Pandemic Walls



Superfluous soap use
no longer lathers me
like a lusting lover.
We have become
too used to each other
like practical partners.
Empty jail cell walls
void of character
and adventure that
used to once be
adorned with maps,
flavor and eccentricity
have become pale
and dull
from by bloodshot
scouring eyes.
Bloated, gloating books
with all the attention
and fame
they’ve gained
from the countless
times
I’ve inhaled them
like paparazzi
have forfeited
their hunger
and intensity.
The magic
of every single
thing
in this home
has waned,
its deadbeat heart
zapped of pizazz
from the wrong,
timely partner
that you see
too much of
when you are stuck
in a place
that you long
to get out of.





A Long Poem



I met an old friend Tony in Mexico City.
We were both in our early 20s and wanted to be writers.
He wanted to be our generation’s greatest writer, I just wanted to be a good one.
There was no literary movement happening in Mexico City at the time but we fantasized about birthing one like Hem and Fitz had in Paris.
Both of us left Mexico City with nothing written, or almost nothing.
I’d started a manuscript and finished it after I returned to New York that was published with Penguin.
Then I moved back to Mexico City to settle some unfinished business.
Tony hung out in LA with a dry thumb up his rump.
After my loose ends were tied up, I moved to LA to see what he was up to.
Fucking up a marriage with some bored rich floozy twice his age but not fucking up the page.
So I fucked it up for the both of us.
I had no friends in LA besides Tony and quickly grew to hate it anyway so there was nothing to do but write.
My second novel was published and Tony moved to New York.
He was having no success as a writer and he knew I was homesick so I think it was a jab at me. But I did make some friends in LA – a couple of gals in my apt. building.
One who genuinely cared about me and one who wanted to fuck me but only cared about herself. They were good company.
I wrote a third novel and it flew off the shelves faster than a roadrunner from a coyote.
Then came fame.
So did Tony back from New York.
“I couldn’t write,” he said. “Too many attractions.”
One night the four of us went to a glamorous party in the Hollywood Hills.
It wasn’t really my scene but I got invited and Tony wanted to go.
Jack White was shredding on guitar when we walked in, which almost blew us backwards.
Louis CK dragged himself up to me to see if I was that writer.
I was surprised to learn that he was a dope fiend.
He even wore a robe at the party.
The galpal who wanted to fuck me gave me eyes after Louis moped away.
The Weeknd joined Jack White on stage for a wily rendition of “I Can’t Feel My Face” which I don’t think he could because he had coke rings around his nostrils.
None of us could, actually, because of the pulsating guitar licks.
We moved to a different room where Dolly Parton was sitting all alone in a wicker chair next to a bookshelf sipping chardonnay.
“Is one of my books in there?” I asked her.
Her breasts were stirring caricatures beckoning us.
But she didn’t move or say anything.
We left the room unsure if she was dead or alive.
Pete Davidson walked up to us in a pair of assless chaps serving drinks from a tray.
“Aren’t you that fucking writer dude?”
“I think so.”
“Let me know if you wanna’ do shrooms later.”
He gave us drinks and my genuine caring friend nuzzled up against me.
“How exciting!”
Tony and the other gal lingered behind marveling at paintings in the hallway.
We went outside and Caleb Followill was pouring tequila shots at a bar.
He wore a trucker hat that said ROOSTER.
“You guys want some?”
Hell yes we did.
We took them and then another round and watched Jack Black cannonball off a diving board into the pool.
Tony hooked me by the shoulder and leaned into my ear.
“You’re living my life man!”
“Mother fucker, I’m living my life!”
When we got home, Tony went to bed with the gal who wanted to fuck me.
I guess she got tired of making advances with no returns so she settled for a second rate me.
She said that Tony saw a copy of my first novel on her coffee table and remarked about how even I would agree that it’s not that good.
I cornered Tony one day and said, “Look man, your jealousy is beaming like a shiny pimple on your forehead – you gotta’ pop that shit.”
But he never let it go.
It always ate away at him that I had success as a writer while he had nothing to show for it.
It doesn’t matter though.
None of this happened anyway.
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