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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..

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