Friday, December 16, 2011

Looking for Ms. Write Vol. 1 No. 3 By: Marvin Gonzalez


I always hook up with the most fucked up chicks,
My shrink tells me that it’s really me
That’s all fucked up,
She said that I am suffering from abandonment issues
Stemming from the fact that my Mother
Was never around when I was a kid,
I told her, “What the fuck does my ex’s heroin addiction
Have to do with the fact that
My Mother worked two jobs
To put clothes on my back
And food on my plate?”
She said that I purposefully choose
Unstable women that I know ahead of time
Will result in complete failures of intimacy,
That way I could use these women as proxies,
And blame them for my feelings of loss and abandonment
And not my mother,
First of all,
How fucking dare she bring my mother into this?
Second of all,
Where does this Vanderbilt hussy come off?
With her fancy diplomas
And her matted Georgia O’ Keefe prints,
Giving me these pointed glares all the time
And scribbling in her steno notebook
In this high-minded, judgmental way,
I got so fucking mad I popped the cap off the
Large blueberry mocha frap that I got before my session
And poured it all over her
Wanna-be Victorian psychiatrist couch,
She screamed out, “My God, that’s an antique!”
To which I quickly retorted, “It’s faux-leather!
And, you know it!”
Then I told her diagnosis was correct,
Yet again I had entered into a relationship
With an unstable louse that was doomed for failure,
“Congratulations,” I said,
“Your keen detection skills have once again
Led you to crack the mother fucking case!”
How dare this woman I pay $80 an hour
Tell me how fucked up I am,
I know I’m all fucked up,
Why do you think I solicited her services in first place?
I tell you, 
It’s hard to keep a right mind in these trying times,
Naturally I was in such a state after
Our prematurely aborted session
That I had to get a drink in me,
And anyway it was Friday and happy hour,
Not that I ever needed that as an excuse to tie on one,
I end up at this out of the way place I like to go to,
Don Carlo’s,
Mainly because, though all the bartenders know me by name,
I won’t run into any of my friends or coworkers,
And I sit at the end of the bar and mind my own
All the while getting more and more cheery
And laughing as I pop
Complimentary peanuts down my throat,
So, anyway,
I am rubbing elbows with the regulars
Like Louie Quintana who has no reservations
Telling me how big a pain in the ass
His old lady had been lately,
Or, Otis Neetleman who’s drowning
In unpaid child support and alimony debt
And has the authorities breathing down his neck,
And, for a minute I relish in the fact that I am
All alone and not tied down
To anyone serious,
Because, let’s face it,
The sweeter the first kiss is
The more bitter the last argument will be,
So what’s the point of getting yourself
Mixed up in tragedy in the first place?
Maybe, I think, the first kiss should be bitter,
That way it can only grow sweeter from there,
But you know how things go?
Once I am about eight deep
And all the old-timers have thrown in the towel,
I am left to my own devices
And my mind wanders to that all too familiar place,
Which is when I spot her sitting at the other end of the bar,
God, where has she been all night?
I have been sitting in the same spot for hours
And I never noticed her walk in,
It’s almost as if she just appeared out of thin air,
But, there she is,
Undeniably present,
This physical anomaly of beauty,
A wondrous, magical flower growing in the middle
Of nuclear fallout,
She’s got flowing red hair that’s pulled up,
And I swear to Christ
She looks just like a pin up doll,
I don’t typically throw around the word “anachronistic”
But, she literally seems out of place in time,
Like a photograph from the 1930’s come to life,
And, there is literally this
Glamorous glow that seems to hover just above her,
Giving her this kind of soft focus
Muddled aura
That seems to evaporate any
Rigidness to her appearance,
I am so enchanted by her presence
That I don’t even notice her approach me with two drinks,
“You’re a Scotch man, right?”
She says placing a sifter glass
With a shot of Black Label
Swirling around like a caramel version of the cosmos,
And I say, “Damn right about that,”
“That’s good, I like a man that can
Handle a strong drink. 
You know what they say:
Strong drink for a strong man.”
She says grabbing my upper arm
Which I instinctively flex,
She is wearing a long coat which she unbuttons
And I see that she is wearing a black skirt
With a slit that runs down the middle,
And as she adjusts her position in her seat
I see this tiny swathe of exposed upper thigh
And I know it’s all over from there, Ladies and Gentlemen,
We end up moving to a corner booth,
And though I am struggling to stay awake
I let myself be taken by this inexplicably
Extreme weight of fatigue,
And I allow myself to fall vulnerably into her lap,
Meanwhile she is whispering in my ear,
Lulling me gently into a deep sleep,
Slowly, sweetly,
Like a Polaroid patiently coming into focus,
Only, backwards I suppose,
Going from light to dark,
And, back once again into light,
For a moment I taste the sweetness of death,
That golden moment when the pains and heft of life
Are suddenly purged from our bodies,
And our soul sheds our outer shell,
Like a tarantula developing a new exoskeleton
Leaving behind only that physical semblance
Of the man that I truly am,
I float in a dream,
But it is muddled and hazy,
Peaceful and saccharine,
Though slowly I float back into the shell,
And though it’s only been hours
My body struggles to regain its faculties,
Which is why it takes me so long to realize
That I am hanging from a wall
Shackled at my wrists and ankles and gagged,
And, as I make a voiced attempt at protestation,
A muted and mumbled exasperation floats into the air
Then falls flat on the floor
Along with the foamy, rabid saliva
That pathetically drizzles down my chin
Like a grotesque child or enraged canine,
Before I even have time to process or make sense
Of the predicament in which I found myself,
She flicks on a single buzzing light bulb
That hangs down from the ceiling
Like a menacing eyeball dangling from its socket,
She is dressed in only long black vinyl boots
And she brandishes a stiff whip,
Like the kind a jockey uses to goad a racehorse,
Saying nothing verbally,
But, communicating domination with her expression
And ruthless ecstasy with the way she nibbles on her own lips,
She whips me mercilessly,
Exulting emphatically each time the whip
Lacerates my exposed, vulnerable dermis,
And as tears voluminously spring forth from
My Excited lacrimal glands,
She takes a moment to stop and pulls herself in close,
So she can lap up lasciviously like a kitten
The salty manifestations of pain,
Which seems to make her grow stronger
As if though she were sadistically
Regenerated by my misery-impregnated secretions,
And, when she has had her fill,
She flicks off the light and I am left alone in the darkness,
And, so each day progresses in a similar fashion,
As time passes, I can’t even feel the strikes against my body,
She takes out the gag, 
Because i stopped screaming long ago,
And, there is no more misery left within me,
One day as she pulls me close to lick my tears,
She stops when she realizes she is simply licking my cheeks,
She remains hovering just so, with her hand behind my neck,
When like a bolt I am struck with desire
And I muster the energy to turn my neck toward her
Placing a desirous kiss upon her lips
Which does not go unrequited,
And, then what happens in nothing short of amazing,
We lose ourselves in a fit of ecstasy,
All the pain that I’ve endured is converted to pleasure,
There is no more shell,
There is no more man,
There is no desire to run,
To abandon,
No more fear,
Only us,
When at the highest moment of ecstatic release,
My eyes open for the first time in all my life
And I see that all this time I have been
Afraid that a woman would tie me down,
But, this is not true,
What I have really been waiting for
Is for a woman who would tie me up…

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Find Yourself


I have heard your story,
I have heard you loud & clear
Scars like an abyss
With no visual markings
Trust has withered away
Like a raisin in the sun
What he has done
Is unforgivable
And some days
Seem unlivable

I hear you miss,
I hear you loud and clear
I see the way these boys
Play Russian roulette with
Words like spiked bats
Swinging aimlessly
Using your insecurities like a piƱata
Trying to break you open
Till your warmth, care & love
Hit the ground

More times than not I have been the one
Trying to pick up the pieces
And somehow make it better again.
Sometimes only trying to be a friend
Sometimes trying to be more
Sometimes feeling so distant
Than it would be better to write
Than fight to have you closer.

Your story is like so many others
Ex girlfriends, ex flings,
Mothers, daughters, nieces, cousins
Over these years I have tried to make sense of it.
I have tried to understand.
It is so easy to blame him
So easy to tell the world what a monster he was.
So easy to not look inside yourself
And understand your self worth.

Motherly instincts tell you to nurture
To care for
To put band aids over wounds
And make it all better.

So what if he had no car,
No job,
No direction,
No drive,

SO what if he sold drugs,
Had a criminal record,
And a few go to girls on the side.

He had enough swagger,
Enough confidence,
Enough of that “fuck it” attitude to
Show you that attention you needed. 

How strong are you?
How many dates did you wait
Till legs spread open
Exposing the vulnerability
Of the need to be wanted, embraced?
How many times did you let him use your body,
So he could get his and you could not get yours?
How many times did you let him borrow,
Using your kindness for weakness?
How many nights did text messages go unanswered while
The other side of the bed stayed vacant?
How many times did you feel like you felt before you met him.
Alone.
How many times did you stand up for yourself and say no!
How many times did you repeat the same steps with the same kind of guys?

There are boys and there are men.
 There are those types that will talk to anything with a pulse
Those who exhaust energy into seeing how much ass they can pull
Those who’s money goes to addictions and escape
Those who never took time to understand their self worth,
Those are the one’s we call boys.

The one you’re looking for might not be as attractive,
Might not have tattoos and piercing & the newest bummy fashion trend.
Might not be spending endless nights at the bars & clubs searching,
Might not be out screaming for attention out in public.

If we are suppose to be reflections of one another
Then you are no better than the one’s you choose to keep company with.
I ask all you girls, young women,
How much is your self worth?
How much do you love yourelf?

I know it’s hard to be alone at times
But to be your own vehicle
Is something we all deserve to be.
Find yourself, before you find another
Because those who are already found
Will never leave you feeling lost. 


-Poem by Iain "Emic" Watson

Thursday, November 3, 2011

A Letter from my Cousin Miguel Angelo


Dear Marvin,

I used to get all kinds of mail,
Shit I actually wanted to read
And some that I could give two shits about,
I used to get so fucking annoyed
By Auntie Rita sending me these Christmas cards,
They were family pictures taken in the
Back of some department store
Over a woodland set that looked almost
As phony as their forced, uncomfortable smiles,
Which made them all look more like they
Needed to pinch off a fat loaf
Or they were being held captive by terrorists,
Than they were actually happy to pose as a family,
Still, I found these picture Christmas cards to be mocking,
Like I should feel bad about myself for being
Selfish and juvenile
Because I didn’t a family of my own to corral
Against their will in the back of a Sears
And have them sit still with artificial smiles,
More sterile than a hospital,
And crooked glares like wax sculptures
Housing vapid, emotionless eyes…
But then all I got were bills, bills, fucking bills,
And I longed for those far gone days
When I still had the luxury to be annoyed
By Auntie Rita’s nuclear family’s mocking gestures,
Shit, these days I wish I had a luxury period,
See, it started off like this:
I’d get a bill, then I’d pay it off,
Then I’d get another bill and I’d pay it off,
Then I’d get billed for paying that bill
Over the phone,
Which seemed ridiculous
To get charged thusly,
But then I couldn’t afford to pay my bills
So I filled out one of those too-good-to-be-true
Credit card offers, so that I could pay off my bills
And then I’d get a bill for that,
And soon enough I was inundated with so many fucking bills
That I started hitting the sauce
Pretty regularly to ease the stress,
Then it was impossible to afford my credit card bills no more,
So, then I said, “Fuck it!
I never want to see another fucking bill again in my life!”
So, I set out on the road to lead a wandering lifestyle
Like Kwai Chang Caine from Kung Fu
Or Christ,
But, I ran out of gas before I even got out of town,
So, I parked the mother fucker by the river,
Put it on an easy listening station
And tried to get some shut eye…
Well, when I awoke there’s a fucking ticket
Shoved under my damn windshield wiper
For parking illegally…
God Damn it was I steamed,
I was so fucking pissed I started having these,
Like, ridiculous fantasies of wringing a police man by the neck,
And in a gesture of uncontrollable rage
I pushed my fucking car into the river,
And I tore off all my clothes
Deciding I wanted to possess nothing forevermore,
Nothing but the skin on my bones
And the fire in my heart,
So, I jumped into the river, naked as a jaybird,
Wishing to be cleansed,
To be newly reborn,
Baptized once again
Pledging allegiance to only the God inside,
And for the first time in my whole life I felt replete with joy,
But then just as the sun shone down on me,
And birds seemed to chirp in this symphonic,
Triumphant sort of way,
Suddenly my bastard car begins to actually sink into the river,
And it pulls me down into a spiraling tunnel
Of waves and bubbles,
And I smash my head on a rock as I reach the bottom
And it was lights out…
When I came to I found myself washed ashore,
So, I pulled my creaking bones from off the ground
And realized I had settled right next to the post office,
And then it just hit me:
Not only was it my duty, 
My calling, 
My office,
To rid myself of this virus
Known as the United States Postal Service,
But I was destined to do my world a service
And free it from the bondage of packaged mail,
So, I decided that I was going to hijack
One of those shitty postal trucks
That have the steering wheel on the wrong side,
So, I approached a postman,
And he saw me with my hands out-stretched,
Grumbling and speaking in tongues,
Telling the mother fucker I was going to wring his neck,
And he just looked down at my hands
That were curled up like a s zombie’s,
And then down at my gleaming chest
And my balls and cock that were flapping about
Like a living, breathing game of crochet,
And, he just ran off screaming
While I put the mail truck in gear
And peeled out,
When the petrol had worn out
I found myself in the middle of the desert,
And once I came to a clearing
I unloaded all the mail,
Staring down at the city below,
Watching the silent buzz and crack
Of casino lights at dance,
I could just feel the cries and misery
Of those people down below
Who for far too long had been locked
Inside and invisible prison,
A prison at once self-imposed
And forcibly fed,
So, I decided that I would create my own
Shining example,
My own fortress on the hill,
Thus began my campaign
To rid the city of its mail,
I hijacked mail trucks at the airport,
I held up mail-carriers at gun point
In front of mid-century homes
With white fences, and groomed green lawns,
While ankle-biting dogs bounced up and down
As I forced the mail-carrier to disrobe
So that I could take on the enemy’s dress
And become a vigilante in disguise,
Taking them down from the inside,
I began to walk my own mail routes,
Emptying mailboxes along the way
And replacing car payments,
NV Energy service interruption notices,
And student loan 30 day late notices
With love letters that I had composed myself,
“Ms. Norris, shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art more sexy, more violent than a storm…
In my pants!  Boom!”
All stress and headaches became laughter and smiles,
I exchanged catalogues from J Crew
With vegan brownies home-cooked with carob and fresh mint,
And still the love letters flowed:
“Shawanda, lay your sleeping head, my love,
Animal on my faithful charm,
Unzip my pant, don’t shy away,
And sucketh on my third arm!”
Eventually, I had amassed enough useless mail
To begin construction of my palace,
The first floor was built on
Images of Ed McMahon
And mail in forms for personalized checks,
The Second floor was built on student loans
And car payments,
While cleverly utilizing coupons to
Papa John’s and Little Caesar’s as wallpaper,
Of course mortgage payments
And foreclosure notices rounded off the third floor,
But not before I installed an attractive balcony
Using Aunt Rita’s Christmas cards
To stylize the columns,
And so I sit and wait,
Watching down below,
Occasionally I slip down to distribute a poem or two,
But mostly I just wait,
Letting the frustration swell like the tide,
Letting it manifest organically,
But I can feel it coming, so subtly in breeze,
Like a distant howl, or impending storm,
Not quite here,
But I can hear the rumble,
Like a stampede or a drove of drones.

Reno, NV 11/03/2011 7:26 PM

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Looking for Ms. Write Vol. 1 No. 2 By: Marvin Gonzalez

So, I, like, went on this date recently,
It was one of those things where
A friend or co-worker or what have you
Tells you that you, like, have to meet this girl,
You know, those unbearably humiliating moments
Where you have to take long deep breaths to keep from laughing,
And, you are slightly tilting your head toward the ground
So that she doesn’t notice you rolling your eyes
Every time she tells you how perfect the two of you are for each other,
Sometimes you literally have to bite down on your lips
Because you know that if you don’t
You won’t be able to hold your emotions in,  
And, you’ll just tell this person to quit the charade,
Because, frankly, both of you know that
Anyone who needs a lobbyist to explain
How fucking great they are
Probably isn’t all that great to begin with,
And, there is, like, a reason that they are single
And lonely and pathetic,
And, thus, like, necessitate a third party
To plead their case for them,
Because obviously their greatness doesn’t speak for itself,
But, it’s not only that you are being force by social protocol
To hold back your true feelings,
Like you can’t just tell this person
To just shut the fuck up and
Quit blatantly lying to your face,
But, it’s also that at some point when
You stare up past her unrestricted red mane
At the wall-mounted clock ticking away
And you notice that the minute-hand has
Traversed at least twenty-five percent of the clock’s surface
Since this painful conversation even began,
At that moment you have this, like, bizarre moment of clarity
Where you realize, “holy shit,
Not only is she lying to my face
About how fucking great here loser friend is,
But, she must also think that I am a fucking loser too,
Because why else would she be trying to get us together,
And, repeating over and over,
‘Oh my god, you guys are, like, so perfect for each other’?”
This is the most painful, pathetic part,
Not only because she has subliminally
Made a harsh assessment of your character,
But, because it dawns on you that
Her assessment also happens to be true,
You are a fucking loser,
I mean, here you are,
Hitting 30, balding, wrinkling up,
Developing a paunch around your waist
Where wash board abs once were,
Slowly noticing new crops of hip, irreverent youth
Fill up the spots that you like to frequent
Who cast aspersions on the adult world, your world,
And, partake in these romantic, uninformed diatribes
With the same skeptical and critical twist to their faces
That only a few short years ago you used to possess,
And, you realize that you are just as insignificant
In this hip cool youthful world
As you are in the strait-laced, credit-based adult world,
And, you start having these wild fantasies,
Which take place twenty years down the line,
Of you passed out on your torn up Lay-Z-Boy
That you have patched up with duct tape,
A plate littered with three pieces of pizza crust
Sits bouncing up and down
Atop your man-titties that lay sad and flat
Like two deflated basketballs,
While you snore and snort
Surrounded by a swelling mass of empty
Cans of Miesterbrau and Milwaukee’s Best,
You, alone in your trailer with your dog, Skip,
Who is licking the dried up marinara
That has collected in your exposed, hairy navel,
This, you reason, is the fate that you can expect
If you don’t start taking your life seriously,
So, in a chaotic moment of existential crisis
You make this totally irrational decision to, like,
Actually accept the blind date,
Which is how your find yourself anxiously
Eating the free bread sticks at Cucina Antichi Sapori
Looking at a wine list that you will never be able to afford,
And, like turning around every twenty seconds
To look for the nearest exit as you
Wipe your sweaty, furrowed brow,
And, you are feeling short of breath and having heart palpitations
As you ask the poor waitress for, like, the fifth time
If she can please turn on the air,
Which she politely reassures you for, like, the fifth time
That it most certainly already is,
And, you are so embarrassed by your uncouth or aberrant behavior
That you sort of gesticulate that you are sorry,
And, you feel even worse that she is being legitimately polite
When she smiles and tells you it is OK
In this totally normal, non-judgmental way,
As you watch her walk back toward the kitchen,
You think to yourself, “Now wouldn’t it be nice
To have a pleasant, descent girl like that for a girlfriend?”
And, then you start having these unrealistic fantasies
Of you and the waitress sipping on Pinot Gris in Napa Valley,
Shoving Kalamata olives in each other’s mouths
In this disgustingly cutesy, romantic sort of way,
All the while smiling big and round
As you kiss each other like these little Bourgeois chipmunks,
You start to get these real uncharacteristically Christian thoughts
Of taking her home to your mom for approval
And helping her pick out new curtains for the living room,
When suddenly here she comes,
This supposed tailor-made partner,
This girl who is so perfect for you,
Who recognizes you because you are wearing a Carnation on your lapel,
She introduces herself as Brenda,
And, she does strike you as an overweight Shannon Dougherty
As she pulls up the rustic, wooden chair
In this heavy-handed, Brando-esque sort of way,  
As she sits and grabs a breadstick,
Which looks like a toothpick in her enormous paw,
You compare your diminutive stature
To her hulking, NFL fullback frame,
And, wonder how your friend or co-worker or what have you
Could have ever reasonably considered
The two of you to be a, in her words, “perfect fit,”
As she makes short work of the generous basket of breadsticks,
You wonder what it might be like to sleep
With this whale of a woman,
Who, based on her appetite for breadsticks,
You reason would take the same hunger to the bedroom,
You have this terrifying image flash in your mind
Of her straddling you on your bed,
Causing it to fold over like a hard shell taco,
As her plow horse haunches pump and pinch,
And her gargantuan pelvis thrusts
Not only over your own,
But also over your stomach,
Which takes the wind out of you
Each time her equestrian ass cheeks flex and clamp,
You see yourself hyperventilating exasperatedly
As though you were trapped under a boulder
And you were simultaneously struggling to make sense
Of your impending death
And the excruciatingly tortuous pain
That you are forced to endure in your last precious moments on earth,
Over dinner Brenda slurps down glasses of Merlot
Like they were Hawaiian Punch,
And, she gobbles up her own plate of Pesto Gnochi
As well as your Pasta Primavera,
Which you have barely pecked at,
Having lost much of your appetite watching this grotesque
Blob who consumes matter the way
You imagine a black hole might,
Every time the waitress comes by your table
And asks how everything is,
You feel like you’ve been kidnapped
And you’re trying to communicate subliminally
That you are being held against your will
Even though you say that everything is going great,
The waitress shoots you this confused look
As you sort of wink and cock your head
Almost epileptically,
But, she just smiles and moves on to her next table,
Brenda can’t stop talking about the desert menu,
She can’t decide whether she wants gelato or crostoli pastries
But, you can’t stop staring at the waitress who is talking to one of her coworkers,
A strapping young man with muscled forearms and long black hair,
She is laughing at what he is saying
And she places her hand over his shoulder
As she sort of doubles over laughing,
Then you close your eyes and imagine that he is you:
That it’s your words which flow like musical notes,
That they are deliberately arranged like a musical composition
To produce the desired emotional effect at precisely the right moment,
That they trigger in her something akin to warmth and comfort,
That her bespeckled eyes be cast up toward yours in such a way
That for a moment the outside world falls back
Into obscurity and silence,
That you finally understand how one look
Can carry so much weight
That something like eternity might reside within it,
That you stare so hard at each other
A pathway is paved between your sets of pupils,
And, you smile because you feel each other enter the other,
And, at that moment you understand that the weight that you feel
Is simply the convergence of dream and reality,
That you can have both…
“Antonio, Antonio!”
You can have both…
“So, what’s it going to be?
The gelato or the crostoli pastries?”
And, then you look up at Brenda
Whose look of hunger you misinterpret as mysterious confusion,
And, you smile and say,
“You can have both.”
But, you know that you are lying.