#maxmundan
“Love ain’t the hands
that fondle our bodies
It’s the blood
we mop up off the floor”
-Max Mundan
OUTGROWING MY MENTOR
I sat at your feet;
metaphorically, of course, only metaphorically;
as I remember it, I sat on the couch,
as you, with your strangely lilting voice,
held my hand and walked me through;
patiently;
meticulously;
the pitiless steps of the reverent ritual.
You were so gentle
as you wrapped the tourniquet around my bicep;
laughed at the expression on my face
pinched the crook of my arm
to bruise and raise a vein.
and as you slid the needle in and we watched the blood
cloud the water inside,
you apologized, profusely,
for the infinitesimal pinprick
that precedes the rapture.
I swore to you,
in that ghastly and gorgeous moment,
this is how it would always be;
that you would be there,
by my side, every time,
to guide me down the path of night.
but like the other oaths that passed between us,
this too, was a hopeful lie.
The day came, as it was
ever
destined to do,
that you were gone;
selling yourself
in the fashion required
for you to get by;
and the pull of oblivion
proved stronger, by far,
than either love or trust or art,
so I took the syringe and
taught myself
not to need you anymore.
My poem, “The Lies We Tell,” set to music by Theo Katman. It’s pretty damn killer.
THIS ACHE
I reach out
but cannot touch
the memory of your face
It is there
tingling at the edges
of my conscience
Are you real
or just a fever?
A phantom
with which to mock
my loneliness?
Did the mosquitoes
slip inside my net
to inject you
into my sleep?
I take step after step
ever forward
never back
embracing the new
shouting epiphany
but no new miracle
no discovery
can shake
this ache
for home
Noblesse Oblige
I’m a man
I’m an American man
I’m a white American man
I’m a straight cis white American man
And because of this
Accident of birth
The world is mine
The wealth of the planet
It’s resources
Are mine
And there is nothing
You can do about it
You woman
You black man, black woman
Asian man, Asian woman
Hispanic man, Hispanic woman
Gay man, gay woman
Trans man, trans woman
You will take it
And not only take it
You will like it
And not only like it
But thank me
The straight cis white American male
For the crumbs I give you
You will be grateful for these crumbs
And keep your greedy hands
Off my massive pile of crumbs
My straight cis white American male
Pile of crumbs
That is mine
Unquestionably mine
By right of conquest
By right of possession
Because possession is 9/10 of the law
Ha, I’m just joshin’ you
Possession is 10/10 of the law
It’s all the law
We all know that
That 9/10 shit was just a funny game
We were playing with you
Isn’t it a lark?
You should be laughing
Why are you not laughing?
And since I’m a straight cis white American male
I possess it all
I am the possessor
You are the possessed
So really I not only own
My massive pile of crumbs
As well as your measly few
I also own you
And can do with you as I please
I can rape you
And kill you
And cut off your hands
If you fail to collect enough rubber
Or coal
Or diamonds
Or whatever the hell else
I decide I want
To eat or hoard or fuck
Because I’m a straight cis white American male
Did I mention Christian?
I forgot to add Christian
Because I’m a Cristian
A straight cis white American male Christian
No, not the turn the other cheek type
Not the give to the poor type
What are you thinking?
Those are the chump Christians
Those are the Jesus Christians
Those guys are dopes
I’m not a Jesus Christian
What, are you nuts?
I’m a God wants me to be rich Christian
I’m a God wants me to take America from the natives Christian
I’m a God wants me to colonize Africa Christian
I’m a God wants me to clear-cut the forest Christian
I’m a God wants me to annex the Sudetenland Christian
I’m a Jim and Tammy Christian
A Swaggert and Robertson Christian
I’m a Donald Trump Christian, damnit
My Christianity doesn’t scold me
For cheating and stealing
For destroying the planet
For raping little Children
My Christianity encourages this
Because I can
And because I can
I should
I should do
Whatever I want
Because it’s God’s will
If God didn’t want me
To cheat and steal
To destroy the planet
To rape little children
Then why won’t he stop me?
You ever think about that?
Why won’t he stop me?
SHEILA TOLD ME
Sheila told me that she wasn’t bound
by any bourgeois, suburban
standard of beauty; that she
could put on as much weight
as she desired and shave her head
and grow the hair out on her legs
and no stuck-up, normie bitches
were going to tell her
that she wasn’t hot.
Sheila told me that she would stay out
till 4 in the morning, every night,
dancing and fucking and laughing
and shooting crystal meth
because those were the only things
that made her feel that she
was really alive and not some
stupid Barbie Doll being
made up and dressed up
and moved around by forces
she could never see or understand.
Sheila told me that sex was power
and if I wanted, she could teach me
to use my dick the way
she used her pussy, as a weapon,
a trap to lure the squares,
the suits and ties and frat boys
who laughed at her and called
her ugly, called her fat,
called her weirdo, but never failed
to come sniffing at her ass
when they thought no one was looking.
Sheila told me that she didn’t
want to live past forty; that
an aging life was an unartful life
and that she wasn’t meant
for wrinkles and eye bags and
sagging tits and regret; that
the saddest dopes were the ones
who just kept going, taking
up space and sucking up air
after everyone they’d ever known
had died or long since ceased
to give a shit.
Sheila told me that she’d call me
if she ever decided to do
anything stupid,
but Sheila never called.
ALL ABOUT YOU
My pen touches paper
and every line
that I begin to draw
becomes a picture
of your face
I pick a direction
I think will lead me away
yet, again and again
I find myself, arriving
at your door
The shopping list I write
and fill with mundane items
becomes a description of you
when I read
between the lines
I think I’m telling a joke
but there is no punch line
and the only sound
that anyone hears
is me, calling your name
I paint a picture
of my pain
of my chaos
yet when I see it
I notice
the only color I’ve used
is the blue
of your eyes
Some right-wing imbecile jumped on my photography Instagram page to call me a bigot for being anti-hunting. I began to type out, “Sure, and murder laws are bigoted towards murderers,” but instead I just erased it and blocked him, because if I’ve learned anything from the Trump era, it’s that these assholes all go to the same troll school and the goal is simply to waste our valuable time and emotional energy. There are no teachable moments for the unteachable.
IT STARTS WITH PARTIES
It starts with parties
with glad hand orgies
cocaine backslaps
backseat blowjobs
Invisiline smiles and Velveeta compliments
It ends in TV static hotel rooms
phone cord cut
hanging over the rafters
should I or shouldn’t I?
Don’t be so pretentious, you fuck
Don’t you want to see
how it ends?
It starts with parties
with Faustian fast cars
machine-gun monologues
commune kisses
love that tastes of Dramamine
It ends in ashtray swimming pools
blinking at the sun
tongues heavy with ghosts
What day is it again?
Do I look like a goddamn calendar?
I’m just a little rough
around the ends
It starts with parties
with cocktail cunning
rubber-stamp flunkies
Janus-faced familiars
open marriage and no-string lovers
It ends in a desert of rehabs
12-step recitals
halfway whorehouses
What the hell you lookin’ at?
You got no right to judge
I said I’d go
to any ends
It starts with parties
with unconscious infidelity
flag planting fiestas
vacant caresses
oleaginous fratboys perpetually nodding assent
It ends in flop sweat mornings
broken mirrors
mea culpas
I’ll change my ways, God
Give me one more day
This can’t be
how it ends
It starts with parties
but it always ends
alone
Be My Wife
This Path
You came to me
In my dream last night
All smile glowing
And silky caress
And now I walk alone
These paths we trod together
Searching for
Your reflection in the water
Your fragrance
Floating on the air
I tell you I love you
Many times a day
But I can’t tell you
How much that weighs
How do you enfold me
Like a blanket
When you’re hundreds of miles away?
This path
This day
This life
They are nothing
Nothing
Without your hand
To hold
Has anything really happened
Until I can share it with you?
SEARCHING FOR LOU
We met when I was just 14
He was running with Iggy and Ziggy
while I danced with Diane and Ed
with Randy and Keefe
Lou fucking Reed
the baddest badass that ever shoved itself
into a tight pair of leather jeans
We were in love
though he never spoke my name
We shared dirty needles and dirty poems
and a cynicism so deep
we couldn’t crawl out
as we held whatever ground we could claim
with fingernails digging in the mud
and bitten to the quick
He never knew me
but he effin knew me
you know what I mean?
Yeah, he was there
holding my hand
wiping my eyes
as we lost Teilhard and Barry
then Jim and Click
He sat on my shoulder
as Jordan left
then Greg and John
There are those who say
that Lou’s also gone now
but if that were true
then why is he always
right where I left him?
HIT ME AGAIN
Hit me
Again
Again
Don’t stop
Until I admit
That you love me too much
To ever hit me
That I must be…
…a terrible person
…a worthless piece of shit
…a total fucking asshole
To ever believe
For even so much as a second
That you could be
The type of person
Who would even think
Of hitting me
There must be something wrong
With me
That I could create
Such a terrible lie
So hit me
Till I know
What I’ve done
Wrong
Till I learn
The injustice I’ve committed
Against you
Who loves me
So much
Hit me
Again
Again
Hit me
HER VALLEY STORY
She had no more friends
who could wipe her brow
and wipe her ass
and chop the crystal meth for her
into tiny, little lines
She had no more friends
who could burn her bacon
and call her pretty
and carry her up and down
the stairs when her legs failed
This was her valley story
because her parents were the mountains
and she was sentenced to exile
in the prison of her body
She had no more friends
who could drive her to the market
and drive her out of her mind
and clean up the blood when she
smashed her face on the nightstand
She had no more friends
she could call “fucker”
and “asshole” and “stupid son of a bitch”
after they’d wiped her clean
when she’d soiled herself in the bathroom
This was her valley story
because she’d been a waterfall
but now she was stale, lonely droplets
disappearing in the unforgiving sun
This was her valley story
because she’s lost on the highway
traveling from peace of mind
to sad and pointless death
alone in a room
alone in a room
alone in a room
about six weeks
after the last of her lovers
had ceased
to give a damn
I’LL ONLY WRITE POEMS FOR YOU
When you and I come together
there is nothing that I want
Everything of value in this world
is held, with calm strength and power
in your deep soulful eyes
glinting, always, with mischief and desire
I could reside forever in your gaze
In my life I will peer
into many sets of eyes
to ferret out the unspoken truth there
This is my calling
I cannot deny
but I will only write poems for you
When you unfold yourself completely
like the solving of an unbearably lovely riddle
and present yourself naked to me
in all your glistening, glorious truth
I am silenced by awe
of all that you are
I know I’ve at last found a home
in your tight, tender care
and I’ll only write poems for you
There’s an electrical circuit connecting
when your delicate skin touches mine
and the perfume of your perspiration
encourages me, feverishly
to mounting, ecstatic sensations
that I barely knew I could feel
but that now seem, suddenly, indispensible
My body’s a temple
My body’s your temple
My body’s a poem to you
That was you
in my dreams
all my life
I see that so clearly now
Yes, I always knew it was you
I have seen you
I’ve known you
I’ve pulled you to me
my triumph, my pain
my longing, my lust
It’s all been a poem to you
I know not what this world will bring
There are mountains of joy and trial
still to come
It may pull us together
It may tear us apart
for a time
but you will always be there
occupying my soul
I’ll protect you
I’ll defend you
with every drop of my blood
till my last
dying
breath
I will always write poems for you
I will only write poems for you
LITTLE DAVE
I never got
to thank you
for the glory
of your name
Little Dave
I was
Little Dave
a sliver
a fraction
a shard
of your magnificence
Little Dave
I was
Little Dave
to the aunts
to the uncles
to the strangers
you called friends
Little Dave
I was
Little Dave
a mascot
a sidekick
a reflection
of your glory
I never got
to thank you
for teaching me
how small I am
MY TWO GREGS
Somewhere, lost
in the frozen fields of time
you are there
my two Gregs
gripping tightly
to your pint glasses of regret
at the Oktoberfest of our youth
Come to me, please
as the pretty, dirty boys you were
not as the walking suicides
you are now
my two Gregs
You were always my friends
almost my lovers
if we were to judge
by the secrets in our hearts
if not the language
of our bodies
I would have kissed you
my two Gregs
had I the opportunity
or the courage
You are lost to me
as in a fog
and I do not care to find you
for you are not
the wild boys you were
exploding with possibility
but seasick sailors
who could not ignore
the siren’s call
until you lay
shattered and forgotten
on the rocks
From my collection, “Five Words That Can Cripple a Man (Underground Voices, 2016)”
WE ARE CONNECTED
We are connected as the sunshine
Tears of recognition
streaming down our grateful faces
Do you see? Do you see?
Of course you see
You see everything
You see it all
Time is a snake consuming it’s own tail
and we are drunk on it’s venom
Your future is my past is our present
Do you see? Do you see?
Of course you see
We are entangled as the rain
Holding each other tight
at the point of climax
Do you feel? Do you feel?
Of course you feel
You feel the life
You feel the space
Space is an egg with no visible cracks
and we are trapped in it’s shell
Your body is my body is our body
Do you feel? Do you feel?
Of course you feel
We are co-mingled as the wind
Breathing in blissful union
to the rhythm of our secrets
Do you hear? Do you hear?
Of course you hear
You hear my voice
You hear my heart
Love is a circuit awaiting a spark
and all we need is the switch
Your breath is my life is our memory
Do you hear? Do you hear?
Of course you hear
We are a wildflower
opening
opening
Do you know? Do you know?
Of course you know
that we are
connected
NOTHING HAS CHANGED
Nothing has changed
for the birds
They still greet
the first rays of sun
with glee and surprise
singing an anchor
to weigh down the night
Nothing has changed
for the birds
Nothing has changed
for the cars
They still clog
the arteries
of the city
building a monument
to all our dashed dreams
Nothing has changed
for the cars
Nothing has changed
for they trees
They still guard
their mysteries
savagely and jealously
keeping quiet sentry
over our calamitous madness
Nothing has changed
for the trees
Nothing has changed
for the stars
They still shimmer
coruscating furiously
from light years away
even though their luster
died eons ago
Much like you
whose breath
once uttered my name
in anger
in violence
in love
and now labors slowly
gasping for air
until that breath
simply stops
Nothing has changed
Nothing has changed
yet
everything
everything
has changed
OUTGROWING MY MENTOR
I sat at your feet;
only metaphorically.
As I remember it,
I sat on the couch,
as you, with your strangely lilting voice,
held my hand and walked me through;
patiently; meticulously;
the pitiless steps of the reverent ritual.
You were so gentle
as you wrapped the sash around my bicep;
laughed at the expression on my face
pinched the crook of my arm
to bruise and raise a vein.
And as you slid the needle in and we watched the blood
cloud the water inside,
you apologized, profusely,
for the infinitesimal pinprick that precedes the rapture.
I swore to you,
in that ghastly and gorgeous moment,
this is how it would always be;
that you would be there, by my side, every time,
to guide me down the path of night.
but like the other oaths that passed between us,
this too, was a hopeful lie.
The day came, as it was
ever
destined to do,
that you were gone;
selling yourself
in the fashion required
for you to get by;
and the pull of oblivion
proved stronger, by far,
than either love or trust or art,
so I took the syringe and
taught myself
not to need
you anymore.
A LETTER TO MY FATHER AS HE PASSES, WEIGHTLESSLY, INTO THE VOID
You lay before me
yet you are gone
far
from my reach
And for that
I am bitter
There were recriminations
hanging heavily
on my tongue
You deserved
to hear them
and of them
I deserved
to be free
Yet, you slipped the chains
of the yesterday’s
with which
I would have bound you
Those days are mine
to shoulder now
Part of me wants
to make you pay
for the shape
you’d twisted me into
and part of me wants
to apologize
for the direction
of the bends
Instead, I lean close
right to your ear
to grant you the boon
of one final untruth
I tell you
not to worry
that you will
always be safe
always be safe
from your own
mistakes
From my first poetry collection, Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014)