Poem - Bran Muffin Blues (To Be Read To The Johnny Cash Tune "Cocaine Blues"

I woke up this morning
Jumped right outta bed
I downed a cup of coffee
And off to work I fled
I didn’t have breakfast
Cause I was running late
I bought a bran muffin
And got in by 8.

Logged on my computer
And I felt fine
I drank another coffee
In two minutes time
I opened my big mouth
And shoved that whole muffin down
My stomach let out a rumble
And I began to frown.

So there I was just sitting
Sweat covered my brow
On my face implanted
A permanent scowl.
I looked around to see
If there was someone near by
And when the coast was clear
I let a fart slip on the sly.

Oh wait a look of worry
Spread across my face
A foul stench took over
My entire work space
A sense of panic hit me
Oh God what did I do
I’d sharted in my pants
legs felt warm of fresh poo poo

I got up in a hurry
But knew I couldn’t run
I ass-clenched-walked to the toilet
To clean up what I’d done
My tummy flipped and rolled
Like a gymnast on the tumbling floor
I thanked God Almighty
For getting me in the bathroom door.

Once inside with a quickness
I pulled down my pants
My ass touched the seat
Before it began to rant
It gave a lofty sermon
It seemingly did not tire
I screamed out Halleluiah
And sang with the choir.

People walked in
And then they walked out
The pungent fumes deterred them
There was no doubt
I imagined the toilets rejoicing
down to the first floor
Mine said, it was its best shit
Since 1984.

I balled up my poor undies
And cleaned myself up
Wiped 20 times, flushed
The toilet got stuck.
The water began to rise
And I was out the door
I looked back in time to see
My shit hit the floor.

In my cube, IMed my boss
“I’m feeling very ill”
He said I should go home
And take some Vick’s DayQuil
I was out the door and back home
Quick as a roadrunner
Received another message
From my tail gunner.

There’s a lesson here
For all of you
If you’re in this type of plight
You’ll know what to do
Keep some clean undies
At work in your cube
And pray you’re not struck
With those Bran Muffin Blues.

Poem - For You (To all those who feel sacrifice is the best way to show love)

For you
I’d give up
the little things that make life right
sweet tart candy
pixy sticks
rocky road ice cream
and Mexican style pinto beans
con arroz
y pollo

I’d leave behind
those fat bowls of Menudo
with just enough lemon and onion
and never again
would I drink Chocolate Abuelita.

I’d just flat out give up
all those sweet things
I had as a kid
Reeses Pieces candy
no liftin the lid
to grab those extra cookies
to dip in milk
and no more
lucky charms cereal
with purple horseshoes.

Giving up all this
would give me the blues,
but at least I’d have you.

And if that ain’t enough
I’d give up Hip-Hop
and ya don’t stop there
cause you know how I love
the WU
and its true that for you,
Dre
would never again play on my radio
No mo’
Cypress hill
bushwick bill
of the GZA’s killa hill
cause with you
I’d have no need for the
sugar hill, wu-tang, busta rhyming, tribe
that called for the quest to keep hip-hop real
and make no big deal about it
after this
I’d get down on one knee
climb the tallest tree
even allow myself
to be stung by a killer bee
for you.

And if you still wanted more
I’d go out to the corner store
and buy you flowers
shower you with kisses
and hugs
even join the “say no to drugs” campaign
and not complain at all
I’d be there to catch you when you fall
and call you
honey bear and baby doll
and still more
I’d drop to the floor
and scrub it till it shines.

Dear
for you
I’d give up watching movies
you know that’s a sacrifice
but to kick it with you
would be hella tight
ain’t gonna make it
a blockbuster night
no more Star Wars, James Bond, Godfather
gangster flicks
blacksploitation films
The Mack turning tricks
No more cool
clean DeNiro
Al Pacino trying to be Latino
Japanese animation
or Nightmare Before X-mas
claymation
I’d sell my videos and VCR
give my TV to the goodwill store
and never again
watch anything new
even if it’s a movie by
The Killer director
John Woo.

Baby,
I can do one more thing
my friendships have gone
into the familia ring
but in a couple
there is only Two
So, for you
I’d even stop
hanging out with
my entire crew…

WHOA there,
I’d have to say
giving up all that
would destroy may ways.
I’m afraid of bees,
I hate climbing trees,
I’d rather be stricken by disease
than give up hip-hop
and movies
I could never just leave
all my homies
PLEASE understand
Love you I do
I’ll always remain true
even act like a fool
WOOOO HAAAAh!
ya got me in check
but please
wait a sec.

I love you for you
hope the same goes for me
I’ll still get down on that knee
play with a dog infested with fleas
even sing old songs
written by the Bee-Gees
but change my whole life
I could never do
not even for you
I wouldn’t be myself
you wouldn’t be loving me.

Yeah
I’ve been shot
with cupid’s arrow of love
you and me
we fit like hand and glove
so come on
let’s forget ‘bout
that potion of sacrifice
and get those
Mexican pinto beans
with chicken and rice.

-(C) 1998

The Boomtown Rats Ruined My Day

Last night at around 10:45 my wonderful weekend faded into the distance and my mind travelled to the dark place. That’s actually later than usual, because normally the dark place comes to find me at a much earlier hour. When I closed my eyes and drifted off, I saw the path clearly marked. The road is always a tricky one because each fork in the path leads to the same place, like level 8-4 in Super Mario Bros. I think that’s the one where you’ve got to remember the pattern, middle, top, and then bottom whilst dodging the fiery traps to get to Bowser. I wish I could have taken that left at Albuquerque on my way to Pismo Beach, but instead I could only keep moving straight ahead until I was faced with the inevitable. Monday!

I hate Mondays. I always have. I’m pretty sure when I was like 3 my mom taught me that “Hate” was a strong word, one we should never use and I may have said, “But Mommy I fucking Hate Mondays.” Somewhere deep down she hated them also, and so she probably stuck the bar of soap in my mouth for only 5 minutes because of my usage of the F-word. Later on I bet she told my dad and he probably said, “The kid learns fast, lets start him on his multiplication tables tomorrow.”

I can think of a plethora of things I’d rather do instead of dragging my ass out of bed after the alarm goes off the requisite 4 snooze button presses Monday mornings. I’d rather sit in the Oakland DMV waiting room Tuesday thru Thursday than have to get up on a Monday morning to go to work. I’d volunteer to clean up the electrocuted rats in the Bay Area BART stations if I could get a few Mondays off. I’d pick the peanuts out of Shrek’s shit for a month if I could have every Monday off in a calendar year.

Whoever thought of Monday should be shot. I’m sure they are probably already in the grave, but I’d dig up the bones and shoot them anyway.

Nothing goes right for me on Mondays, especially in the morning. I get up late. The shower water is cold, or the asshole upstairs decides to wash his cat and I get second degree burns all over my body. The baby downstairs cries from the moment my alarm goes off until the second I leave the building, and then probably falls back asleep. My quick morning session of Guitar Hero ends in failure. I run late to work all morning long, but then catch a bus that gets me there a full ten minutes before I can even fathom stepping foot in the door. The music on my IPod during shuffle pulls up songs like, “Kill yourself” by S.O.D. or Pearl Jam’s “Indifference”. Sometimes I swear it plays Yanni just to spite me. I don’t even own Yanni! This morning, as if my IPod knew I was in a miserable state, walking from the bus stop trying to think of anything other than going to work, I am treated to the Boomtown Rats “I Don’t Like Mondays”. This song alone is enough to make you want to go Postal on a busy street corner during rush hour.

Sometimes I wish Vizzini would travel to my house and challenge me to a duel of wits on Sunday night. I’d take the iocaine power and down that shit before he could say “INCONCEIVABLE”. I’d glue a sixth finger on my right hand and tell Inigo his father was only marginally good at making swords. There have been Sunday nights where I wish I could bitch slap the albino guard in the Pit of Despair and hook myself up to the life sucking machine. “NOT TO 50!” Of course Miracle Max would find me and I’d probably owe him like 10 bucks, or I’d have to fix his computer and he’d make me eat that chocolate cube. There I would be, up working on his computer on Monday morning while he ate his MLT - mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, “where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe.”

I’m sure by saying all this, the Devil is probably listening, hoping I find my way down to his abyss of hot, evil, sorrow. I’m sure he’s preparing a special Monday chamber for me to dance in during eternal damnation. I’ll bet he’s got his favorite sales people, attorneys, and admin assistants at the ready to call the helpdesk line at the word “Go” once I arrive. “My computer won’t turn on.” “Windows is broken.” “I can’t get this picture of my cat to show up as my desktop wallpaper.” To him I will say this, “Hit me with your best shot you horn faced prick. I’ve survived 32 years of Mondays so far. I can take it.”

A Letter To The Kid Who Stole My Bike In Front Of 7/11 When I Was 10 Years Old

You mother-fu…

No, I’m not going to start like that. I want to, but I’m not going to start by calling you a bunch of names laced with profanity. Instead I want you to imagine a little relatively brown Mexican boy waking up at 7:30 in the morning every Saturday and Sunday doing his chores early just so he could ride his bike around our neighborhood. You remember it, I’m sure you do; cookie cutter houses, green lawns, picket fences, small dogs barking as you ride by. It was safe, it was comfortable, and it was home. My bike and I went everywhere together for like two years. I was the KING of that small housing tract in Oxnard until YOU came along, you and your sticky fingers, and your urge to take what was not yours.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about what you did to me so many years ago. How dare you? I was ten you son-of-a-bitch! There I go again, your mom has little to do with this. Well she has some to do with it; she had you, she raised you, she put you out in this world just so you could break the heart of a little brown boy who probably lived down the street from you. I’d say she has plenty to do with it, but she doesn’t deserve to be called a bitch, so tell her I’m sorry.

Back to you, MY bike, and the crushed heart of a ten year old who did not know the evils of this world. What a great way to find out that there are bad people out there. I went into 7/11 for maybe 5 minutes to buy some candy, Fun-Dips if I remember correctly, and to play a video game. NO, at the time I did not have a Nintendo for you to steal, so I had to save up my quarters from picking up dog shit in the back yard for weeks on end just so I could play a few minutes of Black Tiger. After my two minute game, I turned to leave and OH, MY BIKE IS GONE. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Have you ever had a best friend? Did they get ripped away from you, like a bully would steal Halloween candy from a SOBBING 6 year old? That is nothing compared to the loss I felt that day. I cried more then than when my dog died a few years later. You Bastard!!!

A few years ago, my car was broken into out in front of a bar the night I was going to see Coldplay. I was taking a girl to the concert that night, and I had to ride around with a shattered window on a cold night in San Francisco. And yet, all I could think about was you and how you probably laughed. Laughed all the way home on that bike, laughed with your friends the next day when they asked you where you got it. You probably laughed as you rode it to the Carl’s Jr. across the street from the scene of the crime to get your Western Bacon Cheeseburger, or to Baskin Robbins down the street for some bubble-gum ice cream. Maybe you took it to the park by Blackstock Middle School, or maybe to Centerpoint Mall when you bought the new Metallica tape. That’s what I did, and would have done for years after, except I couldn’t because your GREEDY ASS couldn’t resist being a thieving Jerkface Johnson.

For a long time I wished horrible things upon you. Back then I wished that the fleas of a thousand camels would infest your armpits. Crude as it was, that would have been the nicest of thoughts that went through my mind for you. I never wanted death, because I was a nice boy who knew that would be wrong to wish death on someone. I did however wish that you would bite into a taco from Taco Bell on Saviers Rd. and find half a roach, legs still wiggling, antenna tickling the back of your throat as you swallowed. There was a time I hoped you’d gotten uncontrollable diarrhea in class while you were sitting next to a girl you really liked. Shit juice trickling down your leg. Maybe you’d get pantsed in front of your gym class or get a hard-on in the showers and all the guys would point and laugh.

I don’t know where you are now, and I don’t care. I still think about you, and maybe you are doing poorly. I don’t hope for it, but if you are then that sucks for you and I would not feel sorrow. If you are doing well, then congrats maybe you turned your life around and hopefully you aren’t some thieving punk at some large corporation taking money from the have-nots to pad your numerous bank accounts. I could wish the same distraught feelings you caused me on your offspring; maybe then you would know what it was like for me, having to hear my dad explain how "these things happen" and "its all a part of life." No, I won’t do that, I won’t wish that. My original wish still stands and maybe one day you will wake up to disgustingly smelly itchy pits and a feeling in your stomach that the young kid whom you tormented that one day so many years ago finally got his revenge.

Til then just know that I still think about you and I shall have it one day. One day.