Sunday, November 28, 2010


I'm gonna tell y'all a story about how i shit my pants.
That's right, i was about four years old or so
And i was shopping at JC Penny's with the Moms,
She used to let me run wild while she looked around,
It was the Eighties and the Moms was apt
To find herself trying on a maroon pleather jacket,
Which matched her maroon boots,
The ones with the four inch heals
She either stole from Prince or Cyndi Lauper,
Anyway, she didn't much pay me any mind,
So, i used to hide in the circular racks of clothes
And pretend that i was in a foxhole,
Or, evading enemy fire in trench during the Great War,
Sometimes i would hide under the manikins
Who had on the long skirts,
And, i would admire the long shapely manikin legs,
Which to my judgement were engineered with
The very same care and precision as Greek columns,
And, i would let my hands follow those long Doric columns
All the way up to the equally beautiful bas relief,
Imagined, of course, with prepubescent Marvin
Seated amongst the Gods,
So, i would spend hours on end touching and feeling
These legs as solid as granite slabs,
While the Moms tried on the maroon jacket
And danced around looking at clothes,
Until such and such employee would
Be informed by a customer of by bawdy transgressions,
And, then the employee would have to wrangle me outa there,
Always with same bitchy tone,
Always with the same spiteful expression,
Always with the same vulnerability to her eyes,
Ostensibly she was just doing her job,
Doing what was expected of her,
But, deep down i could see that what she really desired
Was for someone to look upon her
With same admiration,
Oh, Debra if i only knew then what i know now!
So, Debbie would drag me to the Moms
Hollering and squirming,
Because i didn't think that i was doing no harm,
And, the Moms didn't care,
She laughed at the whole mess,
Maybe because she saw a bit of her own
Self in my innocent actions,
Maybe because she couldn't believe it,
And, was plain mystified by her son
Who was hardly able to wipe his own ass,
Who still wore shoes with the Velcro straps,
With the blue dots on the left shoe,
And, the red dots on the right shoe,
Which she bought him so that he would stop
Putting his shoes on the wrong foot
And having his feet take off in divergent directions,
May be she was mystified that her little boy,
Who could read and write and draw unicorns
And deranged men with giant noses and bifurcated-dicks,
Who still walked in circles and put his Levi's on backwards,
Could have ever even reckoned to climb
Underneath that manikin's skirt,
But, then she remembered her brother Samuel's Boda,
And, how the little weirdo in front of her,
The same strange being who'd incubated in her for nine months,
Ruined his white wool blazer
Because he'd lain down on his back,
And, pushed himself along the waxed floor
Of the reception hall
As though he were some kind of human powered floor buffer,
Patting himself on the belly and making train-engine-noises,
Until he snuck up on some older girls
So that he could stare up their skirts,
She remembered some sixteen year old girl named Griselda
Dragging her son, whose heals slid across the waxed floor,
Demanding that he be punished,
But, she reacted then as she reacted now,
By picking her sobbing boy
And hugging him while she laughed,
She had on the pleather coat,
That maroon number that smelled vaguely
Like a couch in smoky room,
Then the Moms set me down
And i asked her if i could go to the bathroom,
Because even though i was only four or so,
I'd waken up with the Pops at five-thirty
And had drunk me a cup of joe,
And, now i needed to pee-pee real bad,
So, i walks myself down to the bathroom
And close the door of the stall behind me,
And, i am standing there like a fountain cherub,
But, ain't nothing coming out,
Then i close my eyes and i'm straining so hard
That a flurry of little white dots shoots outa the darkness,
Until i hear a little toot,
And, i am surprised as Hell because a poop popped out
Instead of pee,
So, i open my eyes all wide and loosen up my stomach,
And, even more poop comes out,
And, then i am left standing there with my trousers full of poop
And i don't know what else to do,
So, i start shoving toilet paper into my Ninja Turtle underwear,
And, i can't stop,
I am like a magician pulling handkerchiefs
Outa his hat only in re-wind,
Until i have half a roll of quilted two-ply in my shorts,
And, i turn around and walk out
Like a soldier injured on the battlefield,
Or, maybe i am waddling like a drunk penguin
With half a roll of toilet paper shoved up his ass,
So, i am forced to do this like ridiculously long
Walk of shame back to the Moms,
First past the kids section with racks of Osh-Gosh
And a stuffed Big Bird,
Who towers like a monolithic idol,
Then past the ladies underwear section,
And, the jewelery cases,
And the men's section with pin-stripped suits
And endless racks of Docker's khakis,
Until finally i reach the women's section
Where the Mom's can like detect something is amiss,
And, she asks me why i am walking around
Like an ostrich high on wip-its,
But, she doesn't need to ask,
She's the Moms and she knows the face
Of a boy guilty of shitting his own pants,
So, without waiting for a reply she turns me around
And looks down the back of my pants,
Where she sees this ungodly amount of feces and toilet paper,
An amount so large
Her mind strains to comprehend
How her little boy could produce such a mass,
Without a second thought she swoops me up into her arms,
And, as she clutches onto my head,
She screams "Ave Maria purisima!"
While she runs outa the JC Penny's
Chanting something incomprehensibly in Spanish,
As though to ward off the evil spirits,
And, she races toward the mocha-colored 1985 Ford Tempo,
Speeding home still seemingly speaking in tongues,
I am lying on my stomach in the front seat
So as not to wade in my filthiness,
And, i look up at this woman raving madly in Spanish
And she is like a goddess atop a pyramid,
But, instead of wearing a Phrygian cap,
She is wearing a maroon pleather jacket,
And, through those tears i feel a joy knowing
That the Moms has unwittingly committed a sizable theft,
And, for the rest of the way home
I don't care that i have on a pair of pants
Full of shit,
Because the Moms is like goddess in that maroon pleather jacket.

~Marvin Gonzalez

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Sexual Capital

Don't hate because i capitalize
On this sexual enterprise,
Handsome face,
Big brown-eyes,
And, an intensity so deep,
It could displace the heavens and the skies,
Oh, to-night you say you're indisposed,
But, I see you through your lies and guise,
And, it comes as no surprise
That the indecency I've proposed
Has produced no significant reply,
For your silence is much more cacophonous,
And, a much more raucous rendezvous is upon us,
I can already envision your blustering an boisterous
Bombastic acrobatic sexually aromatic sonorously sensuous
Screams hoist us all the way up to heaven's gates
Just so St. Michael can cast us back down
To the sulfurous grounds of Hades
Just past the River Styx,
Where I predict you could use my dick
As a springboard to rocket-launch us
Back to my bed where I grab hold of your haunches
As my eyes roll back and I slip into my subconscious,
Where I see me consciously seeking sexual synergy,
See, my goal here is to achieve symbiosis
While at the same time avoiding mitosis,
But, i dispel these thoughts fraught with forbearance,
And, instead focus on our destiny or mutual inheritance:
A history of mankind's flirtation with the romantic,
Symbolized by our frantic, often drawn out sexual sagas,
Nearly Icelandic in length and complexity,
But, time flies when you lie next to me,
And, it perplexes me just how you conduct yourself sexually,
Never mechanically, though often methodically,
The way that you use my body erotically,
And, I move robotically, as though I were biologically
Programmed or wired to inspire the fire that
Burns wild inside causing me to perspire,
Which waters this sexual crop,
You see, I'm just planting seeds,
Or, maybe supplanting your needs
With my cock,
But, baby I'm not proposing this investment out of greed,
As my many clients before you can attest to or agree,
You see, I'm a venture capitalist trying to get this start-up of the ground,
And, I ain't hard up, or disingenuously marking my product up,
But, i got sexual capital see,
And, my stocks are bought and traded on the market publicly,
So, invest in this sex and see what happens next is a guarantee
That you will see your numbers rise exponentially,
Now, you can say that this is all bull-shit,
That this is ain't real, or whatever,
Or, you could go home with me to-night,
And, we could ride this bull-market
Together, forever.

~Marvin G.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Rhapsody of Women: 1st Movement_Evocation of the Muses

An infinite collection of words
Spun around galaxies
Could scarcely scrape
Your superficiality,
The profundity of you
Lies in your fecundity of thoughts,
Which give birth to your words,
Immaculately begot,
Like a thousand ships
Set sail in simulcast
Your lips launch a thousand quips
Simultaneously cast,
One by one reducing me
To sub-atomic absurdity,
You give the strings that bind me
Meaning, you move me
To theoretically postulated realms
On un-manned barges
With uncertainty at the helm,
and, by you i am most certainly
Though, I'm no expert in Chemistry
I can see we have valency,
Basically, i mean we attract
And, the words that comprise you
Blur the lines of banality
As they filter through me and arise anew
To destroy this malady,
Empty pages require
Literary sages who
Require a kiss from you,
I require your abundance of words
Laced with Irony dipped in the absurd,
You require a life deferred,
Inspiration is your inclination,
And, verbiage is our destination,
Superfluity with continuity,
You have no idea what you do to me,
Never with animosity,
This is not bellicose or prose,
This is poetry
Of the finest order we compose,
Indisposed forevermore
Nipping at your toes,
Trying to get a taste your sweet rose,
My varicose egos
Fragile as a fortress of Legos
Are fortified by you,
Mortified unless you
Breathe life into each syllable
Right on cue,
And, when we come together
In this ejaculatory endeavor
You make want to cum forever,
This was my dream
Once only seen
In science fiction magazines,
Made reality with you,
My muse,
My Queen,
Now each word that i dispatch
Is the catalyst that frees the latch
That keeps the door in your mind closed
With only a keyhole into the real world exposed,
My poetry splits your mind in two,
And, the cerebral residue
Touches the mind of the brother
Or sister that sits next to you,
And, just like the splitting of nuclei
Creates a nuclear transmutation,
The opening of your third eye
Creates a spiritual transformation,
This is the binding energy of humanity,
A chain-reaction that decimates banality,
So, all hackneyed exercise
Can stand aside,
And, let the poetic Kundalini rise
That eternally lights the skies
That resides in our minds!

~Marvin G.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Ms. Bradshaw

Her breasts are in full bloom like sunflowers,

Gazelle-like legs seemingly agitated,

Pumping and throbbing as she

Steps out of her lace panties

And into the stale fifth-floor air,

Her eyes radiate a certain sense of worry,

Of silent panic, of unwritten pain,

And, her pursed and softly bitten lips

Whisper secrets across Willard Avenue:

“She is alone in this crowded world,

Waiting for a hero to rescue her from this prison,

A sensitive boy with hard eyes

And soft cheeks,

A boy she’s dreamt about since she

Was a girl, and whose portrait she

Drew in her copy of Robinson Crusoe in Middle School…”

Her lips tell me many things,

For I see beyond the obvious,

Beyond the wrinkled forehead,

Beyond those thoughts that sit there like glaciers

And slowly carve and sculpt her dreams,

I can see that she is lonely just like me,

And, as I watch from across Willard Avenue,

Huddled under my Captain America blanket,

Peering through a single telescopic lens,

I notice that her solitude condenses and crystallizes

Around the window panes of my still bedroom,

And, I become a prisoner in a palace of ice,

Watching, waiting, admiring

The beautiful Ms. Bradshaw as she

Prepares for her nightly shower,

And, dances before her mirror like a ballerina,

I love you Ms. Bradshaw…

So I devise a scheme, an adventure,

I draw up plans under my Captain America blanket

With my father’s Mag-lite flashlight

Projecting red, white and blue shields on my ceiling,

And, after mother has retired,

And, our apartment airs a sigh of relief

Settling in for the evening,

I creep out the door,

A shadow descending five flights of stairs,

Racing across the puddled-asphalt of Willard Avenue,

And, Stand dressed in black against the porous bricks

Of Ms. Bradshaw’s building,

Grapple and rope in hand,

I chuck up the grapple,

Which bites into the window sill

Of Ms. Bradshaw’s open window,

And, so I ascend like Batman,

One foot before the other,

Until I peek inside her window,

And, see to my fright the biggest secret of them all,

My father waiting in the bathroom

In my mother’s pink robe and the
Plaid slippers she bought him last Christmas,

Sitting on the toilet

Stroking his fully erect penis

Beckoning Ms. Bradshaw

Who moves like a ballerina from the other room,

And, as I fall down five flights


With my arms stretched toward heaven,

And remain paralyzed,

I see Ms. Bradshaw once more

With her hands stretched toward me,

Red locks fluttering in the air,

I smile,

Because though I’m heading toward Hell,

It doesn't matter,

I already know what Heaven’s like.

~Marvin Gonzalez

Monday, November 15, 2010


Better not boxed in
or locked in a corner,
giving up on life
but, i'm hardly a goner,
no longer somber
staring up at the moon
or out the window
in a pensive mood,
no longer will i brood,
no longer will i swallow
your bullshit like un-chewed food,
fuck your tailor-made life
mine's a hand-me-down,
but it fits me alright,
good enough to go out a night
when the light
don't shine too bright,
my eyes are cast down
but my thoughts move
faster than the speed of sound,
wandering around
like a vagabond
living amongst past regrets
that harden with time like baguettes,
but, i still butter them up
and dip them in the
oil and vinegar of life,
and make a meal for men
that is fit for mice,
I break open centuries
and fry them on the griddle,
order my sentries on the extremities
to meet me in the middle,
i am mobilized, sterilized,
but, my words rarely go
but hemorrhage from minds
only to remain the glimmer
in your eyes,
the air that touches your lips
that separates them from mine,
the secret in your ear that remains
suspended in time,
the fire that burns but defiantly
refuses to shine,
that one last breath
made just before death
that's so much sweeter than the rest,
that you actually never feel,
those are my words,
a compost heap,
a rotting pile of absurdity
full of decomposed
poetry and prose...