Two Cats

Two cats are going at it loudly.

Wildly
As cats do.

I’m walking my dogs
On the other side of the canal
Pulling my coat in close.

It feels like winter out here.

It’s 44 degrees out.

Sex can overcome anything
I guess.

Especially if you have fur.

It’s all in the moment.

I listen to the cats
As I avoid
Puddles and mud
From the recent rainfall.

The sounds that the two cats
Are making
Is rousing the animal in me.

Cold or not...

I wish you were here.

I’m feeling feral.

Tom

Tom disappeared.

We used to sell together
At the Chelsea Flea Market.

We’d arrive in Manhattan at like
3:30 - 4:00 in the morning
Set up and be ready to sell
To our regulars an hour later.

We both had a good eye for the unusual
And knew how to display it for top dollar.

We sold the desirable
To the tough New York crowd
Spinning a yarn or two...

Oh, we had stories...

We were both artists.

Between our two personalities
We didn’t get beat up too bad.

We were respected
And we delivered the goods.

We’d sit in the sun
Drinking coffee
Smoking pot and cigarettes
Making breakfast on a little Coleman
In the back of the van
Haggling with dealers
Working the pretty girls over strong
One-upping each other
Like chess moves.

I won forever
When I sold Gina Gershon
Some framed vintage photos of naked women
For her bathroom.

"Dude! Do you know who that was?"
He asked.

"Nah,"
I replied.
"But she was fucking beautiful."

And then Tom just up and disappeared.

I didn’t see him at any of the other markets
That we frequented.
He didn’t answer my phone calls.
He became a ghost.

I even forgot about him.

Then today
I hit the flea market down the road from me
And there he was...
Pick-up backed up to his table
Thin cigar hanging out of his mouth.

A little rough
But still good looking.

“Hey amigo!”
I bounced.

“Yo T!”
He answered me smiling.

“Where the hell have you been?”
I asked.

“Got in a little trouble,”
He said.
“You know me, I’m always causing trouble.”

He kept smiling warmly
Cigar clenched in his teeth
Like Clint Eastwood.

He gazed at me
Full contact.

He still had a good eye
I noticed
As I scanned his table.

“I took off for Cali for a few years. I went back and forth from Southern Cali to Mexico.”
“I got into some trouble yo.”

I could read stories upon stories in his eyes
Even though he wasn’t forthcoming
About what kind of ‘trouble’
He got into.

“I just crashed at some friend’s places and did some crazy shit.”

"Then I moved back here and bought a houseboat down on the Chesapeake.”

“They’re trying to run me out down there too ‘cause I was fucking the mayor’s daughter!”

“I love that boat man! Any chicks I bring on there...I tell them if they’re still there in the
morning when I wake up, I’m gonna crack them right on the jaw!”

I haven’t seen Tom in many years.

Within ten minutes
He’s got me.

I stand there and listen to his tales
As he one-ups me big time.

I gave him props
As we hit knuckles.

“It’s great seeing you again. I thought you were dead.”
I said.

“Shit! Not me homie! I’m living!”

Of everything that he had told me
I took that away as truth.

The Dancing Girl Of Shamakha

Warm desert breath
Slithered serpentine
Through the resinous nicotine tar
Of the Azerbaijan night.

The breeze weaved itself
Inbetween the shadows
Cast by the oil lamps
Hanging...

Like rattan for a basket
Or wool for a rug
Of which the region was renowned for.

The desert sent forth
The aroma
Of the city’s bazaar vendors
Packing up for the evening.

Ripe apricots, peaches, melons
Spices, herbs
And fresh sturgeon and caviar
Fragrant like a sheaf of flowers
Just picked
From a neighboring garden.

She
Moved with purpose
Unhurriedly
Upon the expensive carpet laid out
Just for her
On the rooftop
Of a wealthy patron’s home.

Her hips undulated
Beat for beat
To the rhythm played
By the four musicians
In the shadows off to the side.

The percussion of the tambourine
Rippled down her spine
While the others improvised
On the rebeck, rebab
And tar
In 6/8 signatures.

The dancer’s arms
Also moved like snakes
Replicating the warm breeze
In front of another group of men
Sitting on a gathering of silk pillows.

The men sat transfixed in a spell
Smoking from a jeweled hookah
And drinking from a shared bottle
Of raki.

Delightful details swam through them
Each one determined to offer her
A proposal of marriage.

Her skin
A mirror
Reflecting
The alabaster
Of the low lustrous cloudless moon
Illuminating
The nearby mosque
And the city surrounding them.

The Rose (Black Baccara-Blood Flower)

The flower struck the flesh of her ass
And just like it
The bud was firm and juicy
Holding up
To the repeated lashings.

The stem and thorns caused her white skin to rise
In a narrow criss-cross relief
Welted firm
And swollen
Sometimes delivering blood
Seeping from the center
Of the dune.

Before the crimson
Amounted to anything more than a trickle
He dragged his tongue across her wounds
Pulling at the poison
As she began to bloom.

Deisel

Amidst the low-lying fog

Baby-aspirin orange lights
Beckon
Alchemic
From the shadows of the trainyard

Sounds of bells
Air-horns
And heavy diesel motors
Make me hard
As they belly-drag
Burdoned
Scraping moon-bright steel rails
Passing by slowly
Like apparitiions I’ve rubbed up against
Stumbling
Swaying
From the smokey bar in front
To the derelict
Urine steeped
Bathroom
At the rear.

GI Joe

There was
A very intricate, specific point
Where playing with GI Joes
Took a turn.

It involved
Black market fireworks
And gasoline
Siphoned from the lawnmower
At the back of the garage.

GI Joe went on active duty
One afternoon following school.

Each one of us brought our own matches.

The wrath of war
Was soon to tarnish us.

Limbs were broken
Flesh was burnt...
Sometimes beyond recognition.

Remaining charred clothes
Would be the deciding factor
Of who’s body
Belonged to whom.

Artillery would explode
Severing legs and arms
Exposing plastic joints
Or opening torsos.

Toys that once meant something
Became worthless.

And while it was exciting
To see a copter go down
Or hear the rapid fire percussion
Just after a fuse hit
All of us yelling on pretend walkie-talkies
“Hit the dirt!!!”

We only saw it as fun...
A game...

We didn’t know of real war
Until our fathers arrived home
After a long days work
Already drunk or pissed off
And they surveyed the charred
Still smoking damage
Of war zones
Patched through their
Perfectly manicured
And labored over lawns.

Black thick smoke
Even then still billowing
The scent of flash powder
Clinging in the air.

The real wars began.

Anniversary

“The ONLY reason he remembers the date of our anniversary, is because it’s the
combination to his gun case.”

Pee Machines

If it was up to them
And they could have it their way

We would stop at every tree
Every beaten bush
Every leaning parking meter
And crooked light post
Telephone pole
And sign.

We’d be sure to hit
Every garbage can
Every dumpster
Every steadfast gate
Every building's exposed architecture.

Progress would be slow.

A day to go several blocks.

The only concern in the world

To avoid the speeding metal of the cars
And the wreckless occupants
Within.

Slow motion
Floating like oil
On the fast.

Rough Crowd (Beautiful Messes)

The circus that surrounds me
Is endearing.

I am wagon-circled by
The story-faced
Manual laboring
Thick black grease stained
Split skinned, chapped, blister fingered
Bikers, tramps, mechanics, carpenters and fringe dropouts
That have lived to do it
Their way.

Just like me.

There were bumps along the way
And potholes.
Sometimes the road was gravel or mud.

Yet somehow
We all navigated our way here.

We’ve all had to acclimate one way or another.

Some less so.
Others at great lengths.

I love my
Pill popping
Needle dropping
Drag queens, queers
Glittered strippers and whores...

Funny
Tragic
But always a good story.

Urban gypsies that drink as much
As they steal or con
Moving from place to place
Bar to bar
Barstool to barstool.

They are as much you and I
Trying to burden responsibilities
And make a living...
Faced with their own daily reality
Of just trying make it by.

Who am I to judge another?
Would I do things differently
If I was in their shoes?

I also have in my sweet circle
Fellow painters, writers and artists.

Brothers and sisters
Living hard
Surviving on wine and coffee
Cooked on sternos
Seeing the metempirical world
Through
Non-conforming
Sometimes
Nihilistic crazy eyes.

It’s a difficult business model.
I’ve tried it and failed.

But
They continue
To survive and paint and write and perform
And travel and complain
About heat, hardships, rats and roaches.

They look for change in vending machines
Out of habit.

I’m actually jealous sometimes.

But we are under this umbrella of acceptance
And we all continue to break bread on common grounds
And catch up
Turning the ‘real’ world
On it’s head.

We keep each other on our toes
Walking that line...

At places like
Independent book stores
Galleries
Dark cheap taverns
Night clubs
Poetry readings
Beer gardens
The internet
The street
And intimate dinner parties.

We did the time for the crime.

We are divorced...
Several times...
With children.

We have a Masters.

We are punk rock.

We tour with a well-known band.

We are poor and just scraping by.

We are published.

We are self-employed.

If we can’t pick up the tab
We split it.

We know a thing or two
About dignity and humility
And what it takes to survive.

We’re beautiful messes
Facing our golden years together
And we’re driving on this bumpy road
Steering clear of the roadkill
Laughing and talking and doing.
Listening to our stories.

When we fall into our graves

We will not go quietly
I’m sure.

Not a single one of us.

Nymphomaniac

She was giving me a handjob
Under the formica table
In one of the grungy diners
On North Charles Street.

She told me
That she wanted to get under the table
And give me a blowjob
But I told her that I didn’t think
That it was a good idea.

She kept insisting.

“Please, please, please!”
“I want to really bad!”
She said.

“Look. You’re apartment is right around the corner. Let’s go over there and do shit.”
I told her.

“Fine.”
She pouted
Like a little girl.

She was all over me
On the way to her place.

“Jeezus. Take it easy baybee. We’re almost there.”

I could smell her cheap perfume attaching itself to me.

She was a classic eighties stripper.

Blonde
Cheap
Cute and very dumb.

Besides the sex
Well...
There really wasn’t anything else...

When we got to her apartment
She immediately got naked
And got to work on herself
With a vibrator
While I stripped my clothes off.

Now
I ain’t afraid of the pussy.
I LOOOVVVE sex.

But me and stripper girl
Went at it for hours.

She drained me ‘til I was sore.

And then I’m laying there in her big bed
In the center of the room
While she goes on and on to herself...

‘Cause I wasn’t listening...

Talking about nothing else except sex.

On and on and on...

I had to turn her off
But when I turned over
To tell her to shut up
I saw like seven dildoes and vibrators
All around her
And she was still going at it
With one of them.

“I gotta go.”
I said.

“Why? Don’t leave me now. I’m still horny.”

“I can see that!”
I rolled out.
“No. I really gotta go.”

“Call me. Or come see me at the club later!”

The noise of a vibrator going into high torque
Was silenced when I shut the door.

A couple of days later
I was back in the diner.

“Was that your girlfriend you were in here with the other day?”
The heavy line cook asked me with scrutiny.

“Nahhhh. I was just hanging. She’s a little crayzee if you ask me.”

“HA!”
He laughed.
“I had to kick her and some guy outta here yesterday! She was giving him a blowjob
under the table! I told them to never come back. I’m trying to run a nice joint here...
I can’t have shit like that going on! Can you believe that shit?!!”

I looked him in the eye
And smiled.

“Yes I can.”
I said.

“Yes I can.”

Levitation

Late 1800’s:

Six people
Surrounded a heavy wooden table
Sitting on matching
Parlour chairs.

Each one had their palms down
Laid flat
On the rim of the table’s surface
Fingers splayed out lightly
White skin glowing
In the warm ambiance
Of candles
And a fire of seasoned elm wood
Swirling in the miniature fireplace
Of the simple barren room
That was built some
Fifty years earlier.

An elder man
With self proclaimed doctorates
Sat at the head spot
If there was one at a square table.

He was babbling in low murmers.
Speaking in tongues
Coded words
Undecipherable.

Entranced
His eyes were wide open
Unlike the other five
Yet he saw nothing that was physically before him.

His face rippled with
Quirksome
Spasmodic twitches.

The medium’s feet started tapping
Sounding like a hard quick rain
Hitting the soft pine floor.

Five conductors continued
To keep their eyes closed
As they had promised.

Not one of them
Wanting to be responsible
For breaking the spell
Or transmission.

The table began to move
With it’s own spirit
Legs stuttering
Upon the floor
Mimicking the old medium’s.

With vigor
The elder
Rhythmically chanted
Volume intensifying.

There was great strength and command
In his voice
As the table began to rise.

The others sanctioned to this room
Beheld this miracle
Behind the flesh
Of closed eyes
Feeling the table levitate
Pressing their palms
Up higher
Above their torsos
Above their shoulders
Then lifting them all
Concurrently
From their chairs.

And they stood there.

Some crying
While
Others felt abstract words
Pass through their quivering lips.

An orgasmic white fervor
Started to undulate
Through the wave of energy
Blossoming like trilliums
In the cozy room.

One conductor...

A spinster
And a bit of a prude...

Pulled back with surprise
Her fingers slowly left the table.

She couldn’t handle it.

The wave of goosebumps
On her flesh
The unknown trembling that she felt
In her loins.

The sin of the paranormal.

Her eyes opened
To watch the piece of furniture
Drop to the floor
With a startling thud and a crack.

A leg broke off
Sending the table on it’s side
While
The others fell back exhausted and spent
Into their chairs
Breathing heavily
From rapture
Luminous from white light.

She too
Fell back
Sprawling
Weeping quietly
Not wanting to be noticed.

She lay there listening
To the coital breath and moans of the others
As the fire crackled.

Hoping that none of them
Took note that
She was the one
That failed to take them
Across.