I was talking

to this young lady I know

and she was really pissed off

about a poem I wrote

about getting laid

in the back seat

of an old ’73 Buick LeSabre

I didn’t see why this one poem

in particular

was so upsetting to her

and then it dawned on me.

I was thinking, “Oh yeah,

now I remember that night. “

Now either I was really drunk

or her performance

just wasn’t up to par

It’s hard to write a poem

about something that

you don’t even remember


like all too many women (and men)

she doesn’t realize

that what’s up here (mind)

and in here (heart)

is worth infinitely more

than what’s down here (crotch)


They were protesting and parading around Rue St. Denis and Rue St Catherine.  They were 

beating on drums and chanting their anarchist slogans.  The signs they wielded proclaimed the 

horrors of our society.  This was Anarchy French Canadian style on their afternoon march.  The 

local businesses seemed a bit dismayed although a few waitresses and bartenders commiserated 

with the cause.  I was just sitting there finishing my beer knowing that I needed to get through 

the crowd to move on to my next destination.  I figured I would just treat the anarchist parade 

like a conga line and get off when I got closer to my destination.  I figured if the gendarmes 

stopped me I would plead ignorance.  Désolé.  Je suis un Américain muet.  It seemed like a good plan.

marching with a cause 

or even without said cause

they raise a ruckus


As I waltz through my life

whiling away hours, weeks,

years & even decades

I never found a shortage

of certain undesirable sorts.

There seems to be 

an asshole lurking

under every rock

& a bitch to be found

around any old corner.

The cretins aren’t coming.

They’re already here

They appear out of the mist

when you least expect them

always willing to lend a hurting hand.

There’s no longer any surprise

in finding someone new

only to learn they are not dependable.

You’re only an afterthought

they never truly care for.

As I get older

I find I have fewer friends

and more casual acquaintances

and that’s very much by design

as I try to keep my life real.

I’d rather be surrounded

by those relatively special few

that I know I can count on

than have thousands of false friends

valued at a dime a dozen.


the blanket covers me

              in winter sweat

the dream turns sinister

a lesbian and a Republican

are talking to me

and trying to seduce me

into a plot 

to capture Tibet

and get head from

Buddhist monks

I run through the house

out to the backyard

being chased by

Andre the Giant and Grace Jones

My foot gets stuck

in an anthill

and the evil henchmen

take me captive;

some mornings

I’m really glad to wake up

Published by Mike Zone

Mike Zone is the former Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press and managing editor of Concrete Mist Press. The author of Screaming in the End: Poems and Stories, Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind and Razorville. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Black Shamrock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, and Cult Culture magazine.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: