How I Learned To Love Phoenix By Flirting With Seattle

My latest piece for the fine folks at PHX SUX. A few weeks ago I went down to Seattle to visit some old friends and to enjoy a change of scenery. While I was there I had a fantastic time (Seattle is an extraordinary city) that also served as a reminder about what the best part of living in Phoenix is.

I’ll give you a hint: It’s not the weather.

PHX SUX: How I Learned To Love Phoenix By Flirting With Seattle

Sister, Mother

I can taste blood
in the syllables of your name
as it rolls off my tongue.
Its sharp vowels chips teeth
and leaves tears in my gums.

Every time I see your face
in mine,
I feel a small death
rattling in my lungs.
I have to laugh
to get it out of me.

Your name was written
on the tombstones of every grave
I saw in the cemetery
I used to hide in as a child,
reading Stephen King in the grass
and wondering if the flowers
that sprouted from the dirt beds
drank dead memories up through their roots.

I would pluck daisies, forget-me-nots, and roses
from the grave soil,
imagine souls disintegrating in my hands
as I pulled out all their petals.
All those flower heads,
stripped of their petals,
looked like you.

I can’t read your name
without thinking of Sundays
spent at your house in Union Hills,
next to a strip club named after a candy store
that I thought was a candy store…
until my hormones told me that it WAS a candy store,
just not the kind they give you at the end of October.

We would read comics- Spawn and The Maxx.
I’d rest my feet on your pit bull
while you let me play Sonic The Hedgehog
on your Genesis.
You chain-smoked on the porch,
signing your name in curlicues of nicotine.
You drank a 2 liter of coke every day
and never gained an ounce.
You gave me everything-
but you never gave me that.

I can’t think of your name
without picturing:
clouds of dust
kicked up by a speeding car;
an airplane vanishing beyond the horizon;
an empty doghouse;
a Sega on a Goodwill rack;
a piece of mail
with no return address.

Your name gives me
coughing fits
from secondhand nostalgia.
Your name clings to the leather
of my car seats
and cuts lines into my face.
Your name is a dead currency
that can’t buy me anything.
Your name gave me
nine months,
plus some change.
Perhaps it’s greedy of me
to ask for more.

Wherever you are,
I wonder what you taste
when you say my name.
I hope it’s sweet.
That’s all I can hope for you

To Live And Die In Phoeinx

It was so hot today that Satan banned all of his demons from working in Phoenix, citing “unsafe and inhumane working conditions”.

It was so hot today that Slip N Slides turned into Scald N Screams.

It was so hot today that Buddhist monks started making mandalas out of ice cream to better convey the suffering and pointlessness of human existence.

It was so hot today that Jesus refused to take the wheel: He wasn’t about to pile third degree burns on top of his stigmata!

It was so hot today that volcano cultists sacrificed virgins by pushing them into Phoenician hot tubs.

The 16 Best Places To Hide An Easter Egg In Arizona

The 16 Best Places To Hide An Easter Egg In Arizona

Under the shoe of a passed-out vagrant.

Tucked beneath a bus bench, on the corner of 7th St. & Van Buren.

Hidden under the armpit of a naked magician.

Sealed inside the chest of a childhood friend whose face you can paint in minute detail and whose name you can’t remember.

Stuck inside the mouth of a fortune teller who’s selling drugs under her seance table.

Tangled in the roots of a blackberry bush that sprouts near the basketball court of a Franciscan church.

Concealed in the folds of fat of a sumo wrestler visiting the hot springs in Tonopah.

Camouflaged in the hair of a cosplayer throwing up six vodka Red Bulls outside an anime convention.

Covered up by a drag queen’s feather boa as he bends over to kiss the virgin’s feet.

Forgotten on the shelves of a zine writer, who’s frantically trying to pull a staple out of her pointer finger.

Buried in the grave of a policeman’s first kill.

Nested under the wings of a hawk perched atop the Hotel San Carlos.

Lost in the havelina tunnels that snake through Scottsdale.

Inserted in the eye socket of an ex-Somali pirate, working the night shift at Circle K.

Sewn inside the pockets of your grandfather’s dress blues.

Taped under the high-top bar table where your love walked away.