I walked up to her
As she was bending down
Touching her baby
In the stroller.
She was talking baby talk
And cooing
Touching the infant
Over and over again
Just like a new mother would.
The mother was dressed in fine clothes.
A wool suit
With skirt and jacket
And a hat to match
With a flower of grey corresponding felt.
An obviously sophisticated woman
That smelled of money.
As I got closer
Something struck me as odd.
The stroller was small
And cheap looking...
Like a child’s toy.
A contrast to this rich lady.
Out of the corner
Of my eye
I saw the tiniest pair of patent leather shoes.
She continued to talk
Adjusting the baby’s clothes
Over and over.
I noticed then
That the baby was a doll.
A small unproportionate likeness
To a real baby
Much as the stroller.
Caught off guard
I was uneasy
And kept walking.
The mother looked up at me
As I passed
And I could see the distance
In her eyes.
She was spun out
And gone.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Menstruation
She shared with me
Her brown blood.
A sweet gift
Of divine intimacy.
She was embarrassed at first
Apologetic even.
Stating
“My period must have just started.”
I said
“Don’t worry about it, please.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She pulled my head down
And kissed me.
She shared herself devotedly.
Her brown blood
Like words
Poetry
A painting
Or sculpture
Under construction
Vulnerable
To review.
Her brown blood.
A sweet gift
Of divine intimacy.
She was embarrassed at first
Apologetic even.
Stating
“My period must have just started.”
I said
“Don’t worry about it, please.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She pulled my head down
And kissed me.
She shared herself devotedly.
Her brown blood
Like words
Poetry
A painting
Or sculpture
Under construction
Vulnerable
To review.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
‘74 Chevy Nova
1. Transfer Of Title: A Boy’s First Car
My friend Mindy
Was selling her car.
She was a year or two older than me
And she loved to get high.
She showed me how you could blow pot smoke
Into somebody else’s mouth
And use that as an excuse
To make out with them.
We got blazed in that car
Plenty of times.
I was very familiar with the car’s interior.
The way the seats reclined waaaay back
All the way
Crushing the rear bench seat
As Mindy climbed on top
And mounted me
Her shadow moving
In the dense cannabis fog
Her white arched throat
And kinky black hair
Were all that were visible
To me
In the ganja haze
Filling the interior.
She had her way.
Her brother
Owned the car before her
Until he upgraded
To a Charger
And sold the Nova to his sis.
He liked to party too.
They both were coming up
Off of the Seventies.
My Dad came with me
On a summer day
To help inspect the car.
The Nova sat parked next to the Charger
All muscle.
Still somewhat new and gleaming.
That made it a little sad for the Nova
And ridiculously sexy for the Charger.
The Nova was a little beat up
But it was perfect
To someone who had never
Owned a vehicle before.
Plus I could afford it.
Eight years old...
It was Forest Green with a lot of
Sun fading
To the paint.
It had a cream pebbled vinyl hardtop.
My dad was unaware
Of my trysts with Mindy
In that car
And
As he looked under the hood
Kicked the tires
And listened to the engine
As it came to life
I’d catch Mindy
Winking or giving me a sly smile
Behind my father’s back.
I was reminded of
Her giving me rides home from work
That took way longer
Than usual.
My dad
Did and said
The usual fatherly things
During the inspection.
It was a tank.
3,200 lbs of
US steel.
Six Cylinders.
We talked on the way home.
“It is a 74.”
“It looks ok, a little rust, not much, but it’s your money.”
“You just have to remember that it’s a used car and drive it carefully.”
“You’re just gonna hafta make sure you do all of the maintenance.”
“Is it really the car you wanna drive?”.
“It smells to hell of cigarettes. You gonna be able to deal with that?”
I looked at my dad and smiled.
In a few days
I was the proud owner
Of a used
‘74 Chevy Nova.
Faded Forest Green.
2. Power Glide Transmission
The Nova had amazing acceleration.
As soon as I put my foot
On the pedal
3200 lbs of prime teen testosterone
Would jump forward
Smoothly and quickly.
Power steering.
It was a dream.
One year later
I was on a coke run
Up on 162nd and Amsterdam.
The Columbians there
Knew my car well
As it breathed heavily
I guided it slowly
Down the dark
Dangerous
Ebony night streets.
They would shoot out the street lamps
So that surveilance
And undercover
Couldn’t see their activity.
After making the score
I headed downtown
Via the West Side Highway.
It was somewhere down
At the Meat Packing District
That I avoided getting into an accident.
We were high.
The stopped traffic
Came up too fast
And to avoid a crash
I pulled over into the outer lanes
Of the West Side Highway.
It was a six to eight lane highway.
When you dropped off of the elevated part
And went South past the piers
It turned
From six lanes...
Three each side
To eight lanes...
Four lanes each side
And the four lanes in each direction
Were divided by a concrete curb
Down the middle.
I decided to cut over the concrete median
To avoid getting into an accident..
“Callump, callump!”
It was just like a movie.
The car quickly lurching to the right
Driving over a concrete curb
And settling down again
In the nearest lane
And continuing to drive
As if nothing had happened.
I don’t even remember car horns.
It was like that shit happened
All of the time.
We stopped at a traffic light
And did a few lines
While a cabbie
Looked over to his right
Giving us the solid thumbs up.
The light changed to green.
I gave it the gas.
3. Vinyl Interior
“Keep your eyes peeled for another barstool.”
“I need one more.”
My neighbor’s words
Crawled forth from my soaked brain.
I was in the East Village
Hanging out with the local color
Drinking too much Tequila
And getting stupid.
I stole a barstool
From the dive I was in
And the bouncer
Chased me down the street.
I
Running
Carrying a barstool
He
Right behind me
Cursing me out.
I
Turning the corner
Running up Avenue D
Somehow
Out pacing him.
He
Stopped
Defeated
Turning around
Returning with no barstool
No head of the enemy.
I stood in the street
In the early AM
Trying to shove the barstool
Into the back of the ‘74 Nova.
It had two doors.
The front seats flipped forward
And I was trying to jam
The prize
Into the backseat.
Meanwhile
The front seat on the drivers side
Is pressing forward into the horn
Making it go off.
I drove home
And quietly put the barstool
On my neighbors
Steps
Like a cat
Leaving it’s trophy kill
For it’s owner to find.
A gift.
It wasn’t until the next day
That I noticed
I had torn the vinyl
Across the back seat.
I’ve always been wary of tequila
Since then.
4. Death: Pedal To The Metal
Years later
A group of us were driving back to Baltimore
From DC.
We had just seen a brilliant concert
By the Slovenian band Laibach.
Stark and simple.
Synchronised military drumming.
Loud trumpets of controlled noise
Dark Socialist
Graveyard vocals
Amidst
Naked bright airplane lights.
The car was packed.
One of the girls in the back seat
Was flipping out the whole ride back.
I don’t know what she was on
But it got worse
And worse
The closer we got to Baltimore.
I was trying to drive
Focus
But it was impossible with that bitch
Screaming
And rambling.
She was insane!
The group as a whole
Were trying to keep her present
While trying to calm me down as well.
One of us was going to tip over.
I don’t know how many times
I told her to
“Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to drive!”
I would catch her crazed wig out
In the rear view mirror.
At the top of her lungs
“They’re fucking communists I tell you!”
“We just saw fucking communists!”
Off of 95
Driving through the streets of Baltimore
Getting close to where I lived.
I was actually counting down.
But
She does it.
She breaks me.
I turn around and scream at her
“Shut the fuck up you fucking bitch!”
“I’ve had to listen to your fucking shit the whole way home!”
“I swear to god I’ll...”
BAAMMM!!!
The car jumped and stopped.
The car hung on a curb
The headlights flooded an empty grassy lot.
I got out of the car
And immediately blew up at her
Ripping her out from the back seat.
I shook her and was about to hit her
When she wriggled free
Hysterically.
She took off running
Never to be seen again.
I could tell the car was history.
The bottom was shredded.
I got back in
And backed it out into the road
Before the cops came.
It was two blocks to my house.
But
I made it
Driving on two blown out front tires
The Nova spilling it’s guts out
Along the way.
The car died silently
Overnight
Parked in front of my apartment building.
The following day
I watched it being towed away
To some anonymous graveyard.
I think
That there were tears in my eyes
As the faded green paint
And cream pebbled vinyl top
Disappeared
West on Madison Street
And I was left alone
Staring into puddles
Of oil
Transmission fluid
And engine coolant
That the sun
Was reflecting off of
Like a kaleidoscope.
From within those colored life fluids
Forming on the warm black tar
The white light came on...
My friend Mindy
Was selling her car.
She was a year or two older than me
And she loved to get high.
She showed me how you could blow pot smoke
Into somebody else’s mouth
And use that as an excuse
To make out with them.
We got blazed in that car
Plenty of times.
I was very familiar with the car’s interior.
The way the seats reclined waaaay back
All the way
Crushing the rear bench seat
As Mindy climbed on top
And mounted me
Her shadow moving
In the dense cannabis fog
Her white arched throat
And kinky black hair
Were all that were visible
To me
In the ganja haze
Filling the interior.
She had her way.
Her brother
Owned the car before her
Until he upgraded
To a Charger
And sold the Nova to his sis.
He liked to party too.
They both were coming up
Off of the Seventies.
My Dad came with me
On a summer day
To help inspect the car.
The Nova sat parked next to the Charger
All muscle.
Still somewhat new and gleaming.
That made it a little sad for the Nova
And ridiculously sexy for the Charger.
The Nova was a little beat up
But it was perfect
To someone who had never
Owned a vehicle before.
Plus I could afford it.
Eight years old...
It was Forest Green with a lot of
Sun fading
To the paint.
It had a cream pebbled vinyl hardtop.
My dad was unaware
Of my trysts with Mindy
In that car
And
As he looked under the hood
Kicked the tires
And listened to the engine
As it came to life
I’d catch Mindy
Winking or giving me a sly smile
Behind my father’s back.
I was reminded of
Her giving me rides home from work
That took way longer
Than usual.
My dad
Did and said
The usual fatherly things
During the inspection.
It was a tank.
3,200 lbs of
US steel.
Six Cylinders.
We talked on the way home.
“It is a 74.”
“It looks ok, a little rust, not much, but it’s your money.”
“You just have to remember that it’s a used car and drive it carefully.”
“You’re just gonna hafta make sure you do all of the maintenance.”
“Is it really the car you wanna drive?”.
“It smells to hell of cigarettes. You gonna be able to deal with that?”
I looked at my dad and smiled.
In a few days
I was the proud owner
Of a used
‘74 Chevy Nova.
Faded Forest Green.
2. Power Glide Transmission
The Nova had amazing acceleration.
As soon as I put my foot
On the pedal
3200 lbs of prime teen testosterone
Would jump forward
Smoothly and quickly.
Power steering.
It was a dream.
One year later
I was on a coke run
Up on 162nd and Amsterdam.
The Columbians there
Knew my car well
As it breathed heavily
I guided it slowly
Down the dark
Dangerous
Ebony night streets.
They would shoot out the street lamps
So that surveilance
And undercover
Couldn’t see their activity.
After making the score
I headed downtown
Via the West Side Highway.
It was somewhere down
At the Meat Packing District
That I avoided getting into an accident.
We were high.
The stopped traffic
Came up too fast
And to avoid a crash
I pulled over into the outer lanes
Of the West Side Highway.
It was a six to eight lane highway.
When you dropped off of the elevated part
And went South past the piers
It turned
From six lanes...
Three each side
To eight lanes...
Four lanes each side
And the four lanes in each direction
Were divided by a concrete curb
Down the middle.
I decided to cut over the concrete median
To avoid getting into an accident..
“Callump, callump!”
It was just like a movie.
The car quickly lurching to the right
Driving over a concrete curb
And settling down again
In the nearest lane
And continuing to drive
As if nothing had happened.
I don’t even remember car horns.
It was like that shit happened
All of the time.
We stopped at a traffic light
And did a few lines
While a cabbie
Looked over to his right
Giving us the solid thumbs up.
The light changed to green.
I gave it the gas.
3. Vinyl Interior
“Keep your eyes peeled for another barstool.”
“I need one more.”
My neighbor’s words
Crawled forth from my soaked brain.
I was in the East Village
Hanging out with the local color
Drinking too much Tequila
And getting stupid.
I stole a barstool
From the dive I was in
And the bouncer
Chased me down the street.
I
Running
Carrying a barstool
He
Right behind me
Cursing me out.
I
Turning the corner
Running up Avenue D
Somehow
Out pacing him.
He
Stopped
Defeated
Turning around
Returning with no barstool
No head of the enemy.
I stood in the street
In the early AM
Trying to shove the barstool
Into the back of the ‘74 Nova.
It had two doors.
The front seats flipped forward
And I was trying to jam
The prize
Into the backseat.
Meanwhile
The front seat on the drivers side
Is pressing forward into the horn
Making it go off.
I drove home
And quietly put the barstool
On my neighbors
Steps
Like a cat
Leaving it’s trophy kill
For it’s owner to find.
A gift.
It wasn’t until the next day
That I noticed
I had torn the vinyl
Across the back seat.
I’ve always been wary of tequila
Since then.
4. Death: Pedal To The Metal
Years later
A group of us were driving back to Baltimore
From DC.
We had just seen a brilliant concert
By the Slovenian band Laibach.
Stark and simple.
Synchronised military drumming.
Loud trumpets of controlled noise
Dark Socialist
Graveyard vocals
Amidst
Naked bright airplane lights.
The car was packed.
One of the girls in the back seat
Was flipping out the whole ride back.
I don’t know what she was on
But it got worse
And worse
The closer we got to Baltimore.
I was trying to drive
Focus
But it was impossible with that bitch
Screaming
And rambling.
She was insane!
The group as a whole
Were trying to keep her present
While trying to calm me down as well.
One of us was going to tip over.
I don’t know how many times
I told her to
“Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to drive!”
I would catch her crazed wig out
In the rear view mirror.
At the top of her lungs
“They’re fucking communists I tell you!”
“We just saw fucking communists!”
Off of 95
Driving through the streets of Baltimore
Getting close to where I lived.
I was actually counting down.
But
She does it.
She breaks me.
I turn around and scream at her
“Shut the fuck up you fucking bitch!”
“I’ve had to listen to your fucking shit the whole way home!”
“I swear to god I’ll...”
BAAMMM!!!
The car jumped and stopped.
The car hung on a curb
The headlights flooded an empty grassy lot.
I got out of the car
And immediately blew up at her
Ripping her out from the back seat.
I shook her and was about to hit her
When she wriggled free
Hysterically.
She took off running
Never to be seen again.
I could tell the car was history.
The bottom was shredded.
I got back in
And backed it out into the road
Before the cops came.
It was two blocks to my house.
But
I made it
Driving on two blown out front tires
The Nova spilling it’s guts out
Along the way.
The car died silently
Overnight
Parked in front of my apartment building.
The following day
I watched it being towed away
To some anonymous graveyard.
I think
That there were tears in my eyes
As the faded green paint
And cream pebbled vinyl top
Disappeared
West on Madison Street
And I was left alone
Staring into puddles
Of oil
Transmission fluid
And engine coolant
That the sun
Was reflecting off of
Like a kaleidoscope.
From within those colored life fluids
Forming on the warm black tar
The white light came on...
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Dirty Dishes In The Bathroom Sink
Her fall has been bottomless
Having lost everything
Within a year and a half.
She now lives in a room
At the Travel Lodge
On the side of a highway.
Social Services pays for it.
She’s in her early to mid fourties.
Her neighbors are fellow addicts, alcoholics and South Americans.
People either going down or trying to find a way up.
They live in rooms similar to hers
Dusty curtains drawn over the single window
Facing the parking lot
Wood paneling
Suffocating any life within the room.
She proudly tells
How she caught 95 flies
On a single strip
Of fly tape
In one day
Only.
The place is run by Indians
That speak little
Fractured English.
They prefer to look at each other
And discuss in Hindi
How to take your money.
They live in the apartment
Adjacent to their small office
Which is a cinder block square
With a metal door and a safety lock.
There are security cameras
Both inside and outside of the office.
They must have bought the place
Everything inclusive
Because the worn office furniture
Was there from day one.
There is a vending machine in there
Where there is not one thing that costs less than a dollar.
The Indians illegally sell
Three different brands of cigarettes
For eight bucks a pack.
They see opportunity
In sucking the blood out of the fallen
And desperate.
There are not many cars in the parking lot
As most of the occupants
Can’t drive
Legal reasons or otherwise
And they can be seen walking
Up and down
The sides of the highway
Or riding bikes.
She sits inside
Watching
A shitty color television
Her clothes piled on the cheap furniture
Around her.
There is a hot plate
That is plugged into the wall
And she heats basic things up on it.
She makes coffee endlessly
In her electric coffee maker.
That is her kitchen.
And when she’s finished
She washes her dirty dishes
In the pink bathroom sink.
Having lost everything
Within a year and a half.
She now lives in a room
At the Travel Lodge
On the side of a highway.
Social Services pays for it.
She’s in her early to mid fourties.
Her neighbors are fellow addicts, alcoholics and South Americans.
People either going down or trying to find a way up.
They live in rooms similar to hers
Dusty curtains drawn over the single window
Facing the parking lot
Wood paneling
Suffocating any life within the room.
She proudly tells
How she caught 95 flies
On a single strip
Of fly tape
In one day
Only.
The place is run by Indians
That speak little
Fractured English.
They prefer to look at each other
And discuss in Hindi
How to take your money.
They live in the apartment
Adjacent to their small office
Which is a cinder block square
With a metal door and a safety lock.
There are security cameras
Both inside and outside of the office.
They must have bought the place
Everything inclusive
Because the worn office furniture
Was there from day one.
There is a vending machine in there
Where there is not one thing that costs less than a dollar.
The Indians illegally sell
Three different brands of cigarettes
For eight bucks a pack.
They see opportunity
In sucking the blood out of the fallen
And desperate.
There are not many cars in the parking lot
As most of the occupants
Can’t drive
Legal reasons or otherwise
And they can be seen walking
Up and down
The sides of the highway
Or riding bikes.
She sits inside
Watching
A shitty color television
Her clothes piled on the cheap furniture
Around her.
There is a hot plate
That is plugged into the wall
And she heats basic things up on it.
She makes coffee endlessly
In her electric coffee maker.
That is her kitchen.
And when she’s finished
She washes her dirty dishes
In the pink bathroom sink.
The Pirates Are Drunk On Rum Again
Autumn Equinox.
Opiate full moon.
We just underwent
A Hell of a storm
That came upon us fast
And of the fury
Of an unpaid
Drunken whore
From Baltimore.
The sails came down
Right quick
Just in time
Before wildcat winds
Lightening
And fierce water
Could cleanse
The sins right out of
Us fuckers.
The crew was a hard, ragged bunch
But they came down
From the rigging
Looking yellow
And a bit soft.
It was a bloody bitch
That poured more water within
Than without.
We did the proper thing
And waited it out
Tossed around
Below deck.
It was as good as time as any
To bond with the dogged company
So
I stepped out of my quarters.
They had made some headway
Hitting on Turkish Black Gold
Harvested in Malwa
By local Indian chiefs.
We so elegantly confiscated
The opium from the
“Syed Khan”
A clipper of 300 tons plus
Built in Bombay
And sunk by us
Off the coast of Portugal.
What a day that was.
The mongrels had also tapped a barrel
Of smokey caramel rum
That we had honestly traded for
In San Juan.
The party was underway
As the sky
Unleashed the devil’s bladder
Upon the seasoned wood
Of this fine ship.
There was gaiety down below
As Billy Two Thumbs
Pulled out his fiddle and began to play.
He was called Two Thumbs
‘Cause that’s all that he had.
But he could play...
And there were times I wish he didn’t.
Sometimes he could play well
But
When he played bad
Well...
I didn’t have an ear for it.
But the temporarily abandoned crew
Liked it
And Two Thumbs was off on a bender that night.
The situation was well out of hand.
There was a lot of merry making going on
That a captain
Just stepping out of his quarters
Might not want to be gifted to see.
Sweaty men
In different stages of undress
Singing and dancing
And holding each other up
Mind you
These are ugly one eyed bastards.
As the ship sat there
In open waters
Spinning around
I thought in earnest
To turn back
To the velvet confines
Of my quarters
And work on charts again.
Alas
Instead
Being the leader
That I’m celebrated for
As well as a team player
I made my way through the revelling
Drunken, stoned, sweaty men.
I even gave Two Thumbs
A pat on the back
As he chorded something
That sounded like a dying whale.
I made straight way for the barrel
And poured a long draw.
It could’ve been
The motion of the ocean
Or the coarse thought
Of passing again through
A gallery of souring mates
But I held onto that barrel
And I drank
The maple syrupy elixer
Slow cooked over a fire
Aged for fourteen years
In 17th century port wine barrels
Matter of factly
A gift of the gods
If you believe in that sort of thing.
I don’t.
Sugarcane on the brain.
Feeling no pain.
I took a pull on the hookah
As the hose was passed to me.
The screeching fiddle disappeared
And I noticed that the rain
Had stopped.
There was still distant thunder
Other than that
I could hear the quiet of night.
I grabbed a tumbler of rum
And stumbled on deck.
It was an eye-catching sight.
It had cooled off considerably.
Full moon.
Lightening flashing everywhere.
The ship was lost
A bobber on the water
Meditating
While the frivolities down below
Grew louder and more vulgar.
I sat down by myself
Under the direct weight of the Equinox moon
And watched the bright flashing cracks
Skip across the sky.
The music got worse
And I closed my eyes.
The rum and the ocean
Started to rock me
And I thought if any of the crew
Were to come above and find me passed out
They were sure to piss on me.
Pirate tradition.
My eyes opened and closed slowly
Taking in that magical display of night
A gift of god
If you believe in that sort of thing.
I don’t.
The rum and the ocean
Closed my eyes
Myself knowing
That high noon tomorrow
Everything
Would be back to normal.
God help the fuckers
That piss on the captain.
If you believe in God.
I don’t.
Opiate full moon.
We just underwent
A Hell of a storm
That came upon us fast
And of the fury
Of an unpaid
Drunken whore
From Baltimore.
The sails came down
Right quick
Just in time
Before wildcat winds
Lightening
And fierce water
Could cleanse
The sins right out of
Us fuckers.
The crew was a hard, ragged bunch
But they came down
From the rigging
Looking yellow
And a bit soft.
It was a bloody bitch
That poured more water within
Than without.
We did the proper thing
And waited it out
Tossed around
Below deck.
It was as good as time as any
To bond with the dogged company
So
I stepped out of my quarters.
They had made some headway
Hitting on Turkish Black Gold
Harvested in Malwa
By local Indian chiefs.
We so elegantly confiscated
The opium from the
“Syed Khan”
A clipper of 300 tons plus
Built in Bombay
And sunk by us
Off the coast of Portugal.
What a day that was.
The mongrels had also tapped a barrel
Of smokey caramel rum
That we had honestly traded for
In San Juan.
The party was underway
As the sky
Unleashed the devil’s bladder
Upon the seasoned wood
Of this fine ship.
There was gaiety down below
As Billy Two Thumbs
Pulled out his fiddle and began to play.
He was called Two Thumbs
‘Cause that’s all that he had.
But he could play...
And there were times I wish he didn’t.
Sometimes he could play well
But
When he played bad
Well...
I didn’t have an ear for it.
But the temporarily abandoned crew
Liked it
And Two Thumbs was off on a bender that night.
The situation was well out of hand.
There was a lot of merry making going on
That a captain
Just stepping out of his quarters
Might not want to be gifted to see.
Sweaty men
In different stages of undress
Singing and dancing
And holding each other up
Mind you
These are ugly one eyed bastards.
As the ship sat there
In open waters
Spinning around
I thought in earnest
To turn back
To the velvet confines
Of my quarters
And work on charts again.
Alas
Instead
Being the leader
That I’m celebrated for
As well as a team player
I made my way through the revelling
Drunken, stoned, sweaty men.
I even gave Two Thumbs
A pat on the back
As he chorded something
That sounded like a dying whale.
I made straight way for the barrel
And poured a long draw.
It could’ve been
The motion of the ocean
Or the coarse thought
Of passing again through
A gallery of souring mates
But I held onto that barrel
And I drank
The maple syrupy elixer
Slow cooked over a fire
Aged for fourteen years
In 17th century port wine barrels
Matter of factly
A gift of the gods
If you believe in that sort of thing.
I don’t.
Sugarcane on the brain.
Feeling no pain.
I took a pull on the hookah
As the hose was passed to me.
The screeching fiddle disappeared
And I noticed that the rain
Had stopped.
There was still distant thunder
Other than that
I could hear the quiet of night.
I grabbed a tumbler of rum
And stumbled on deck.
It was an eye-catching sight.
It had cooled off considerably.
Full moon.
Lightening flashing everywhere.
The ship was lost
A bobber on the water
Meditating
While the frivolities down below
Grew louder and more vulgar.
I sat down by myself
Under the direct weight of the Equinox moon
And watched the bright flashing cracks
Skip across the sky.
The music got worse
And I closed my eyes.
The rum and the ocean
Started to rock me
And I thought if any of the crew
Were to come above and find me passed out
They were sure to piss on me.
Pirate tradition.
My eyes opened and closed slowly
Taking in that magical display of night
A gift of god
If you believe in that sort of thing.
I don’t.
The rum and the ocean
Closed my eyes
Myself knowing
That high noon tomorrow
Everything
Would be back to normal.
God help the fuckers
That piss on the captain.
If you believe in God.
I don’t.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Stuntcock And The Prettiest Ass In Show Business
He was called in
For closeups.
He was legendary
Not because of his size
But for the perfection
Of his cock.
He was on everybody’s speed dial.
All of the girls in the industry
WANTED to work with him.
The size
The width
The shape
The warm fleshy tones
On camera
And off.
The way that he fucked.
He could keep it up for hours
And appeared to actually
Be turned on
And enjoying himself...
Even before the camera.
Well...
He was.
When it came to sex, pussy and ass
He was full of enthusiasm.
It just so happened that he got paid for it.
What color is YOUR parachute?
He was circumcised and smooth
He was always well groomed
And smelled nice
Which for the girls
Was a pleasant bonus
And quite frankly
A turn on.
He was the ‘Go To Phallus’.
She was the
‘Prettiest Ass In Show Business’.
Her ass was strong.
Muscular but feminine.
Her legs were the same.
Superb muscle tone
Evenly tanned...
Business expense
Money well spent.
Her legs were sculptures under the bright lighting
Showing erotic carved shadows
Put to high def digital.
They would get anybody’s perverted mind
‘There’
Diverting eyes from the actual action
Instead
Focusing on the muscle movement
Under the silky skin
Of thighs and ass.
She was Italian
So she was naturally dark.
Her asshole
Was a rich, velvety shade of
Java nut brown.
The flesh of her ass was big
Nice
But not too big
Heartshaped
Which was the trend.
Her pretty ass commanded a pay scale
That worked out to
Approximately $60.00
A bounce or
Stroke
Depending on her manager.
Prolific in the business.
She was credited
In the titles as
Persephone.
All of the guys
Wanted to work with her.
She was hot.
Because of the nature of their work
They met on sets often
And provided some of the
Hottest scenes put to film
Sending them both
Down the ‘red’ carpet
To garner gobs of AVN awards
Of which hers
Were arranged and dusted
On top of the baby grand piano
That sat in the study
Of her modest home.
They were on set at a shoot
In front of expensive cameras.
She was on top
Doing a reverse cowgirl
So the Stuntcock
Got an unbridled view
Of her perfect
Well insured
Ass.
She kept halting and asking for water.
“What’s the matter, Baybee?”
“I am so hungover”
She said.
“Turn over”
He said.
“I’m gonna fuck the hangover right out of you!”
He mounted her
And got to work.
By the end of the shoot
They lay there spent
Holding each other.
Her hangover gone.
All but just residing climactic waves
As she laid there on the
Crumpled up bed
Spent and exhausted.
She threw out ready-to-drop
Beat
Breathlessly
"Please turn out the lights."
"We're done."
For closeups.
He was legendary
Not because of his size
But for the perfection
Of his cock.
He was on everybody’s speed dial.
All of the girls in the industry
WANTED to work with him.
The size
The width
The shape
The warm fleshy tones
On camera
And off.
The way that he fucked.
He could keep it up for hours
And appeared to actually
Be turned on
And enjoying himself...
Even before the camera.
Well...
He was.
When it came to sex, pussy and ass
He was full of enthusiasm.
It just so happened that he got paid for it.
What color is YOUR parachute?
He was circumcised and smooth
He was always well groomed
And smelled nice
Which for the girls
Was a pleasant bonus
And quite frankly
A turn on.
He was the ‘Go To Phallus’.
She was the
‘Prettiest Ass In Show Business’.
Her ass was strong.
Muscular but feminine.
Her legs were the same.
Superb muscle tone
Evenly tanned...
Business expense
Money well spent.
Her legs were sculptures under the bright lighting
Showing erotic carved shadows
Put to high def digital.
They would get anybody’s perverted mind
‘There’
Diverting eyes from the actual action
Instead
Focusing on the muscle movement
Under the silky skin
Of thighs and ass.
She was Italian
So she was naturally dark.
Her asshole
Was a rich, velvety shade of
Java nut brown.
The flesh of her ass was big
Nice
But not too big
Heartshaped
Which was the trend.
Her pretty ass commanded a pay scale
That worked out to
Approximately $60.00
A bounce or
Stroke
Depending on her manager.
Prolific in the business.
She was credited
In the titles as
Persephone.
All of the guys
Wanted to work with her.
She was hot.
Because of the nature of their work
They met on sets often
And provided some of the
Hottest scenes put to film
Sending them both
Down the ‘red’ carpet
To garner gobs of AVN awards
Of which hers
Were arranged and dusted
On top of the baby grand piano
That sat in the study
Of her modest home.
They were on set at a shoot
In front of expensive cameras.
She was on top
Doing a reverse cowgirl
So the Stuntcock
Got an unbridled view
Of her perfect
Well insured
Ass.
She kept halting and asking for water.
“What’s the matter, Baybee?”
“I am so hungover”
She said.
“Turn over”
He said.
“I’m gonna fuck the hangover right out of you!”
He mounted her
And got to work.
By the end of the shoot
They lay there spent
Holding each other.
Her hangover gone.
All but just residing climactic waves
As she laid there on the
Crumpled up bed
Spent and exhausted.
She threw out ready-to-drop
Beat
Breathlessly
"Please turn out the lights."
"We're done."
All but just residing climactic waves
As she laid there on the
Crumpled up bed
Spent and exhausted.
She threw out ready-to-drop
Beat
Breathlessly
"Please turn out the lights."
"We're done."
"We're finished."
Saturday, September 18, 2010
In Line At The Wawa... Dude In Front Of Me
It just came out of me.
“Dude, I hope you’re not offended, but I really like your scar.”
He had an exceptionally deep
Long scar that ran up the center
Of the back of his neck
Surging up the back of his skull
Like a jagged pink river
On a map of closely shaven hair.
It was the kind of scar
Where they peeled your skin back
Like a grapefruit
To do some serious work within
That you couldn’t
And wouldn’t
Want to be concious for.
A savage kind of scar.
A trophy scar.
He turned and looked at me
His lip curled in disgust
Like I had just farted.
Me...
“I’m not gay or anything.”
“I was just admiring your scar.”
“I like scars.”
“They tell a story.”
He gave me the brush off
A silent pissed off second glance.
He pushed his purchase
Towards the cashier.
They’re still called ‘Cashiers’ these days, right?
Or...
So
The ‘Financial Administrator’
Pushed buttons
And totalled up
His Reese’s Pieces
Large coffee
And frozen chocolate push up pop.
He looked at her
And not at me.
She smiled patiently as he counted his money.
Her ‘Guest Service’ training
Was worn on her sleeve.
He paid exact change
And without waiting for his receipt
He got out of there
Leaving me next in line
Without telling me
A really good story.
“Dude, I hope you’re not offended, but I really like your scar.”
He had an exceptionally deep
Long scar that ran up the center
Of the back of his neck
Surging up the back of his skull
Like a jagged pink river
On a map of closely shaven hair.
It was the kind of scar
Where they peeled your skin back
Like a grapefruit
To do some serious work within
That you couldn’t
And wouldn’t
Want to be concious for.
A savage kind of scar.
A trophy scar.
He turned and looked at me
His lip curled in disgust
Like I had just farted.
Me...
“I’m not gay or anything.”
“I was just admiring your scar.”
“I like scars.”
“They tell a story.”
He gave me the brush off
A silent pissed off second glance.
He pushed his purchase
Towards the cashier.
They’re still called ‘Cashiers’ these days, right?
Or...
So
The ‘Financial Administrator’
Pushed buttons
And totalled up
His Reese’s Pieces
Large coffee
And frozen chocolate push up pop.
He looked at her
And not at me.
She smiled patiently as he counted his money.
Her ‘Guest Service’ training
Was worn on her sleeve.
He paid exact change
And without waiting for his receipt
He got out of there
Leaving me next in line
Without telling me
A really good story.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Staring At The Ground
There is an old man in my town
That walks around
Between 10:00 and 11:00
At night.
A pale photographic shadow
Of who he once was...
At least under streetlights.
I am usually walking my dogs then
And cross paths with him
Quite often.
He doesn’t seem to have a map
Nor a curriculum
Walking
His only agenda
As I find him all over the place.
I don’t know who he is
Or where he lives.
He is strangely endearing.
He is frail
And hunchbacked
To the point
Where he is looking
Directly at the ground.
I am always careful
With the dogs around him
To the point where
I think he senses
Our approach.
He recognizes our footsteps
Or our breathing
Or the dogs pulling
Hard on their leashes.
I see him just ahead
Staring straight down
Holding onto a tree
Or a telephone pole
For pause
As we pass.
I warn
Repeatedly
“Coming through!”
Offering greetings
As we slither by.
“How ya doing old timer?”
“Having a good night?”
As we’ve gotten
To know each other
Like this
He usually profers
A gentle laugh
Or a faint
Casual
“Hello.”
Or
“Hi there.”
It’s our dance.
We waltz
Several times a week.
Sometimes
I think about engaging
With him more so
But
Then
Always
I come to the thought
That on nights like this
It is much more pleasant
And rewarding
To turn off the color
And enjoy
The creatures
That inhabit
This black and white world
Preferring to let them keep
Their secrets.
Whilst I
Hold on to mine.
That walks around
Between 10:00 and 11:00
At night.
A pale photographic shadow
Of who he once was...
At least under streetlights.
I am usually walking my dogs then
And cross paths with him
Quite often.
He doesn’t seem to have a map
Nor a curriculum
Walking
His only agenda
As I find him all over the place.
I don’t know who he is
Or where he lives.
He is strangely endearing.
He is frail
And hunchbacked
To the point
Where he is looking
Directly at the ground.
I am always careful
With the dogs around him
To the point where
I think he senses
Our approach.
He recognizes our footsteps
Or our breathing
Or the dogs pulling
Hard on their leashes.
I see him just ahead
Staring straight down
Holding onto a tree
Or a telephone pole
For pause
As we pass.
I warn
Repeatedly
“Coming through!”
Offering greetings
As we slither by.
“How ya doing old timer?”
“Having a good night?”
As we’ve gotten
To know each other
Like this
He usually profers
A gentle laugh
Or a faint
Casual
“Hello.”
Or
“Hi there.”
It’s our dance.
We waltz
Several times a week.
Sometimes
I think about engaging
With him more so
But
Then
Always
I come to the thought
That on nights like this
It is much more pleasant
And rewarding
To turn off the color
And enjoy
The creatures
That inhabit
This black and white world
Preferring to let them keep
Their secrets.
Whilst I
Hold on to mine.
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