music will dissipate, the level at which I'm singing will not
Most likely I'll also begin to sing as horribly as possible, until you relent from my off key audio assault and turn the music back up
In the case that you have something to say, unless its "Oh god, my appendix is about to burst", there is no need to interrupt me in the middle of Love Gun
You can wait till the end of the song
Now trust is an integral part of any relationship and you should understand that my trust is both conditional and situational
Meaning that as long as the conditions of the situation that you find yourself in is nothing I should be concerned about, then we'll be just fine
However, if you are one of the kinds of girls that likes to get black out drunk in clubs filled with frat guys that take shots from between your tits, then you can back that ass up and out my fucking door
It is also very important that you know where you want to eat, or at least be able to provide suggestions of things you would enjoy, not just a list of what you DON'T want
Because this isn't a crime investigation where we need to eliminate suspects, I'm fucking hungry, and if you can't pick something, we're going to get a big fat greasy meat burger with extra meat and a side of meat where you can't complain because of all the meat in your mouth
Moving on, when evening finds us completely exhausted from bringing you to climax repeatedly, and we actually go to sleep, I don't want find a leg in my hip or an elbow in my back as you try to push me off the face of the map
Cause bedtime is sometimes like playing Risk, and if I'm forced to huddle up in Australia its only a matter of time before my forces build and I sweep the board
But most importantly......I'm going to compliment and kiss you more than you ever have been before
And every time your lips meet mine you're going to know that there's nowhere else I'd rather be, because hell if you can manage to put up with me, then you deserve to be treated like a queen
And as long as you can give what you get, then that's more than enough to keep me happy

Sunday, December 9, 2007


I awake at 6am and roll out of bed
I'm not even fully functioning this early and still having fragments of dreams drift aimlessly through the fog in my head
I perform all the regular routines, like showering, brushing my teeth, and debating on leaving quickly or actually taking the time to eat breakfast and being late for my job
But on this morning after everything was said and done I reached for my doorknob to realize that a hand was attached to my right wrist with nothing following it, just a hand
White as death, with fingers flexing themselves into my flesh, and tattooed on its dirty, pale knuckles was the word "rent"
And of course I was extremely startled by this and immediately used my left hand to attempt to pry it off my skin
But there on my other wrist was another hand with the exact same appearance only this one had the word "work" marked on it
When I pulled them their elongated fingernails only sank deeper in, and hitting them against other objects did nothing to loosen their grip
I was in a blind panic when I tried running into the kitchen to find a sharp instrument to cut them free
When something prevented my left foot from moving and sent me crumbling to my knees
I looked back to find another independent appendage with the word "hate" carved into its length
Then I feel the pressure of another skeletal vice latched onto my right and the word "fear" runs into my sight
I stand only to be hit off balance, falling backwards, impacting with the floor and sprawling myself out across the Welcome mat next to the door
There on my chest is another five fingered guest with the word "stress" inked across its expanse
Pushing down with an amazing force keeping me nailed in place while the others pull my limbs in opposite ways
I scream for them to stop when I hear the sounds of my bones pop, as they drop from their sockets and fill the empty space with a pain both red and hot
Then in the moment I'm about to completely lose it, just break down, and hope to die
An army of arms burst from my gut and effortlessly start to brush all the hands aside
Wrapping themselves around me they envelop me in a grace that denies the fates that played out around me
Soundless parts of bodies enamoring me, strengthening me, pulling the pieces together and restructuring me
And etched into each of their forearms are words like family, friends, music, poetry, integrity, hope, honesty, and love
My armor for the outside world, my coat of arms, my defiance of any force that intends to hold me down and bring me harm
Bulletproof charms that circle my torso and deflect clips of antithesis that barrel towards my heart
They are my unspoken support beams and foundations cemented in art
So when I get overwhelmed and torn apart
I can still stand up, dust myself off, and walk out that door

Monday, December 3, 2007

She Reads Books

She reads books about things that can never be understood
Books that explain explanations, words that explore explorations, and debates that debate deliberations
As if the imaginary god of literation would burst from the pages in a robe made from the conjugation of imitated truths and the skins of misunderstood youths, shine his heavenly light on the book and say "here, you missed this line like all of your other peers, now you can be the only one among the thousands that have read this text to fully comprehend this asinine bullshit"
Her bookshelf is filled with spines that have titles as vague as the contents, the authors names get butchered when I try to pronounce them, yet she lets them roll off her tongue like a water slide in the mid afternoon heat, refreshing, and as light hearted as the fair haired children that lunge down its inner spiral
And she's so mindful of every reference that she plucks from her paid education
Having an intellectual conversation on a subject of her choice is like having a three hour pillow fight with a younger sibling, its all good and fun for awhile, but at some point both of you get pissed off and just start swinging as hard as you can at each other's faces
But her words hold no weigh, her weapons have no real impact, her attacks are made with one step forward and two steps back
Until her debate is so distant that she can listen to the echo of her own voice until she feels satisfied with the amount of noise and finally shuts the fuck up
She slithers through sentences until her tongue forks and ties itself into a knot, words trip out of her mouth and quickly crawl back in once they realize how foolish they've become
I've been involved in her double talk so many times that I've been tempted to end her with a knife if only it wouldn't require an illustrated diagram to show her how to die
My words would get spent till lungs dry up and spit dust when a gust pulls them up and spells out the words "I give up"
Cause her books have pages like mirrors that reflect themselves on to the reader till she knows as much about herself as the writer knows about his topic
Then the only definitive statements she can make anymore is how much she loves her cat, and how she's afraid she's getting fat, or all the places she WON'T eat at, or how she doesn't like when I point out her indecisiveness LIKE THAT
I don't know why she reads those books
Just like how she doesn't know why I keep writing poetry about her
But she reads books about things that can never be understood
And I write poetry about things that can never be understood