Thursday, March 31, 2011

Notes on Stupidity


You’re not stupid, said my Aunt Molly.

Of course not, why would I be?

Your mother always said you were stupid, but you’re not stupid at all. You’re very smart!

Don’t listen to what Jeanette said! Aunt Rhoda chimed in. Your mother was always ….um…different.


Stupidity is not transmitted through saliva/
Stupidity is not transmitted through French kissing/
Strands of stupidity are present only in minute amounts/
Insufficient to label saliva as a dangerous fluid/


Little Cassie has more brains in her pinky finger than you have in your entire body, said my mother.

“Little Cassie” was my youngest cousin and I wouldn’t have minded the insult as much if she wasn’t so dim-witted.

Furthermore, my mother persisted in calling her “Little Cassie” despite the fact that she developed a pear shape by the age of twelve and had three kids before she turned twenty.

Never mind all that, said my mother. She’s smarter than you’ll ever be.


Semen contains insufficient strands of stupidity, but is loaded with obsessive/compulsive disorders!

Vaginal fluids carry zero stupidity but you may be justifiably wary of contraction of poor judgment and unexplainable jealous rages!

Sweat is loaded with stupidity, but must be diluted in a human growth hormone cocktail in order to be passed on!

Saliva will not transmit stupidity, although deep kissing may temporarily block neurons of brilliance, causing the recipient to assume many of the idiotic characteristics of the donor.


I think you’re a little retarded, my mother said seriously, when I burnt my tongue on hot cocoa or misspelled a word.

I hid out in the library, reading books selected for me by the lesbian librarian, Miss Kaye, until we fell out because I desperately wanted to read Tropic of Cancer and she wouldn’t give me permission to borrow it from the adult section.

I smuggled the book out when she wasn’t looking and read it in the candy store.

Boys hung out in front, smoking cigarettes and punching one another.

Never returned to the library.


It is imposible to transmit either pure stupidity or uncut brilliance through body fluids.

Genius is undetectable; however, when engaging in oral sex, the genius is often blinded by the stupid, leaving pockets of profound density, sometimes misdiagnosed as brain lesions.

Additional complications may include outbreaks of senselessness, similar to common skin rashes and allergic reactions. Bursts of creative genius mixed with Benadryl may relieve symptoms.

Prolonged, constant contact between the brilliant and the intensely stupid may cause permanent damage to both parties.

It is therefore recommended that the window be left open when the brilliant and the stupid exchange bodily fluids.

Or, better yet, the door.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Journal of Heroin Love Songs

Thank you JACk hENRY for starting up one of my two favorite online Journals again (the other is Jack Marlowe's Gutter Eloquence, referenced in my previous post), the Journal of Heroin Love Songs and for choosing three of mine to publish first.

This is the link...

The first one is dedicated to my German Friend, Golde...appropriately named Hot German Chick!

Hot German Chick

Happy umbrellas cover street endings
on Broome and we make more fun
more fun more fun, stand naked
on deserted streets, I will change
the sheets when I return and you
will make more fun, more fun

Not entirely his or mine, lies
uncover truth on broken beds,
the couch is fully dressed
I wear pillowcases, you’re a peek
a boo girl, crazy genius him, you say,
more fun make, more fun more fun

Dedicated Dope Fiends
Before technology,
there were no cell phones

we didn’t even have land lines
except for times of great scores
or unusual industriousness

They never lasted
and eventually wires
were torn out of walls,
used to unclog works
copper sold for pennies

Candles lit half empty
stairwells, climbed six flights
or waited for buckets
to drop before cries
of bajando hit stale air

One guy sat on an easy chair,
glassine bags stashed
between bricks

Sometimes a hand
came up
from a broken toilet

On Second Street.
we climbed through holes
in abandoned buildings

Property values
no longer allow space
for zombies or welfare

NYU grads pay thousands,
live in rooms haunted
by dope fiend eyes, shared
needles, OD’s, dead junkies
saved by their partners,
stories of lifeless bodies
tossed from windows
highly exaggerated

I was there for 20 years,
even I would have noticed

Only passion replaces drugs.

Everything else
is just another dead-end


Death by F Train
I’ve heard that on a near daily basis
somebody commits suicide
by jumping beneath an F train.

Always, an F train.

The heat index is 107,
my hair is frizzy, and I wonder
if today might be my turn
to play Death by F train.

I am talked out of it.
It would cause subway havoc,
I’m told, endless circulatory re-routing;
people would not reach the library;
a man might kill his wife because
he promised he would if she was late
just one more time.

It would all be my fault.

I guess I’ll get through another day,
body parts intact, mind scrambled,
like yesterday’s Church Avenue

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

3 Poems in Gutter Eloquence Magazine

Gutter Eloquence is my favorite online zine. Editor Jack Marlowe is my kind of guy. Mean, gravelly and big. Actually, I've met him, in Texas. Everything's bigger in Texas. Or so they say.