Chupacabra takes a selfie

In high school,
things were different.

She’d scribble chupe mi pito
in triple inks across the inside cover
of her Spanish notebook,
ever angry, ever shunned.

Then one weekend, junior year, late February,
a house party where she’d arrived by simply tagging along,
a house party where she had too much Purple Passion,
a house party where in good spirits they told her she’d a face that would sink a thousand ships,
a house party where she slipped into a side room to be alone,
and instead stumbled into the Goat,
and what happened
happened.

Then he named her.
Hurled the name
through her to pierce, maim,
to prove to the rest that he hadn’t been into it,
could never be into it, would never dream of it.

Like any name, it wasn’t
her choice; assigned on a whim.
Like any name, it didn’t
seek her approval.

Chupacabra knew
that myths are
but the ill-pruned results
of poorly-tended
seeds of fact.

Knowing didn’t help, however,
those late nights,
reciting her birth name
into a damp pillow.

She knew she had to act,
shape her name into legend,
show all those goats
another way to frame
their relation.

So, on graduation day,
Chupacabra tilted her head,
puckered her lips,
and planned a new method
to hunt down some likes.

Chupacabra takes a selfie

Obituary for the last journalist

A fiery anteater
unencumbered by hoary ethics,
sticking her nose into every hole,
shallow or deep, in an effort
to find sustenance –
to root out that which sustains.

And when those bumbling plumbings
yielded fruit, boy, did that yield
spill up and out and over and onto her
and everything
and everyone
around her.
Yet she never missed a beat,
went right on probing,
obvious violation that it was.

It was fresh meat
in tiny, coordinated forms
that drew her along
from one hole to the next,
and the next.
Emptiness she left in her wake;
an emptiness that remained
long after she moved on;
an emptiness that other creatures
stumbled into
and used for shelter.

She was a duty-fill anteater,
committed to find and extract.
Cursed to move on.

Obituary for the last journalist

An Infant Desire

Hoping for a mist of cotton candy
     and marshmallow fluff
     to politely foam
     from her fragile, supple lips.

Instead a rancid bile spews
     like a thousand raging demons
     who’ve just been ordered by Lucifer himself
     to tend to Jesus’s bunny rabbits.

We clap our hands to our ears –
     not big enough…not thick enough –
     and mouth words she cannot possibly hear
     over her self-created apocalypse.

We squint, wince in pain, and look at each other in horror
     as blood begins to force itself from our pores –
     it too cannot fathom this eruption,
     has never heard a sound so grating.

Our blood, like our wills, wants to leave our bodies
     and force itself into our little girl’s mouth
     so as to affect some…any
     type of resolution.

And just as quickly as this possessed concerto began,
     it ends – the tiny instrument of pain
     now trying its damnedest
     to ingest the child’s hand, thumb first.

Our daughter’s other hand then points to across the room
     as steady and sure as your junior-high
     Algebra teacher pointed you to the principal’s office
     for playing suckyface with Joe Camel before class.

She points, without wavering, eyes locked,
     brow slightly furrowed, daring you not to look
     (though you know you will, you must
     if you want to avoid auditory assassination).

So you turn, and you see, up on a shelf
     a fluffy, white teddy bear with a red ribbon around its neck,
     holding a heart in its paws and then you turn
     back to your daughter who now smiles and nods.

An Infant Desire

Dodge

You better give me a wide berth, mother fockers.
Though it may seem to you that my skinny ass
can make it through any ol’ skinny skinny skinny skinny
skinny skinny skinny skinny skinnyskinnyskinnyskinny

Cuz I drive a big, blue, conversion van, mother fockers
with cracked and broken rear-view mirrors that bend inward from the drag
when I get up to speed on the highway making it so’s I can’t see a damn thing
when I’m trying to merge into traffic.
I just cross my fingers, pray to News Chopper 4
that we all make it through alive, slam my skinny foot down on that skinny skinny
skinny skinny skinny skinny skinny skinny skinny skinny
skinny skinny skinny skinny skinnyskinnyskinnyskinny

So when your monkey ass is out there on that highway,
rush hour beating you down like a gang initiation in slow motion,
and you’re jabbering
and you’re fiddling
and you see barreling down behind you
a big, cobalt-blue, Dodge Ram conversion van
with cracked rear-view mirrors, a broken windshield, and my
skinny skinny skinny skinny skinnyskinnyskinnyskinny

A real wide berth, you mothers.

Dodge

Friday Fun Facts: Count István Bittó de Sárosfa et Nádasd

Did ya know…?

Count István Bittó de Sárosfa et Nádasd was a Hungarian politician who served as Prime Minister of Hungary from 1874 to 1875, Bittó’s Year O’ Good. During the Revolution of 1848–49, he was a revolutionary and a member of the Diet of Hungary which, when you think about it, aren’t all diets really of the hungry?

Bittó emigrated after the defeat of Hungary in 1849, but returned in 1851 to kick ass and chew bubblegum and he was straight the fuck out of bubblegum. From 1861 Bittó was a Parliamentarian in the newly convened supergroup Parliament/Hungadelic. Bittó played the electric triangle and sang vocals on the hits “White Chocolate City” & “Does Paprika Go With That Gulyás?”.

On March 1, 1874 he was appointed Prime Minister István Nice by King Ferenc József. From 1899 until his death Bittó was a member of the House of Magnates, though he didn’t do too much but pick his nose and make fun of the other house members. Bittó adamantly refused to change his behavior or treat his roommates more considerately, walking out of most house meetings, hopping on his bike, claiming he was way too punk rock for that shit.

…So now ya know!

Friday Fun Facts: Count István Bittó de Sárosfa et Nádasd