Jose Padua

The name of this poem is Dong of the Dead. It is my attempt to cash in quickly on the literary zombie craze by writing the first literary zombie porn novel in verse. I am writing it while sitting in the  back of a pickup ...

                            Back then sausage, eggs, hash browns, and toast cost under three dollars for br...

                        Miles Davis was a skinny motherfucker, a bitter and often mean man. I have always been a little on the stocky side and while o...

                              I can’t tell whether the flowers are falling or floating in this painting just as I can’t tell wh...

Let happiness lie like a dog on your lap, Virginia, state of green, state of mountain roads, and tackler of new centuries, but don’t get upset if we leave you. Virginia, let your vagina set you free or get out ...

Behind the wheel listening to P-Funk in my new neighborhood the blank stare of the shirtless Larry the Cable Guy lookalike sharpens to crystal clarity as his lazy slouch straightens up into a confident strut and the words ...

                            Perfection is all those horrible old love affairs they tell their latest lover about in bed as they smoke ci...

                          After turning on the television one sleepless early summer night, I realized that many of the sounds I make, as a re...

When I was a kid I thought that the greatest record ever made was the 1968 mod orchestral rendering of of Jimmy Webb’s lost love opus, MacArthur Park. For me, MacArthur Park was a flash of wisdom, an epiphany a...

I give to you a portrait of America in trash. I give it to you with love and respect, America:   mountains of beer cans crumpled, plastic figures with fallen action, black velvet portraits of Elvis   with...