The Iron Glove Recaptured

I refuse to live like this. I loathe
Having to bend my back to play the part
Of Stupid so the masses will not start
A Revolution. I will not be betrothed
To Insecurity because She feels
My verb, my action but conceals
The sword of mass destruction for Her throne.
I tire of them. They can go to Hell
And writhe among its flames — it suits them well.
(Too bad they can’t go soon enough.) I bemoan
The day I let the stones abrase my skin —
The moment I met Ignorance, within.
For now I comprehend, the who, the why
I am who am, and Cherish who am I.

First Glimpse of the Diamond in an Impromptu Moment

Sepia honey flows in rivulets
Of senses. Tonight, the hieroglyphics
Conjugate and copulate and sing
And in the light, two blooming violets
Cast their scented kisses soporific,
Searching for the glitt’ring drug terrific
That will release the creatures of the Spring.

Their whispers, timid, testing the waters,
Their exchanges cross in perfect unison;
This fire, rising, ripping, tearing, peals
Forth a melody contained. It utters
Mantras permutating themselves, the OM
Of action, flesh, destruction. Passion steals
Aggressive affections under the alm.

Looking into the Eyes of Shirley Phelps

My abomination you cannot stand;
The air we share, you wish I didn’t breathe;
This thing I’ve got, you’ve ceased to understand;
My very existence will make you seethe
And seek some retribution. Pick a fight
You say you never do, yet contradiction
Seems to be your norm, when you delight
Lambasting my life — your flawless diction
Screams indignation! Kill that bastard, hear!

Can’t you understand this guy is queer?
Can’t you see he threatens this Great World?

(Or should I cut my veins, let blood unfurl
Among the spineless people who allow
Faggots, pervs, and crazies cry out loud?)

So Much Love to Give

If left to his own devices, Rick would
Probably devise a way to become
The biggest, baddest, sexiest Hero
This side of the pond — or maybe beyond.
He is, without a doubt, pleasantly built;
A gay man's wet dream. He commands you watch
Him flex his muscles, strut his tush about.
A living Ken doll — minus batteries —
Who has a thing for mirrors. [Reflection
Is important, as long as it involves
Him.] He’ll give you love if you possess
Pay-pal, plastic, at nineteen, ninety-nine
For three minutes, no more, no less, as he
Bottoms out to a hand-held latex toy.

Martini's + Viagra + E = Who the (Blank) Are You?

And to think I valued your being true!
I wonder what a City Boy’s to do?
You told me yesterday I was Your Man —
You swore you’d always be my Sweet Dauphin!
We danced at Splash until our feet were sore. . .
And then we drank, and danced quite a bit more.
You yelled my name out at the height of sex —
Unless I missed it and you called for Ex.

I wonder were you ever really mine?
I wonder if your answer is but, “Nein?”
No more kissing under the mirrorball;
We’re done with playing boyfriends — this is all.
And to think last night you were such a Hunk. . .
I had just met you — plus, I was so drunk.

She's a Man-Eater (with Terrible Gaydar)

Ivan, Ivan, when will you kiss me thus?
How does “never” ring in your face —
Or shall I get my can of mace?

But you’re so strong, so manly, so divine!
And you are one persistent pest
Who cannot figure out the rest.

I’m so horny to be your glamourpuss!
Touch me again, you silly Jane
I’ll slice you à la Marion Crane.

Why can’t you see I’m begging? Please be mine!
Here: just for you, you nasty bitch —
A latex toy: go scratch your itch!

Don’t ever even dare to come near me;
You reek of curves and perfume — let me be!

Love Letter to a Rodent

One evening, as I dutifully toiled
Within the confines of my office space,
I heard some mewling noises neatly foiled
By the hum of computers in the place.
I turned around, and wouldn’t you believe?
A pair of small, shiny beads stared at me
Inquisitively, yet ready to leave
At the least provocation made from me.

I knew what it was there for; hence, I made
No attempt to alter my peace and rest.
I let it squeal its penny serenade
And all the while, I thought, “You’re such a Pest!”
To send it scampering to Boss, I shot back: “Please,
Would you kindly accept this block of cheese?”

Phyllis Always Knows

Here's the scene:

I meet this guy on a leather site called Recon.com. So far, I've had pretty good luck even when I don't meet men at a democratic level. Because Heaven knows I play difficult. I'm an Ice King. Unless you've done the peacock dance, I ain't movin' a muscle.

However, this guy is different. He's pretty much got my attention from the word Go. We've already begun to concoct messages that brim with the sensual breath of anticipation---to think, to engage in some delightful exchanges of pain, of endurance, or interchangeable dominance and utilizing not just our existing body-parts but some latex ecoutrements as well! Oh, my skin tingles.

Of course, leave it to me to step in the wrong puddle. First, the revelation that he's "discreet." Then the deeper revelation that he's "married." Nowadays, however, "married" can mean a heck of a lot more than its original intended concept---you could be married to your house, your job (and subsequently your boss), a prized Lamborghini, an esteemed family jewel, or even a milk-producing Holstein named Bessie. As long as I don't know the details of what sexual activities you engage with the aforementioned Lamborghini or your mooing Holstein, that's good enough for me.

So, back to "I'm married, ergo, let's leave it at discreet." I balk. My face does that weird thing that can only be described as a double-take and the ubiquitous Scooby-Doo "Huh?" And I dread the next announcement.

However, it comes, like death and taxes in a bundle. "I just don't want Phyllis to walk in on me." No, shit, Cisco! Imagine that: Phyllis walking in, possibly from her early morning charity work, or from her Tuesday shopping event at Bloomingdale's, neatly coiffed hair, breezy demeanor, feminine. While you're all tied up, legs up in the air looking like you're praying for Jesus in a chariot and glory, gag firmly in mouth, ass-bud apparently sucking in on not a teat but a silicone inflatable dildo as this strangely hot naked stud does things your priest NEVER prepared any of you for!

So I do the only thing I can do: I ask him the inevitable question....

"Well, can Phyllis cook? In case we run out of pot? And more importantly, can she clean the man-mess we will leave?"

His response: "She makes a mean turkey omelette which is great for early morning munchies. I also tell her that white stuff is just Palmolive skin lotion that just managed to get on the floor."

What a keeper.

A Mother's Right to Pop

Seen, on Facebook, this exchange:

Ivanhoe Vargas thinks Octomom is one of the most self-less women Mother Earth has ever birthed and her litter is just her way of 'giving back'.

MARY:
"Please tell me your kidding!?"

IVAN:
"Oh, Octomom isn't just noble--she's noble on steroids. I mean, think: she chose her turkey baster that she probably purchased at the Dollar Market instead of Macy's because she's cheap, not before her facial injections of course---first things first---as the father. She dialed 9-1-1 a record number of times and begged the state for help. Her bills top the 2 million-dollar mark. She's mentioned comparing herself to Jon and Kate (another pair of crazies). And now she's denying qualified help---while cameras turn her plastic face into a disco mirrorball as she uses her brood as her Express Ticket to Look-it-me-land.

"Don't you think this woman needs to be enshrined? Hell, she should have a throne all her own---and we should slowly pull her off of it."

BONNIE:
"she is just a spoiled brat; she wanted things always and the these kids are just 'things'; now california residents must pay for the bill; I don't know what the goverment [sic] is waiting for to take those kids away for that insane copycat; also they must do the same with the lazy gosselins, alll [sic] of them are awful!"

IVAN:
"...and that's what makes her the gift that keeps on giving.

"And Kate Gosselin isn't far behind---she's ruined her husband's will to live and his manhood, she's on her way to traumatizing 8 little kids and turning them into psychiatric cases (or examples of over-achiemement gone berserk), and she wrote a book!

"Ah, the American Dream."

BONNIE:
"...and the people LOVED IT! kate is just another neurotic case of selfishness, the gosselins are the fakest marriage in tv right now; if the show is canceled one day, the next day they will file for the divorce. Jon didn't [sic] born with manhood, he is a female playing a male, period. You will see more octomons plus ten, you will see more ladies hungry for easy money like them. It's the time to do not give them more attention, that is they only way everything around them will stop. And, just idiots bought kate's book."

IVAN:
Listen, Bonnie---don't you be taking my entertainment away from me because Octomom, her monstrously reproductive organ, and her gigantic silicone tragedy that are her lips (the former two which deserve their own story) have me in such a tizzy no Mexican telenovela since La Madrastra has, and for that reason I have her in a Special Place deep inside my Plastic Heart. You don't see this kind of crazy often.

Idea for a sequel: The misadventures of Octomom's hoo-haa as it uncontrollably rips out kid after kid into a cruel world. They desperately try to establish themselves amidst the paparazzi and their crazy mother while she plumps her lips. Insane scenes follow.

Idea for another sequel: Octomom's ginormous lips wrench themselves from her waxen face and set off on a road trip trying to find their place in the world, preferably a woman with Old Hag's Mouth and dentures.


POSTSCRIPT:

Octomom is my hero. Ine.

Disclaimer's note: Ivan has never tried Heroin nor does he intend to. Sometimes ya hafta EXPLAIN the jokes, spell 'em out for the peeps.

Holy Crap, Re-Visited

As so it happens, the first official day of Spring came with chills and brought in none of the comfort nor the warmth. Down upon the City fell a swarm of thick white flakes and my bleary eyes and filthy attitude made me shake a fist at the Almighty, asking Him to please oh for fuck’s sake stop shaking the fucking Globe and let the sunshine in for once.

I mean, who does He think we are? Cattle? Oh. Right. He created Us and We walk under the aegis of his whims. But that doesn’t detract from the fact that instead of a glorious morning where everything should have smelled like the dawn of a new season, all we were getting was the stench of something vulgar, and I’m not talking about the economy in shambles left by the previous term — that’s another angry story to talk about.

Speaking of anger under the chills, my bowels were screaming. Yes, I said bowels. It’s not like you don’t have them — what, you think you’re made of plastic and on display at Macy’s? Fuck off. You poop just like I do, just like every living thing does. Some poop big. Some create tiny little specks—marbles, or even M & Ms if you’d like to refer to them as such. Look at goats. Other than cheese, they can produce quite a variety of little bead-like fecal matter — you could easily confuse them for chocolate truffles from Lindl. Just not as enticing to the palate. I should know. I tried one. And another for confirmation.

So here we are, I under the covers, having seen snow from the sky and now shivering because I was undergoing what seemed to be the Kratatoa of bowel movements. I thought

(oh my God it’s alive it’s gonna blow!)

and then remembered as I ran to the bathroom like a rhinoceros charging blindly at its perceived threat, or a crazed fan at the pop star of the moment, with the difference that all I was gong to do here was release.

Yes. I said it. Let it all out.

Didn’t Tears for Fears once say, “Shout, shout/Let it all out?”

Well, my backdoor was about to release its shrieking Trojan and infect the white porcelain which was not from Kohler, but something cheaper.

Pause. Let’s have an intermission here and deviate a little from the mud-slide and flip a page or two back.

Because incidentally, I didn’t eat something nasty, or watch the Kardashians and suddenly get the urge. This is all Animal Planet’s fault. That goddamn fucking channel and its Eaten Alive show. Oh, I was an idiot to watch it, knowing my aversion to worms and parasites, and then like a chicken sans its tete or a blond without its roots I decided to cleanse myself.

Because that’s what they call it now. Back in the days, when out parents raised us, we called it purge. Romantic, isn’t it?

So Ivan and his little fingers ordered some locust tea, or as they call it, Cassia angustifolia, which is Latin for "Leaves that Cause Agony of the Ass in the Key of C". With a shade of lemon flavoring thrown in for a treat. That, my dear reader, is what made Ivan go number two until he was a giant intestine and legs just sitting there, screaming and empty and open raw, reacting to the chemicals in the tea which order “Out! Out! Everybody get the FUCK out!!!”

And because I love my friends so, I decided to share it. In a text message.

“It’s Springtime and it’s snowing! Oh, poo! Double-poo! Triple-poo! I’ve been sitting here pooing all morning! I’m pooped out!” A poem, dedicated to the First Day of Spring, describing a scatological mess that yielded no creepy-crawlies and made me lose a neat 5 pounds in one fell swoop.

And on that note, I'll be right back---

Tidy Endings

It was nothing less than a miracle: at approximately 3:31 PM on January 16, 2009, US Airways Flight 1549 en route to Charlotte, NC, had what has become known as one of the smoothest accidental landings in the history of aviation. Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger, who has now been commended a National Hero, was able to maneuver the plane that had been struck by flying geese after taking off into the New York skies from LaGuardia Airport and instead of attempting to land in nearby Teterboro Airport he preferred to steer it over the Hudson River where it glided, glided... and then came to a soft rest, proceeding later to float over the frigid waters intact. Not a single passenger was hurt, and what could have been a tragedy became the feel-good story of the month of January, and quite possibly, the year in transit.





On another note, it was nothing less than mortifying: as the clock struck 3:31 AM on a cold winter morning in January this year, two rather large men were in the middle of attacking each other sexually on a California King bed when without warning, the one on top---let's call him Jude---stiffened up in what might at first seem like a mind blowing orgasm and proceeded to land on his partner who at first wondered if indeed they'd taken it too far with the little blue pills and the party favors. The unfortunate bottom who in this case was on the bottom---let's call him Ivan---lay there, his partner's member still stiff and nine inches up his still-hungry and well-lubed rectum, unable to move and looking at the ceiling (which he noted was in dire need of cleaning, but that's an alpha-male for you). For five long hours Ivan lay there, battling nightmares of being smothered or even at one point thinking that indeed Jude was dead and slowly becoming a total stiff... and that thought broke his decorum as a guest and in one fell swoop he pushed the lug from over him, ran to where his clothes lay in a crumpled mess, and proceeded to get the hell out of that apartment.

POSTSCRIPT:

It was only later on, during his long and boring train ride home to Jersey City when Ivan realized that 1.) Jude was a narcoleptic, 2.) he'd forgotten his little box of blue pills at Jude's, and 3.) the condom Jude had placed on himself was still inside of him.

A Rose is a Rose... or a Man-Eating Vagina

Lara Croft came up to my doorstep one morning in April as I tended to my fuchsia azaleas and thought of Marc’s hatred of her. She was dressed in too-tight pants and a flannel blouse that was tied in a simple knot to the navel. Army boots. Her hair, a train wreck of Eighties overkill, a spectacle for the ages. She was beaming. She uttered the following sequence of words:

“Hey there baby boi, my lil’ ole’ bra, muh pardner in crime, I love you.”

(What?)

I was on my knees. On my knees in a pregnant situation. Everyone in town knew Lara Croft was one bad-ass motherfucker who had the moves. She could spring into ferocious action, leap to the air, pirouette like a ballerina, and faster than you could say “erotomaniacal” she’d be firing out bullets from her gunslinger’s Ruger and shooting ‘em dead.

You should know dear reader: she is trying to Save the World. Every day Lara is on fire and we know it. There are baddies everywhere, and she is Hunting Them Down. Because she has a Cause.

But not today. Today she was just plain Jane, simple as pie, and she was right there, on my front lawn, and I thank God of the distance that separated me from her. On the heels of that, I also wished I was someplace else and not here.

(Well. Answer her. She’s waiting. And she’s nuts.)

I just looked up and smiled at her; however thin it was. Her reaction? Priceless: eyes mildly muddy yet taking in my smile and returning with a faint glimmer---then, sunshine. Of course, I knew what lurked behind that.

And as if she’d read my thoughts, she suddenly sprung into girlish action, making me be aware that from her proclamation of love to this moment, only a minute or two had transpired---that was the effect she had. Draining like a day of mourning. She brought her hands to her thighs as she bent forward, and as if this present meant it all, the world, and she was its nucleus. She proclaimed, “I wanna show you somethin’, hun!”

There she went. Back to her house, while I kept to my knees, my gorge rising. And then I saw the thing to the right of her lawn. It was bigger than big---it blotted out the façade of her house, her Queen Anne’s Lace that was truly pretty if a tad wild, her porch. I suddenly wished I hadn’t come out this morning---but then again, this was and has been a long time coming. For she intended to reveal to me some Secret and I was frozen over my lawn, frozen under the Spring sky, sensing an impending horror. Staring at the thing she was happily walking towards.

And knowledge rushed in: I knew what it was. What it could be.

Looming over her lawn like some crazed scarecrow that had been flattened out into the shape of what could only be a huge canvas covered in a makeshift tarp the color of a snapped mind.

She stood against the covered canvas holding the tarp by a piece of rope. Through my mind a sentence shot

(oh my god did she do this by herself that wasn’t there last night!)

and I saw her hand yank the rope, the tarp give way. . .

“I did it for you, baby boi! This is a-a-a-all for you!”

Behind me, Marc: “What the fuck---?”

Red on the inside, a lighter rose on the outside, open, gaping, glossy, the upper petals encased in a ring of neatly trimmed hair of a dark colored tone, it could have been a gigantic rosebud in full bloom minus the leaves. My mouth bottomed out and touched the lawn. My stomach did a double-take. The temperature around me chilled---April was replaced by January in Winnipeg. Marc, behind, hissing something about the police and the sound of the door slamming shut followed. And she, over there, gleeful, basking in her insanity, arms coming to cup her covered breasts, probably moist, laughing and laughing and laughing.

Cafe Au Caramel (Skin)

There he goes.

He’s the answer to who was once Harry Houdini; he’s been able to overcome vertigo, sheer cold, drowning---all within the scrutiny of the public eye.

Oh, that we could do this to he was once our Prez, ole’ Dubya, just so he could see what it was to get fucked with, to see the tail wag its dog.

Now you see him, now you don’t: over in China as he makes a simple card trick a reason to giggle (and they’re the next super-power we need to be scared of?); then o’er the Thames in a box.

“Hi! I’m David Blaine, and I’m going to be in a box.” Beat. “A man.” Beat. “In a box.” Crickets chirp. “Yeah. . . .”

But of course. What I would give to stand/sit/lie down in a glass box, just minding my own pretty little business, Ivan the New Yorker treating the Brits to what a real muscle bear ought to look like. Hell, I’m in the wrong business. Blaine does tricks for a living and they eat it up; I have to work overtime to just make do.

There he goes, targeting passers-by on West 4th, somewhat soft-spoken, tall, dark looks mildly attractive. My pal Karen and I walking deep in gossip and verbal exchange, re-enacting entire scenes from Annie Hall, looking on, bemused. Wondering: where have all the angry New Yorkers gone?

“Hey, Kar,” I tell her. I got an idea.”

Her eyes open a little wondering what the hell am I about to do, since we’re clearly within encountering the World’s Greatest Endurance Artist Slash Magician. “You are not going to walk over there and embarrass yourself, Ivan. And if you do---I will sure as hell film it!”

“Of course not!” I reply. “However, wait right here.”

And I dart away, leaving her standing pat right on the corner of West 4th and 6th Ave., nonplussed, a look of “Oh, hell naw you betta’ not let me here in the middle of New York City, foo’!” tattooed on her astonished face. Into the IFC Theatre, and less than two minutes, out and walking towards Karen carrying a coffee cup. She’s standing there, blinking at me. “And?”

“I’ma do an act of magic on that sucker.”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa, magic-what?? Hey! Vargas!”

Walking towards Blaine, ecstatic while a bit nuts, as if thinking, “I’m really going to do this.” Blaine’s figure gets larger and larger even when I know I can take him if I want, anytime. There he is, making a girl swoon and giggle---I can hear her blubber: “Yuh-yuh-you can predict the future? Am I g-g-g-gonna be f-f-fuh-fuh-famous?”

“Hey. Blaine! See if you can make this disappear!” And I prepare my aim with deadly precision.

He turns around, and in less than a second. . .his face explodes into an expression I have come to love ever since.

Overheard, as I sailed away for a real cup of coffee at the nearest Starbucks, someone unseen: “Can’t say he didn’t have this one coming. . . .”