pretty girls make me sad.

by big poppa e

stuff

the word ...... 1 beardo ...... 3 how to make love ...... 5 what i mean when i say i love you ...... 7 the burning bush ...... 9 neurotika ...... 11 mixtape genius ...... 13 confessions ...... 15 the crush ...... 17 mementos ...... 19 pretty girls make me sad ...... 23 the word (2010)

i’m on the phone with my redneck gramma, and she asks me when was the last time i went to church. and i sigh. because i don’t really wanna debate the existence of god with her. she’s 83. so, instead, i tell her, “gramma, when you say ‘church,’ i assume you mean going somewhere on a weekly basis to gather with a community of like- minded people who raise their voices as one and share ideas about life and death and everything in between, and if that’s the case, gramma, then i can proudly tell you that i go to church every wednesday night at the austin poetry slam where we gather, us searching souls, in the cathedral of spoken word called the independent. my pastor is a sexy motherfucker named mike henry, and my organist is the one and only dj slipp.

“at the slam, every poet’s a preacher ministering the gospel to congregations of the faithful. we come to praise the power of the word and its ability to pry apart the clenched fists of our hearts and empower us to wrestle and nameless demons in our bellies and imprison them in notebooks so we can own them and no longer be owned by them.

“we pass the tip jar from hand to hand in the dark gathering tithes while poets share psalms from the pulpit of the stage, proffering poems as parables and sacrificing themselves to save our souls while we anoint each other with whiskey, cigarettes and passion.

“we don’t buy our bibles at the bible store, we write our own scriptures and photocopy them at kinko’s, fold them in half and staple them and offer them as sacrament.

“we ask audiences to accept our words as their words, to place them upon their own tongues, for these pages are our bodies, these tears are our blood, and they have the power to heal. 1 “everyone is welcome to preach their pain and sing their suffering, shout their joys and weep and moan and gnash their teeth to a hip-hop beat. redemption is granted to anyone with the courage to speak their truth, and the self-righteous among us who point heavenward to justify their bullshit are judged harshly by five randomly-selected judges and thrown off the pulpit until the next slam.

“our touring brethren and sistren spread the good news like missionaries in bars and coffeehouses from coast to coast, transforming open mics into old-time tent revivals, inspiring audiences to leap to their feet and speak in tongue, ‘spit poet! spit poet!’

“we all have our crosses to bear, and the poetry slam is where we gather to shoulder that weight together for three minutes and ten seconds at a time.” there’s silence on the end of the phone line, then my redneck gramma clears her throat and says, “what in the hell are you talking about, son?” and i just say, “church, gramma. i’m talking about my church.”

2 beardo (2009)

i find myself looking at these times of economic hardships and romantic disappointments, and i realize i have come to a point reached by many a beleaguered man. a point where the only appropriate response to all the bullshit is: fuck it! i’m growing a beard! my beard will be a statement: the struggle to please you is over! growing a beard is a rite of passage, proof you’re not some girly man capable only of some fussy little metrosexual chinstrap like a.j. from the backstreet boys, no! i’m talking about an uncontrollable wildman beard! a burly man beard! burly! like burl ives! when you begin to cultivate a truly barbaric man-bush, you join a long woolly history of beardos before you who allowed their facial hair to fly unfettered and free! walt whitman! karl marx! fat jim morrison! the lunchlady in middle school! and walker texas ranger himself... chuck norris! chuck norris’ beard doesn’t hide a weak chin, it hides another fist with which to pummel you! my beard will not be some scratchy tumbleweed of a beard, nay! my beard will be a welcoming luxurious fleece bathed in exotic camel’s milk shampoos and smoothed by silken conditioners.

3 come, my love, allow the lush tendrils of my beard to surround our naked bodies with the scent of sandalwood and ambergris and warm us to sleep as only a soft blanket of pubic-like facial hair can! yes, sometimes i get food caught in my beard, but it is only the finest cuisine. last tuesday... pate de fois gras... here. yesterday... fillet mignon... here. last night... your mom... here! and to those women who say they don’t like guys with beards, i say NO! i will not trim my voluminous cookie-scraper moustache because it tickles! i’m a tickly motherfucker! no, i will not tame my wolverine-like mutton chops because they chafe the insides of your thighs! if you’re gonna ride this cowboy, you gotsta bring chaps! in the end, if i can’t find a women strong enough to love me for the hirsute man i am, well then fuck it! because the biggest fans of guys with beards... are guys with beards! and i say bring ‘em on, all you leather daddies and butch biker bears, let me be the cuddle cub of your wildest furry fantasies! let us press our bewhiskered cheeks together like two velcro-covered teddy bears and whisper roughly into each other’s ears: “breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law...” i’ll curl my pinkie around the belt loop of your tight moose-knuckle inducing leather ass pants, and we shall mount your harley chopper, and we shall ride into the sunset bellowing, “beardos forever!”

4 how to make love (2009)

if i had a son, and he came to me as a young man for advice about sex... with girls... this is probably what i would tell him. l) buy condoms. buy them and keep them with you at all times, and use them before you are asked to use them, and use them every time. the peace of mind you allow your partner will free her to be vulnerable with you, and that, my son, is exactly what sex is about. condoms are sexy. in fact, call buying condoms foreplay. footnote: if you’re too embarrassed to buy condoms, you’re not ready to have sex.

2) kissing is not merely foreplay. spend entire evenings making out on the couch while fully clothed. believe me, dry humping rocks.

3) sex is not just about friction; it’s about emotion. don’t worry about trying to find her clitoris, find her heart, then she’ll help you find her clitoris.

4) if you really want to know how to please a woman, ask her how she masturbates. then do that. a lot. if she says she doesn’t masturbate, offer to take her shopping for a vibrator so you both can learn the vocabulary of her body together.

5) don’t put anything in her butthole you wouldn’t want in your own. footnote: try a pinkie finger. it’s kinda awesome.

6) when you go down on her — and you WILL go down on her, and if you are MY son, you will be AMAZING at it! — tell her how good she tastes. stop in the middle and kiss her deeply so she knows how good she tastes, and do the same when she goes down on you. 5 7) a simple google search yields l,347 euphemisms for male masturbation, yet only 23 for female masturbation. if guys spent less time jackin’ off and more time jillin’ off, the world would be a happier place.

8) everything you need to know about the importance of the clitoris is in the movie star wars. your partner’s body is the death star, and you are luke skywalker piloting your penis-shaped x-wing fighter deep inside her trench. remember, 70 percent of all death stars cannot be blown up through penetration of the trench alone. it must be through focused contact with that little exhaust port at the top of the trench, otherwise any explosions you experience will be merely hollywood special effects.

9) just because you’ve cum doesn’t mean she has, so don’t you dare cum before her. concentrate on pleasing on your partner. don’t worry about getting yours. you’re a guy... you always get yours. your job is to make sure she’s getting hers. l0) if sex with your partner lasts no longer than this poem, you are not making love... you are masturbating with her body instead of your hand. shame on you! go back to step one! you have a lot of learning to do! love, dad. p.s. if you are gay, son, know that i love you and am proud of you for telling me about it. here’s dan savage’s number. he can answer all your questions about boys.

6 what i mean when i say i love you (2009)

wanna know what i hate? poets. wanna know why? love poetry. because most of the shit passed off as love poetry is nothing more than lists of body parts and what they intend to do with them, interspersed with endless repetitions of the word love love love... as if it actually meant something. if you can’t write a love poem without using the word love, then you are not a poet; you are a greeting card salesman. and you’re not alone. the english language has never known what to do with this word that can, on one hand, be used to describe your feelings for the most important person in your life and, on the other, your favourite hamburger. well, i am not lovin’ it. i’m here to take i love you back, so when i say it, it won’t be some vague poetic notion, no, when i say “i love you,” i mean as long as i’m around, you will always have someone to take you to the airport, you will always have someone to help you move your heavy-assed couch up three flights of narrow apartment complex stairs, and you will always have someone to hold your hair back out of your face while you regurgitate margaritas into the bathtub. and i know it’s the bathtub and not the toilet because you think sticking your head in a toilet is nasty, and i know this not because i love you and this knowledge has magically seeped into my brain through love osmosis, no, it’s because i fucking pay attention. i will go to the corner store at 3 in the morning in the rain on my bicycle to get you tampons, and i will remember to get the pint of chunky monkey you didn’t even ask for because i know you like ice cream when your cramps are bad, and i know this because i’ve got your back. 7 and by that, i mean the little space between your shoulder blades you can never reach when it itches really bad... i’ve got that! as long as i am around, your back will always have an even layer of sunscreen. when i want you to know i love you, i won’t buy you flowers — “oh look honey, here’s something beautiful you can watch die!” — no, i’ll sneak over to your apartment when you’re at work and clean your kitchen. and i will never allow our arguments to become fights because i will spend my time listening rather than simply waiting for my turn to talk, more time giving you the benefit of the doubt instead of picking at old wounds to score points, more time learning from my mistakes and not repeatedly apologizing for them. it’s easy to love you when we are so beautiful, but i will love you even when things get really fucking ugly. i will love you even when i fucking hate you. and should the time come when it’s time to move on, i will let go. and when you introduce me to your new boyfriend, i will tell you... he seems like a nice guy... and i am happy for you... even though your name is tattooed on the center of my chest so no matter how hard someone else presses their body against mine, you will always be closer to my heart. and i mean that metaphorically... because i ain’t getting no fucking tattoo... when i say i love you, i fucking mean it.

8 the burning bush (2010)

i ask you... how many casualties must there be before we stop this war? and i’m not talking about the war in iraq! and i’m not talking about the war in afghanistan! we must stop this inhumane war... against female pubic hair! women are denuding their privates on a scale akin to the destruction of the amazon rain forest. no wonder they call it a “brazilian wax!” coincidence? i think not! any man who would insist that his lover’s most precious pajayjay be smooth as a baby’s bottom... wants to have sex with a baby’s bottom. but i say, “no more!” a bearded clam... is a happy clam! pubic hair is there for a reason. it’s nature’s shock absorber. it’s god’s way of saying, “i don’t want you kids getting all chafey and red while you’re being fruitful and multiplying! so here’s a little present for you. boo-ya! knock yourselves out!” the bigger the cushion, the sweeter the pushin’. sisters! turn your backs on the bald head of sinead o’connor and boldy embrace the militant afro of angela davis! put down your razors! i don’t need no damned landing strip! i’m a jungle pilot. just fly me over the thickest deepest tangles, and i’ll parachute in with nothing but a machete and a smile... and by machete, i mean my cock!

9 women of the world! throw away your weed whackers and bust out the miracle gro! i’m your lamb of love, baby, let me graze! baaaa! here’s the thing: women are human, and humans are mammals, and mammals have hair, so when a woman has hair down there, mon frere, i declare it’s the most natural thing she can wear. a shorn pudendum says, “fuck me with your gender norms and your notions about what makes women truly attractive.” but a big ol’ gnarly bush says, “fuck you and your need to control me! this is what a real woman looks like, and if you can’t handle it, son, then you ain’t never gonna handle it, son!” ladies! toss those tuna trimmers and never suffer razor burns on your tender labia again just because some stupid boy can’t handle the truth! don’t look to depilated internet porn for your coochie-snorcher imagery! go back to ‘70s porn, where eager beavers frolicked wild and free! when the good lord spoke to moses, it was not through some leafless shrub! hell no, it was through the burning bush! now get on over here, sister girl, and let me set that lush ill nana on fire and make you hear the voice of god!

10 neurotika (2007)

fuck falling in love! i am so bored with love! from now on, if i’m gonna fall, i wanna fall insane! fuck meeting for idle chit-chat over coffee, dollface, let’s cut to the scene where we fornicate like two rabid skunks right here on this table in front of everybody! i’ll write a poem about it called that girl i fucked that one time. to hell with caution! let’s wrap the anchor of our love around our necks and dive off the brooklyn bridge and strangle each other all the way down to the bottom of the hudson river until we die! with our eyes open! it will be romantic! like the titanic! let’s write epic odes to each other consisting of nothing more than the word fuck over and over again, then let’s tattoo them on our backs with the sharpened tip of a guitar string dipped in burnt styrofoam... like they do in prison... which is what our relationship will be, a prison from which there is no escape! it will be just like death row, only without the anal rape... unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case it will be exactly like death row! i want us to file restraining orders against each other requiring 100 yards between us at all times, then i want us to stand at either side of a football field and glare at each other as we masturbate furiously in the end zones and shriek obscenities at each other: “fuck you, you fucking fuck!” i’ll sue you for mental cruelty, then i’ll spend my settlement on a diamond engagement ring etched with the words i love you, you filthy whore! i don’t want to collect a shoebox of mementos! i want to stuff a casket with every lawsuit, court order, summons, and concealed weapons permit generated by this doomed relationship, and then i want to be locked inside 11 it and buried alive with you on top of me until we die of suffocation with our eyes open... you filthy fucking whore! i want to sever all connections with everyone i know the entire time we are ruining each other’s lives, and when it’s finally over, i want to crawl back home on my broken fingernails — all pale and hollow-eyed — and have people wonder where the hell i’ve been... for the past two weeks... and i’ll simply stare off into the distance and rasp, “the horror... the horror...” fuck love. love hurts too goddamned much. if you’re gonna bother liking me at all, just fucking destroy me.

12 mixtape genius (2008)

i am not an arrogant man. my tragically low self-esteem keeps any delusions of grandeur in check. however, there is one thing at which i am better than anyone in this room. i am a mixtape genius. i spin tunes like monsoon winds blow typhoons! make foolish dj’s like you look buffoon! when i brew my mixtape voodoo for you, boo, you’ll swoon! i mix melodies with memories that sway your bodies like coconut trees in the ocean breeze. i blend heartbeats with drumbeats ‘till fleets of bare feets crack concrete city streets with hard heel beats. i twist turntable tornados with whirlwinds of spin and furiously flip faders to and fro for surround sound that astounds. i am a connoisseur of cold cuts, a master chef of ghetto blaster base clefs, tossing ballads like salads, chopping breakbeats like sweetmeats. i’ll julienne jazz and flash fry it in funk, season it with tribal drums and serve it up as crunk. i makes my mixtapes saucy like emeril lagasse’s in my posse. BAM! i will blend a chunk of thelonious monk with a hunk of old school punk, stir it around ‘till it sounds profound, make you see babies like ultrasound! allow me to expound... you will not play my mixtape... bitches, my mixtape will play you! i’ll make you dance marionette on the ends of guitar strings, pluck power chords from the cords of your hamstrings, tie ribbons of rhythms in festoons from your heartstrings... ain’t nothing but a chicken wing! and before you dare dismiss me as a point-and-click dj mouse-clicking mixes in itunes all day, typing love into search engines and dragging megabytes of music across desktops and burning cds with simplicity stop... remember 13 this... when i say mixtape... bitches, i mean mix-tape! i mean old school 90-minute cassette tape, 45 per side, TDK all the way, metal position with the tab clicked out so you can’t tape over it! like back in the day when you actually had to listen to every song all the way through! making a mixtape could take all saturday afternoon! when you grace your stereo with my mixtape, strap on your big fat padded dj ear goggles, press play, lay back, relax, allow the divinci code of my mixtape odes flow slo-mo like molasses kisses, you’d best remember this, missus. that feeling you get? giddy in your midriff? that whispers of summer skies and fireflies and bicycle tires and campfires down by the lake? make no mistake! take whatever flights of synesthetic fancy you feel and multiply them by 10! because when i molded my mixtape voodoo for you, boo, i was holding back!

14 confessions (2010)

confession one if everyone i ever wished dead were to burst into flames, the entire planet would be populated solely by cute barristas in coffeehouses... and i wouldn’t be around to write poetry about them. confession two the last girl i tried to date kicked me to the curb because i toss and turn in my sleep. the last two nights i spent the night at her apartment, she ended up on the couch. she said it was a deal-breaker, then her jack russell terrier bit my big toe. we have not spoken since. confession three i don’t really like poetry. confession four i recently discover that i might be a father... biologically. this girl i dated for three months when we were 16 friended me on facebook and told me her 24-year-old son has my nose. i looked at his photo on her profile. there was my nose. this is disturbing to me, especially since he also has three kids. i may have to update my stage name. confession five the 13-year-old girl i had a crush on when i was a freshmen in high school is now a grandmother. my first love is a conservative christian who campaigns against gay marriage. i hate facebook. confession six i kinda wanna find out if that 24-year-old kid is mine by doing a dna test... on jerry springer... i would take off my shirt and pace the stage while yelling at the audience, “you don’t know me! you don’t know me!”

15 confession seven i steal spices from the supermarket. i’m not proud of this. i always pick the most expensive version of whatever spice i want, because if i’m going to jail for shoplifting, it might as well be for the organic oregano. my ethics are suspect, but i can make a splendid spaghetti sauce. this says a lot about me. confession eight i checked out the myspace page of the 24-year-old who might be my kid. he says he likes drinkin’, fuckin’, and beatin’ up fags. i am quite sure he would not appreciate me. i only like one of those things. confession nine when i can’t think of anything new to write, i make numbered lists and call them poems. confession ten i only knew the girl from high school for the summer of 1984. she was a heavy metal chick with tight wranglers and feathered hair. our favourite song was rock you like a hurricane by the scorpions. we never used condoms. we were 16. the last time we had sex, she asked me to come inside her. i did. i thought it was reckless and sexy. i am not sure what she thought. i broke up with her two weeks later because her redneck boyfriend skylar was getting out of juvie and was telling everybody he was going to kick my ass for fucking his girlfriend all summer long. that was august of 1984. her son was born april of 1985. you do the math. confession eleven if she had told me that she had gotten pregnant and that she suspected it was mine, i am quite sure the baby never would’ve been born. he is 24 years old and has no idea i exist. confession twelve i have no idea how to end this poem.

16 the crush (2009)

the cute girl at the coffeehouse who serves you lattes every morning is afraid of you. when you walk into the room, the soft skin of her slender arms sprouts gooseflesh. you think she’s shy, the way she lowers her gaze as you approach the front counter. you think she might fancy you, the way she whispers as she asks if you want whole milk or skim, foam or no foam, a stirrer, a lid. the sound of your much-larger-than-necessary tips sliding from your calfskin wallet into the open mouth of her tip jar makes her think of a stiff leather belt pulled through the loops of dirty denim pants. she has told her co-workers about you. they have assigned you nicknames. they all keep watch and warn her when they spy your loping gait, so she can slip into the back and hide behind the swinging door of the storeroom until they signal your retreat. that day you caught her leaning unawares near the bus tub over-flowing with coffee mugs and asked her what music was playing over the loudspeakers, she winced, hating the fact that she had lowered her guard, loathing that she was obliged to tell you the name of her favourite band. she has not listened to them ever since. she wants no reminder of you hounding her day like dogshit on the bottom of her pink converse hi-tops. she purchased pepper spray on the internet and keeps it in the breast pocket of her apron at all times, half-hoping for a reason to empty the canister into your eyes, wishing you’d lunge for her throat with spit on your lips as she butters a toasted bagel with a butcher knife. 17 but you don’t. you simply order your morning double-tall-soy-no-foam-decaf latte, tip a few bucks more than you have to, and leave with a smile, wondering absentmindedly if you should ask for her phone number. every morning. while she. holds. her breath. and waits for the sound of the front door snapping shut behind you.

18 mementos (2008)

free meals on airplanes. smoking sections on airplanes. smoking sections anywhere. the avon lady. tupperware parties. s & h green stamps. door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. encyclopedias. elevator attendants. gas station attendants. ethyl gasoline. answering machines with mini-cassette tapes. rotary phones. princess phones. home phones. ten-cent phone calls from phone booths. phone booths. collect calls. long distance charges. anonymous crank calls. telegrams. morse code. the smell of fresh purple mimeograph copies. typewriter ribbon. typewriters. carbon copies. wite-out. erasable typing paper. writing letters. licking postage stamps. saturday mail. 19 24-hour kinko’s. kinko’s. zines. slide rules. l.e.d. calculators. computer punch cards. cassette tape drives. floppy discs. zip drives. firewire. the sound of a 2400-baud dial-up modem. the sound of a dot matrix printer. library card catalogs. microfiche. drive-in movie theatres. laserdisc movies. vhs movies. betamax movies. mixtapes on actual cassette tapes. cassette tapes. cassette singles. 8-track tapes. cd long boxes. cds. 45 rpm records. records. record stores. record companies. the walkman. the discman. grunge. radio stations that don’t suck. music videos on mtv. black and white televisions with l3 channels and rabbit ear antennas. black and white film. polaroid film. 110 film. 20 flash cubes. developing your snapshots at the drugstore. the television repairman. the milkman. the iceman. doctors who make housecalls. daily newspapers delivered to your doorstep by l2-year-olds on l0-speed bikes. l0-speed bikes. banana seats. sissy bars. roller skates with metal wheels. lawn darts. clackers. marbles. cap guns. fully-posable g.i. joe with fuzzy hair and kung fu grip. big wheels. stretch armstrong. easy bake ovens. snoopy sno-cone machines. saturday morning cartoons. comic books for a quarter. video games for a quarter. pinball machines. arcades. candy cigarettes. penny candy. pull-tabs on sodas. new coke. crystal pepsi. zima. the brontosaurus. the ozone layer. pluto. the smell of the back of your neck. 21 the sound of your voice inches from my ear. the warmth of your body pressed against mine.

the salty taste of your tears on my lips.

washing your back.

cooking you breakfast.

the last time

we made

love. 22 pretty girls make me sad (2010)

mine is the art of the awkward pause, the comedy of mortification, the joy of realizing you have no idea what to do next. i am the king of unrequited love, the prince of crushes, the emperor of yearning from afar. i am in love with everyone and scatter pieces of my broken heart all over this country hoping one day i can follow their trail home, but the moment they touch the ground, a poem sprouts, and birds make nests in their leafy words. i have planted forests that pulse and throb with the rhythm of my blood. i am johnny appleheart, and i am lost amongst these trees. and the wind whistles through the holes in my chest. if i twist just right, it makes the most beautifully sad music, so painfully lovely, so horribly alive, this symphony of sighs. i spend more time looking at the tips of my toes than i do the face of the moon, and i spend more time on both than i do looking people in the eyes. i didn’t used to be this way. i am clumsy around girls. i never know what to say. they just smell so good. i flirt with mixtapes and poetry and have no idea what a first date is. i always have to ask. “is this a first date?” it hardly ever is. i hug every girl i meet so i can share heartbeats with someone even for a moment. i have fallen deeply in love with l06 girls who were absolutely perfect for me, except for one fatal flaw... they didn’t love me back. i keep hoping for someone to cross a crowded room and stand brazenly before me and reach out and hold my face in her palms and smile with her 23 eyes and say, “there you are! i have been looking everywhere for you! now that i have found you, i promise i will never let you out of my sight.’’ but no one ever does. i am a little kid lost in the mall and crying, clutching at the hems of passing skirts and mouthing the name of someone i’ve never met.

“are you my true love?”

“no,” said the steam shovel, “i am not your true love.’” oh, sweetheartattack, where are you? follow my poems home to me, my scalliwag, my succatash, my sweet potato pie. i am so tired.

24

bio for big poppa e

big poppa e is a three-time veteran of hbo’s def poetry series and a national poetry slam champion based in austin, texas. his live performances combine poetry, stand-up comedy and dramatic monologue into high-energy rants that skewer pop culture, politics and the pain and beauty of relationships. bpe’s work covers area of gender, sexuality and masculinity with a playful irreverence, and this focus has led to a growing following amongst high school and college students, especially those involved with speech competitions. in addition to making his living as a performance poet, big poppa e often works with human rights organization amnesty international and campus group men against violence to raise awareness of issues such as social justice and sexual assault. for more information, check out www.bigpoppae.com or search for big poppa e on wikipedia. for more than 200 videos of big poppa e in action, simply search for big poppa e on youtube. nice things the media have said about big poppa e

“Drunk on adrenaline... All bluster and bombast... Call it ‘Revenge of the Wussy Boys!’” The Washington Post

“Exuberantly defiant!” The New York Times

“A match tossed on the tinder of American masculinity... The leader of a new men’s movement...” The Los Angeles Times

“An icon for effeminate males!” Ms. Magazine

“To poetry what the Sex Pistols were to rock and roll!” The Sacramento Bee

“Putting steel in velvet gloves!” The Sydney Morning Herald (Australia)

“Championing a new male ideal!” The Ottawa Citizen (Canada)

“A leader in the hottest thing to hit poetry since Allen Ginsburg!” The Daily Oklahoman

“An underground legend... A cult hero!” The Baltimore Sun