Category Archives: Fartsy

Mortuary People, a Romance


They come into your house in business suits at 2:14 am.
Of course you don’t want to trust them,
or believe any of it.
They glance around real quick at the living
to see if any of them are good looking.
Then they explain what the options are
for the dead.
You look at the tile on the kitchen floor
and try to figure out how many total squares there are.
When they walk into the back room,
you go sit in a chair and pull the draw stings
of your hoodie real tight around your face
and stare at the “Field Guide to the Birds Of North America.”
When you hear them unfolding something metal,
you start writing down everything you know.
You picture them taking off the dead’s
shoes and putting them down carefully on the floor
like rose petals for a bath–it’s all part
of their repertoire for romancing people to death.
You picture the toes of the shoes pointing toward
each other.
Then, you hear them pull a zipper,
and you concentrate real hard on those shoes.
The left one says Now what?
The right one says I guess we don’t have to go on those hikes anymore.
The left one says I guess it just comes down to this.
In unison they say Just us shoes.
You remember every time you said you didn’t have time
for a hike.

Missed Connections

Where are you? 

It’s me, your stalker. I can’t reach you
with my words or by throwing bark chips
at your window. Need to connect with you!
I’ve tried watching you in a different light,
but the bushes always seem to be in the way.
You looked so pretty doing your laundry
and dropping that DVD into the mailbox.
God, it’s going to be hard to commit suicide
outside your house when I used to be able
to do it inside.

Missed Connections


Always: Brown hair and eyes and lies,
told me you never wanted to be with me
that way. Actually, you said it looking
into my eyes at Lake Tahoe, after we
both agreed we understood why people
wanted to keep it blue. I guess we only
agreed on one thing. But, still, love for
you grew stupidly in me like a tree
planted in a temporary pot. I’m the dumb
housewife who didn’t know you needed
space to get roots to get something at all.
You just looked so good in my door,
I didn’t have that kind of time.
And when you came back around,
I’ve pictured our wedding. I’ve pictured
how you’ll yell at me when we’re old,
a new branch launched green forgiving
into my gut. Every new geometry of living
with you flowering with your slight touch:
Pulling me back from traffic.
Demonstrating on my shoulder
how she touches you in public.
You hate it. You brush an eyelash
off my cheek.


Airport Bar Poetry

Didn’t this button used to be on the backside?

She says. She is the star of the airport bar.
She is half Mexican and half Indian
and her hair is teased and pulled into a side pony tail
that goes down to her ass
and she is giving the soda gun
a very suspicious look.
Yes. Her younger, prettier co-worker says.
Patiently. Thankfully.
This is not her.
The star of the airport bar
has announced twice that she’s back from her lunch break.
To everyone
and to no one at all.
She calls me Hon,
and I like it.


We accidentally evolved on this insignificant rock that circles a non-descript star, one of trillions in a vast universe. In the overall scheme of things, our entire existence is meaningless; and those pathetic, egotistical bastards who feel it is important “to make something of their lives” are completely full of shit.

–Scott Willen

Helpful Hints For Not Realizing You Are Completely (jesusfuckingchrist) Alone:

Sometimes I have a very difficult time eating by myself. Let alone, cooking myself a meal. The sound a fork makes when no one else is over for dinner, when I’m not in love at all, is awful. It sounds like a glass of water being gently set down by a nurse on my grandma’s bedside table, when my grandma can’t swallow and her mouth has been open for days like a gash.

 If you know what I mean, then I suggest the following:
When eating by yourself: make something you can carry like a burrito or a sandwich, and then walk around eating it–maybe go in the alley—and I swear you won’t feel as alone because you will trick yourself into thinking you aren’t actually eating dinner because all the perfunctory actions associated with dinner (sitting down at a table with  place settings and loved ones) are removed. 
Of course there are other things that are hard to do when you’re completely (jesusfuckingchrist) alone. Here are some simple solutions:
When going to bed: put a pillow between your legs then bring it up to your mouth and french kiss it, then punch it repeatedly and put it back between your legs and try to get some rest.
When in the shower: wait until the tile gets steamed up, then take your finger and write “Hey, you…”
When drinking coffee: do a little dance.
When on the couch:  extend  your leg and point your toe seductively at a throw pillow and run your hand along your thigh and smile at the wall.  Read Eudora Welty. Or Dorothy Parker.
When you realize you’re jesusfuckingchrist alone: either call somebody and invite them to a BBQ and then try to find a BBQ that you can take them to, or turn your music up real loud and hope you’ll have the chance to apologize to a neighbor.