Birds are better than
any other species.
Because they can fly.
I’ve tried to fly,
It never ends well,
Always ass over tea kettle.
Face planting in pain.
They have adapted for flight.
Feathers, wings, hollow bones
That are extensions of their lungs.
They have committed to flight.
Their relationship to oxygen
And they have made friends
With the wind.
I have done extensive amounts
Of research and the wind is never wrong.
Birds are better,
And many of them like to eat bread.
MR Stuik 2018
Took a hand full
Because who the fuck wants
to be more anxious?
You can keep your
I need to get chill.
And by the way,
You’re dead to me.
I have one rule in life.
You only get to
Disrespect me once.
After that, you’re dead to me.
So just keep dragging
Your little red wagon along.
And just so you know
My plan is to eviscerate
Your central premise.
I’m going to destroy
Your big idea
To render your whole operation
Moot and suspect.
It will be like
a conceptual Molotov cocktail.
Exploding your brainchild architecture.
Planting doubt in all
But your most loyal followers.
This is Miki.
Rumor has it, he’s one of Monty Clift’s lifetimes.
Reincarnated into a South LA feral cat colony.
Born into a back alley chance.
Adopted by a lunatic, he lucked into
a life off the street.
He’s a hard cuddler,
like deep into your elbow, armpit or chest.
He digs in and loves on you.
Like the street is hard.
Like the pavement.
He loves you like a concrete block.
Not everyone made it into the house.
The others still live on the street
and visit him at the open window
where he pushes against the screen
and calls to his brothers after nightfall.
He had a hard on,
running through the forrest.
He was randy, he was hairy,
and he wanted to put his rugged,
rock hard pine branch
into some juicy, wet crotch.
(Tree crotch, I meant.)
Bigfoot caught Big Ankles
and they made hot, passionate love.
Where he was once chasing her,
she turned the tables
and ran after him,
his dick and balls dragging
on the forrest floor.
(Over pine needles and moss.)
Actual Bigfoot Erotica, written by the poet laureate of the Bigfoots,
Alonzo Longfellows, he was a poet and he didn’t know it,
but his feet
sure showed it.
Saint Michael, the prince of angels,
fought the dragon and defeated it.
He and his army went to battle
with Satan, his dragon and his army of angels.
The devil prevailed not.
Saint Michael, protector and warrior,
stood for the children of his people.
He fought for them and won again.
Like all angels, he is a messenger of God.
His nature is spirit. In action,
he is servant and messenger.
Moving like an electron between spaces,
making quantum leaps.
And although he questioned why God
wanted to create humanity, he was spared.
His army of angels perished in flames
for arguing that God should not have created man.
Why then, was Michael spared?
Perhaps because his loyalty was never in question.
It’s a kaleidoscope hand, talented but flawed.
Belonging to he that was cast out
for being ugly.
Capable of making beautiful things,
in the fires of the forge.
Hated his parents for abandoning him.
On mother’s celebration day,
he gifted her a throne that he had made with this hand.
It was a trap that imprisoned her.
The price of her freedom?
Give him the most beautiful of goddesses as a bride.
He got his wish, but she would honor him.
Cheated on him with the handsome god of war.
Another indignity. Still, they were a family.
Four daughters in all:
One was a goddess of good reputation and glory.
Another a goddess of plenty and prosperous.
A third, a goddess of eloquence.
The youngest, a goddess of friendliness.
All beautiful like their mother.
He loved them, like any artist loves his children.
It won’t be a bumpy ride.
We got this.
“Get the commissioner on the phone.
Put him on with me when you have him.”
“Hello, Commissioner? Yeah, listen,
I was asked to give you a call, but not give you a call.
So that you would never be put in a predicament
where somebody said that you were called.”
“Who is this?”
“Doesn’t matter who it is. What matters is that
you were given a call, but not given a call.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Commissioner.”
He looked at his phone, incredulous.
I liken you to a janitor
The way you mopped
The floor with me.
Closed the door on me,
All the while
Saying you adored on me.
And I liken you to a cold syringe
The way you needled me
Infected me with a virus
That protected me
Until you rejected me
All the while
Smiling on the other side
Of the door.
Here’s a window into my heart.
I’ve reached a place where I don’t need love.
And it’s not at all out of bitterness.
I don’t long for, anymore.
I don’t pine for rapture.
Nor is it out of a sense of defeat.
And there is no malice.
I’m mostly happy and free to just be.
My teeth are self-whitening.
It’s the craziest freakin’ thing.
I mean, I could rub furniture stain on them
and they’d be pearly white in the morning.
I don’t know how it happened.
I used that light thingy once.
Now, I’m all animal instinct.
I just want to bite you.
Applying to become a super hero.