You marched in
With purpose.
Set down your bags
On the table
With a swagger.
I watched you
As you put 75 cents
Into the detergent vendor
Picking
Tide
Scooping the envelope up
As soon as it dropped
And went over
To the washer
Directly opposite
Immediately
Seeing that it was available
By the glowing blue digital numbers
Indicating that it wasn’t in use.
It was your profile
That I really took notice of
As you were pouring in
The powdered detergent slowly
Bending down eye level
To make sure it all came out
Then
Reaching over
To pick up your bag
Off of the table
And empty it into the tumbler
Depositing $2.25 in quarters
And pressing
Colors.
You didn’t look at me once.
You avoided my gaze.
There was no ring on your finger.
You had a slightly large nose
But it fit your face
Perfectly
Anchoring vast eyes
And puffy
Spacious lips.
Your frizzy red hair
Jumbled from
An unflattering wool cap
That kept you warm
From the cold outside.
You had good legs
Packed into those tights.
If you just looked at me
Met my gaze
Perhaps
We’d be laughing
Right now.
Curious
How
Even though we are neighbors
We haven’t met before
Until now
Here
In this laundromat.
And I would somehow
Politely ask you
“Where are your whites?”
“Or are you just bright colors?”
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Chamber Music (Leck Mich Im Arsch)
The six voices ran around
Inside Wolfgang’s head
In a three part round.
He was fairly drunk from wine
But couldn’t sleep.
He sat up in the bed
Looking at Constanze
And their lover
Sleeping
Arms wrapped around each other
Lips almost touching
As if kissing in their slumber.
They looked beautiful alright.
He adjusted his eyes in the candlelight
Focusing on his horsehair wig
Thrown haphazardly
On it’s wooden form
And started giggling
At the sight of it.
Tonight he had powdered it loudly in violet
For his performance
At the ballroom of the Mehlgrube.
His scalp still smelled
Of lavender and orange flowers.
The six voice canon
Swirled dizzily
Within him.
“Leck mich im Arsch g'schwindi, g'schwindi!
“Leck mir den Arsch fein recht schön sauber!”
"Lick me in the arse quickly, quickly!"
"Lick my arse nice and clean!"
He wanted to write a bawdy song
About the crabs of love
That he and Constanze
Had been passing back and forth
But he had figured
Their circle would think THAT was a bit too much...
So he settled on “Lick My Arse” instead.
He imagined their next party.
Everyone sitting around in a circle drunk.
He would be conducting of course.
And encouraging.
For they would be timid at first
But they also knew what they were in for.
It WAS a Mozart party.
The first few go-arounds
Would be sung
Suppressing red laughter and teasing
But they would get the hang of it
And before long
The household
Would be ringing loudly
With the choral
“Lick me in the arse quickly, quickly!”
He giggled some more.
He decided he would powder his wig
Blue that night.
Maybe wear yellow gabardine.
He laid back down
And pressed his pale white body
Into the back of his wife
Quelling sniggering
Trying once again
To fall asleep
With the voices
Inside of his head.
Inside Wolfgang’s head
In a three part round.
He was fairly drunk from wine
But couldn’t sleep.
He sat up in the bed
Looking at Constanze
And their lover
Sleeping
Arms wrapped around each other
Lips almost touching
As if kissing in their slumber.
They looked beautiful alright.
He adjusted his eyes in the candlelight
Focusing on his horsehair wig
Thrown haphazardly
On it’s wooden form
And started giggling
At the sight of it.
Tonight he had powdered it loudly in violet
For his performance
At the ballroom of the Mehlgrube.
His scalp still smelled
Of lavender and orange flowers.
The six voice canon
Swirled dizzily
Within him.
“Leck mich im Arsch g'schwindi, g'schwindi!
“Leck mir den Arsch fein recht schön sauber!”
"Lick me in the arse quickly, quickly!"
"Lick my arse nice and clean!"
He wanted to write a bawdy song
About the crabs of love
That he and Constanze
Had been passing back and forth
But he had figured
Their circle would think THAT was a bit too much...
So he settled on “Lick My Arse” instead.
He imagined their next party.
Everyone sitting around in a circle drunk.
He would be conducting of course.
And encouraging.
For they would be timid at first
But they also knew what they were in for.
It WAS a Mozart party.
The first few go-arounds
Would be sung
Suppressing red laughter and teasing
But they would get the hang of it
And before long
The household
Would be ringing loudly
With the choral
“Lick me in the arse quickly, quickly!”
He giggled some more.
He decided he would powder his wig
Blue that night.
Maybe wear yellow gabardine.
He laid back down
And pressed his pale white body
Into the back of his wife
Quelling sniggering
Trying once again
To fall asleep
With the voices
Inside of his head.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Manicuring At Night
When I was a teenager
My friend’s neighbor
Would mow his lawn at night
Wearing sunglasses
And carrying a flashlight.
We were too young then
To appreciate
This eccentricity
Resorting
To making fun of him
On the bus
En route to school.
We knew
Absolutely nothing about him.
He was reclusive
Until
He came out
After the sun had set.
We could hear him
Choking the push mower
Pulling at the starter cable.
He would get it going
In two or three tries.
His plot was small
So it wasn’t a huge effort...
But
His timing like clockwork
A ritual
Was a little bizarre.
If he was my neighbor now
I would go out with a flashlight
And introduce myself.
I’d offer him a beer
Or coffee
Or tea.
I’d compliment him
On the superlative job
That he was doing
Manicuring his lawn
Asking him for tips.
I would listen to what he had to say
With great interest.
I’d find out what his story was
Instead of letting it slip by
Reduced to hearsay
At the back
Of a yellow schoolbus.
My friend’s neighbor
Would mow his lawn at night
Wearing sunglasses
And carrying a flashlight.
We were too young then
To appreciate
This eccentricity
Resorting
To making fun of him
On the bus
En route to school.
We knew
Absolutely nothing about him.
He was reclusive
Until
He came out
After the sun had set.
We could hear him
Choking the push mower
Pulling at the starter cable.
He would get it going
In two or three tries.
His plot was small
So it wasn’t a huge effort...
But
His timing like clockwork
A ritual
Was a little bizarre.
If he was my neighbor now
I would go out with a flashlight
And introduce myself.
I’d offer him a beer
Or coffee
Or tea.
I’d compliment him
On the superlative job
That he was doing
Manicuring his lawn
Asking him for tips.
I would listen to what he had to say
With great interest.
I’d find out what his story was
Instead of letting it slip by
Reduced to hearsay
At the back
Of a yellow schoolbus.
Crank
Pagan made
Crystal Meth
Snorted
Right before I attacked
A giant pile of wood
With a large steel-head axe
In my neighbor’s yard
For a price agreed upon
The week before.
Biker fuel.
Petrol drip
In the back of my throat
As I swung the tool
Over and over
Splitting logs
And stacking the wedges
In a prodigious heap
Against the old stone wall
In the after-school sun
That late autumn
Decades ago.
Glass.
I only stopped
To crush more.
Happy clear shivers
Kept me focused
While Dead Kennedy’s
Ripped out of my Panasonic
Ghetto blaster
As my fingers and palms
Blistered
And the wood
Tore at my flesh
The pile of cut logs receding
As I put the final chocks
Onto the mountain
Fingers still curled and deformed
Hands oozing water and blood
Tendons in my arms
Pulled painfully taut.
The afternoon had passed.
The power
Of ingredients found
Under the kitchen sink
In the garage
And medicine cabinet
Could make you do things
You’d never even imagine.
Things that make a mother cry.
It was weeks
Before I was completely healed.
Crystal Meth
Snorted
Right before I attacked
A giant pile of wood
With a large steel-head axe
In my neighbor’s yard
For a price agreed upon
The week before.
Biker fuel.
Petrol drip
In the back of my throat
As I swung the tool
Over and over
Splitting logs
And stacking the wedges
In a prodigious heap
Against the old stone wall
In the after-school sun
That late autumn
Decades ago.
Glass.
I only stopped
To crush more.
Happy clear shivers
Kept me focused
While Dead Kennedy’s
Ripped out of my Panasonic
Ghetto blaster
As my fingers and palms
Blistered
And the wood
Tore at my flesh
The pile of cut logs receding
As I put the final chocks
Onto the mountain
Fingers still curled and deformed
Hands oozing water and blood
Tendons in my arms
Pulled painfully taut.
The afternoon had passed.
The power
Of ingredients found
Under the kitchen sink
In the garage
And medicine cabinet
Could make you do things
You’d never even imagine.
Things that make a mother cry.
It was weeks
Before I was completely healed.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Last Of The Drive-Ins
Silver Moon Drive-In.
Rivet and I
Were in the back seat
Of Krumpie’s beat-up monster
Of a rust bitten Nissan
Shooting dope
Before the movie began.
I had told Krumpie
To keep the music down.
After the fact.
Management had already
Visited our vehicle twice
Telling us to turn ‘that shit’ down.
That they were a ‘Family Friendly’ drive-in.
Normally
I wouldn’t give a fuck
But I really didn’t need
Them to come over
While we were banging
Speedballs into our arms
In the backseat
Of some
Second hand
Junk-punk mobile.
So
The cassettes overloaded with punk rock
Were playing on low volume
As I helped Rivet
Find a vein
And get a hit
In the semi-darkness
While happy cartoons
Of dancing popcorn buckets and hot dogs
Advertised soda and Jujube candies
On the big screen.
Our high took charge.
The three of us stumbled up to the front of the screen
And dangled limply on the vacant swings
As the trailers
And commercials played.
There was something profusely greater than us
As we hung out there
Spinning
Lazily
Legs dangling
From the wooden decks of the swings.
The screen
Loomed up so high
And wide above us.
It was religious.
We watched the movie from there.
The enormity of it.
The angles.
No sound.
Eventually
We laid down on the ground
Surrounding us.
It felt good
To be succumbed by the earth.
Rooted.
Just the weight disappearing.
The gravity felt comforting.
I think it was sand
But it was so long ago.
The three of us
Laying there
Like snow angels
Making up our own interior dialogue
To a cheasy low budget horror movie.
Each one of us
Later
Taking away
Our own
Exquisite
Experience
That could never ever
Really
Be expressed.
Rivet and I
Were in the back seat
Of Krumpie’s beat-up monster
Of a rust bitten Nissan
Shooting dope
Before the movie began.
I had told Krumpie
To keep the music down.
After the fact.
Management had already
Visited our vehicle twice
Telling us to turn ‘that shit’ down.
That they were a ‘Family Friendly’ drive-in.
Normally
I wouldn’t give a fuck
But I really didn’t need
Them to come over
While we were banging
Speedballs into our arms
In the backseat
Of some
Second hand
Junk-punk mobile.
So
The cassettes overloaded with punk rock
Were playing on low volume
As I helped Rivet
Find a vein
And get a hit
In the semi-darkness
While happy cartoons
Of dancing popcorn buckets and hot dogs
Advertised soda and Jujube candies
On the big screen.
Our high took charge.
The three of us stumbled up to the front of the screen
And dangled limply on the vacant swings
As the trailers
And commercials played.
There was something profusely greater than us
As we hung out there
Spinning
Lazily
Legs dangling
From the wooden decks of the swings.
The screen
Loomed up so high
And wide above us.
It was religious.
We watched the movie from there.
The enormity of it.
The angles.
No sound.
Eventually
We laid down on the ground
Surrounding us.
It felt good
To be succumbed by the earth.
Rooted.
Just the weight disappearing.
The gravity felt comforting.
I think it was sand
But it was so long ago.
The three of us
Laying there
Like snow angels
Making up our own interior dialogue
To a cheasy low budget horror movie.
Each one of us
Later
Taking away
Our own
Exquisite
Experience
That could never ever
Really
Be expressed.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Creme Fraiche Recipe Obtained Through Texting
“U getting durty?”
“Nope. Cat on lap.”
“Too bad it’s not a real pussy.”
“Watching Fifth Element.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Call K. She’ll give u sumthin’.”
“U cool?”
“I’m good. Just Latin low.”
“How do you make creme fraiche?”
“Layin’ low.”
“With your right hand.”
“LOL! No rillyz.”
“Google it. I forget. I know you set whatever out overnight so it sours. But forget what
you put in it.”
“Google it! I thought I was asking a professional.”
“U put ur dick in it to make it sour!”
“Latin low. OMG.”
“You’re funny.”
“Heat heavy cream, add some buttermilk and let it sit out and thicken.”
“That’s too difficult for a hetero like me.”
“What should I do w smoked salmon?”
“Come on. I thought u were bi.”
“Wrap it around ur Johnson.”
“Mustard sauce.”
“Bi-polar!”
“How do u make mustard sauce?”
“Nope. Cat on lap.”
“Too bad it’s not a real pussy.”
“Watching Fifth Element.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Call K. She’ll give u sumthin’.”
“U cool?”
“I’m good. Just Latin low.”
“How do you make creme fraiche?”
“Layin’ low.”
“With your right hand.”
“LOL! No rillyz.”
“Google it. I forget. I know you set whatever out overnight so it sours. But forget what
you put in it.”
“Google it! I thought I was asking a professional.”
“U put ur dick in it to make it sour!”
“Latin low. OMG.”
“You’re funny.”
“Heat heavy cream, add some buttermilk and let it sit out and thicken.”
“That’s too difficult for a hetero like me.”
“What should I do w smoked salmon?”
“Come on. I thought u were bi.”
“Wrap it around ur Johnson.”
“Mustard sauce.”
“Bi-polar!”
“How do u make mustard sauce?”
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Coney Island Mermaid
The pirate shakes the snow globe from Coney Island
In his hand.
The one with the scantily clad mermaid in it.
He watches the chunky plastic snowflakes swirl around her
The green seaweed trees
The starfish
The seashells
And the brown wooden treasure chest
That she sits upon.
It's an ornate little piece of Coney Island vaudeville
That he studies in his weather-beaten hands.
A souvenir.
The brush-painted colors are bright.
He likes mischief.
He decides that the snow globe in his hands
Is full of it
And he keeps shaking it from time to time
As the fake white snowflakes
Begin to settle.
He does this
Throughout the rest of the night
Reminiscing.
In his hand.
The one with the scantily clad mermaid in it.
He watches the chunky plastic snowflakes swirl around her
The green seaweed trees
The starfish
The seashells
And the brown wooden treasure chest
That she sits upon.
It's an ornate little piece of Coney Island vaudeville
That he studies in his weather-beaten hands.
A souvenir.
The brush-painted colors are bright.
He likes mischief.
He decides that the snow globe in his hands
Is full of it
And he keeps shaking it from time to time
As the fake white snowflakes
Begin to settle.
He does this
Throughout the rest of the night
Reminiscing.
There’s A Hummingbird In My Heart (Charles Bukowski Remixed)
There is a hummingbird in my heart.
I can feel him
Strumming
The vessel’s walls
Wings beating
With imperceptible velocity
Within the muscled cage
Of my chest.
Just below-left of the aorta.
He is in there
Picking
Feeding
Upon the salty-sweet nectar
Of oxygen and blood.
The hummingbird
Never stops moving his wings
Even when he is sleeping.
Sometimes
He keeps me up at night.
I listen to him
Amongst the junkyard noise
Of sirens, trains, factories
And heavy machinery.
Tiny feathers whipping
Back and forth
Between
The atriums and ventricles
As the valves open and close.
The other night a woman
Disclosed to me
As my hands
Were still around her throat
That a moment before
As I felt like I was about to die
The blood and wine
Boiling up to my head
As I kept her pinned down to the bed
While that damn bird
Raced around inside of me
Banging into the heart-chamber
Bulkhead...
She told me
She heard the most beautiful music
Escaping from my teeth
Coming from deep within.
Someday
That bird will be my end.
One night
That bird will hover
Above me
And sing me to sleep.
I can feel him
Strumming
The vessel’s walls
Wings beating
With imperceptible velocity
Within the muscled cage
Of my chest.
Just below-left of the aorta.
He is in there
Picking
Feeding
Upon the salty-sweet nectar
Of oxygen and blood.
The hummingbird
Never stops moving his wings
Even when he is sleeping.
Sometimes
He keeps me up at night.
I listen to him
Amongst the junkyard noise
Of sirens, trains, factories
And heavy machinery.
Tiny feathers whipping
Back and forth
Between
The atriums and ventricles
As the valves open and close.
The other night a woman
Disclosed to me
As my hands
Were still around her throat
That a moment before
As I felt like I was about to die
The blood and wine
Boiling up to my head
As I kept her pinned down to the bed
While that damn bird
Raced around inside of me
Banging into the heart-chamber
Bulkhead...
She told me
She heard the most beautiful music
Escaping from my teeth
Coming from deep within.
Someday
That bird will be my end.
One night
That bird will hover
Above me
And sing me to sleep.
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