death. Or something like it.

So we die.

Not meaning to sound fatalistic but let's face it, it's true. When I died it wasn't at all like I expected. I've had what you may call a bad life. Beaten and abused. Wishing for death. But just not quite hitting the mark. I guess I just wasn't serious enough for it.
I honestly don't remember dying. Of course I know that I died, or else this would just be bullshit. But, I seriously can't remember my actual death.

I just died one day.

I woke up and I was dead.

A coronary or something. Apparently doing a shit load of drugs will actually come back and get you several years later.

I just woke up one morning and I was dead.

Or didn't wake up.

Whatever.

All I know is that I woke beside myself.

I was pretty sure this was just a dream, but it still freaked me out.

My body just lying there.

All pale.

Not white guy pale. Just not right.

Then some asshole puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "It's time to go."

I turn around and some Robert Smith looking asshole is giving me these sad eyes, just staring at me.

Just staring, like I'm supposed to just go along with it.

"Listen you emo fuck, I don't know how new you are to this gig, but you fucked up."

Those sad, sad eyes.

"Listen, I'm know you're just doing your job, and normally I would just accept that, but this seems like a fuck up on your part, man."

Those sad, sad eyes.

"Look. I try to kill myself on an almost daily basis. We've never met, but trust I've gone through this plenty of times before. Normally I'd just go with you, but I didn't do anything tonight. Honest. You've got the wrong guy. I'm Adam Strange; born Joe Adam Hernandez. I drink and smoke pot. But last I checked you can't OD off that."

It is your time.

"But this is ridiculous. I know I didn't try to kill myself tonight and I didn't even do anything close to it. At least tell me how I died."

It is your time."Ya, and I'll accept that and go with you quietly if you just tell me how I fucking died, okay."Around this time a bunch of other unnatural motherfuckers started showing up, looking all angelic and shit.
"Look I know you're just trying to do your job, but this seems kind of crazy. If I died, just tell me what I died of. Come on don't I have a right to know?"
The other grim assholes started off with the whole, "It's your time," line.

"Cool! Cool! Just, can't one of you tell me what the fuck killed me?"

I noticed some worry in their faces, so I pressed the issue.

"Come on. If I died just take me. No problem. I want to die, but this just doesn't make since. If I'm dead why can't any of you tell me exactly what killed me."

Next thing you know I was in my, already cold body, watching these assholes argue, except I couldn't hear a word.

Many of the the other spirits turned away and disappeared. The main spirit and one other stayed.

I was back out off my body.

You may live.

"What?"

It is not your time."But what about what that asshole said?"

Hey buddy, you do drugs and drink like a fish. You're a fucking alcoholic and could die any day. You're just lucky I don't bring you in today. I'll get you, dirtbag."

Next thing you know, I woke up in a hospital. The doctors said I was lucky to be alive and I had a coronary. No one believes my story, but I know that self righteous asshole is still out there. And you know what. This shot is for him.

Dickweed.

An experiment in comedy

In a dark and mostly empty comedy dive a visibly shaking and obviously drunk little mexican in 1970 punk garb takes the mike. After a good minute of awkward silence he whispers....You know the worst part about being Mexican? All the damn cousins. I've got cousins I've never even met. I actually lost my virginity to a cousin. Don't worry it wasn't inscest, I was wearing condom.

But there are good things. You know I'm catholic, obviously, I'm a drunken masochist. But hey, at least we only have to deal with a 45 minute mass. Well that and the ass rapings, but that's only till 12 then the priest finds a younger boy. Hey beats being Baptist.

Jeez this is getting awkward, let's talk about abortions. I've just realized I'm not pro-life or pro-choice, I'm pro-take-your-pregnant-girlfriend-to-Six-Flags. Think about it. Abortion clinics are so sterile and discomforting. It's like going to get a root canal. Who wants that? Now what's more comforting than a theme park? "Here you go sweetie why don't you have a turkey leg and a beer while we wait in line." What! She gonna give it up any way! Then after 30 to 45 minutes, WHHEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

Ya, my ex hated that joke. She just called me the other day. She wanted to know what I was getting her for her birthday. Bitch we broke up a month ago. Here's a balloon and a dildo, go fuck yourself.

I don't have a girlfriend right now. I have a cat. I know. I know. This is where I put the pussy joke. Well the joke's on you it's not a pussy joke. It's a cancer joke.

So my stepdad just got cancer. Prostate. Don't worry, he was an asshole so it makes sense. He use to beat the shit out of me, now he shits in a bag. In unrelated news I am no longer an atheist. I use to worry about him beating my nieces and nephews since my sister lets him baby sit all the time, but not any more. Even if he does it, he'll half ass it.

Well my time is up thanks for your time and please don't follow me.

The strange little man flashes a gun and walks backward off the stage.

Caught in the rain at Pearl Station

If I die tonight,
Tell Abbey I love her,
Tell Jameson,
I'm sorry,
Tell Laura,
I wish I was a better brother,
Tell Dean,
I wish I could have been a better student,
Tell Tony,
I miss her,
And remember,
I wrote this
Under an iron oasis of sunflowers

In flames

I had a dream last night
I dowsed the city in gasoline
The high rises and the river
The mansions and the ghettos
Every big box and mom and pop
Every bar and church
I dowsed city hall then pissed on it
On and On I went
I was drinking rubbing alcohol and smoking menthols
I flooded clarendon, greenville, and main
Every piece of pavement
Every window
Every man, woman and child
I stood on top of Back of America and looked down at it
The glimmering rainbow hued silence
I laughed and dropped my cigarette.

Dirty Poetry.

EAT A BAG OF SHIT




Dear heckler,

one day I was

sitting on the bus

& I met your moms & your

moms moms & I moved to sit

closer & they smelt of manjuice & womanjuice & so I ever-so-gently put it to them

that I have a passion-pit of my own if they’d like to come over & listen to records

& drink gin from my asshole.

Not reluctant, they nodded yes,



&



when we got to my place,

I put on that Frampton song that goes



“Ooooh baby I luv yer waaay.”



& we started talking, & your moms said that her son

is the biggest fucking loser this side of the

prime meridian

who has to pay fat girls just to get to second base

& jerks off into his dirty socks.



You sick, depraved fucker.



Your moms moms is dying of embarrassment

she doesn’t make you cookies anymore because

she’s afraid to spit now that she has dentures.



Feisty, the old lady couldn’t wait

& used her fake chompers to open the gin

they came out in the process, but it was a laugh



& your moms pulled down my pants &

commenced to sucking my cock & fondling my nuts

she kept saying that she hadn’t tasted jizm since

your daddy promised he’d tell her when



& he lied, of course



(She was excited)



& she wished that that jizm contained the sperm that was you.



Dear heckler,

your moms moms made me pull my knees to my chest

& ate out my asshole & gummed my nuts

& then she poured a shot of gin into

my asshole.

It was cold & tingly & some of it ran down my crack

but she drank it all & licked it clean.



So basically,

your whole maternal lineage is comprised of sluts.



Eat a bag of shit.



*Dedicated to the late, great Sam Kinison.

---
 
“How Academics Fuck”




Academics are turned on by academic things.

My friend Adam Strange

Said that they are

Not

Turned on by alchemy or gods in gaps

(only drunk pseudo-intellectuals are)

But he added that they enjoy socialism and criticizing

Revisionist histories.

One time I crafted my own vision.

I wouldn’t call it re-vision, but it was different than

What

The

Books

Say.



In my vision,

Señor Raygun was a staunch liberal who said and did all

Those crazy conservative things because

He wanted the

World

To see how insane the neo-cons are.



The Academics, of course, disagree.



So do I.



I was just having some fun.



Academics, well, they fuck for fun.



They are very studious and wear formal things,



But in the bedroom, they are animals.

Sucking cock, eating pussy, analingus,

No rubbers.

Cum on bellies,

Cum on backs,



Reverse cowgirl, doggie style,



FUCK.



They say that ts elliot and ezra pound are impenetrable fascists.

They’re for speech codes and against on-campus

Military recruitment

Good good liberal types

Trangressive behind closed doors,

Sensitive to feelings in the open

And I support transgression, and I support free speech,

In the open.

Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.



When Academics fuck

People listen (credibility)

And follow suit

Fucking in emulation

Intellectual masturbation

For a monkey see-monkey fuck-in-same

Nation.

¡Viva La Raza! or Why Stuart Antonio Rey-González didn't attend yesterday's marches

See, I have this thing. She's called a "girlfriend." Friday night was her birthday. I spent every penny I had from my tax return on a swanky hotel room in VP. There was Evan Williams. There was cocaine. We drank, inhaled, and watched the NBA playoffs on an HDTV, blaspheming overpaid assholes the whole night. Just me and her. It was sweet. Romantic.

I told her that I had to be more conservative with my excess because May Day (this year) is an important day for us Mexican-Americans. Of course, she's of the blonde-Swiss variety, so she just stared blankly at LeBron James or whoever. I don't know. I started cutting a coupla lines on the glass coffee table when there was a knock on the door. Housekeeping? Can't be. There's a DO NOT DISTURB tag on the doornob. Roomservice? We never called for any. Fuck. The room was like, $450 for a night!

My girlfriend, in a paranoid panic, swept the two lines that I'd been painstakingly molding with my long expired, maxed-out credit card off the table. After some choice expletives, I went to the door, stuck my face to the peep-hole, and saw a strung-out looking hipster and his-- I had presumed-- morenalicious girlfriend. I shrugged, turned to my girlfriend, who was snorting grains from the carpet, and decided to let them in.

They claimed to be part of a big wedding party and were inviting the entire floor down to the bar for the festivities. After prying my Swiss beauty from the carpet, we made way downstairs. We did some shots with complete strangers, and then the hipster dude and morenalicious (they said their names were Homer and Gracie) came back to our room where we played drinking games and did lines of coke off the girls's asses.

The whole time I was thinking, "man... I've written a story that was kind of like this." The last thing I remember is that we swapped partners. At least I thought we did. Because Homer and I woke up naked, spooning on the balcony; finding that we'd been locked out. After the initial, "holy shit, we're gay" scare, we tried to see if the girls were in the room. Neither of us had our phones, so we had to scream for them. Nothing.

Hours later, we were let out and asked to explain ourselves. The girls were gone and the room was fucked. The glass coffee table: broken. The HDTV: the object used to break it. The handle of Evan Williams, tipped on its side. Its contents: soaked into the carpet. Thousands of dollars of damage. Homer and I claimed that we were fucked up and that we didn't know what the hell had happened. I tried to deny that the room was in my name, but was unable to avoid it as I "looked more like a González" than Homer.

In short, I was profiled!

I'll also be hearing from their lawyer.

A poem about H-Town by Robby Mexico

That Old H-town




Don’t be angry, she said in gentle tones



And I tried to listen but screamed instead



At her injustice, at the sheer ugliness,



Of this old H-town you all love so much.



God bless this city, burn it down,



Spread the ashes across the ocean,



Spin beautiful tales of that old H-town,



That malicious metropolis littered with good intentions.



Play honest violins at the funeral; flutes, too.



Trumpets don’t lie and we gather here,



To give our last respects, say our last words-



It’s okay, Houston would have wanted it this way.



Dallas came and cried a bit, as did London, Paris, Rome.



New York gave her condolences, but couldn’t come due to circumstance.



San Antonio seemed broken, lost; New Orleans cried a flood again,



But Milwaukee was too concerned with self to cry;



Seattle cried for days and days, and Galveston?



Well, Galveston attempted suicide but couldn’t



Convince himself to die.



And Moscow sent his heart, from Russia with love,



And Venice and Los Angeles consoled each other,



And Tokyo still refused to believe the news



And Chicago, Cairo, and Vancouver were silent,



Jordan and Beijing strove to be strong,



And Athens and Amsterdam collapsed with grief,



Nairobi and Sydney mourned their brother with



Toronto and Baghdad, and Phoenix and Bristol



And Berlin and Dubai and Okinawa and Barcelona



And Boston and Austin and me.



A moment of silence for that old H-town.


-- Robby Mexico