My Lazy Eye

My left eye 

Is sleepy

Lazy

From an incident

With a beer bottle.

Broken green glass

Sliced incision like

Through the white flesh

Of the paper lid

Which required

A trip to the

Emergency Room

Of the city hospital

In the passenger seat

Of my cousin’s car.

A kitchen towel

Filled with ice cubes

Held up

To the soft poached

Accident.

The country fabric weave

Of ducks marching

On a bold blue stripe

Quickly soaked to red

With blood

From my loosened eye.

I got stitches.

They told me

That I came this close...

They held two fingers pinched together...

To loosing my eye altogether.

They didn’t have therapy 

Or recovery

For eyelids back then.

Ever since

My left eye

Moves a little slower.

Hangs 

A little lower.

If you look closely

You can still see 

The scar.

I’ve been told

That I have

“Bedroom Eyes”.

Pfffffft!

I take that with a grain of salt.

Am I wrong

In thinking

That 

Beer bottles

Are the leading cause

Of people

Ending up in the bedroom

In the first place?

Music Box Ballerina

She turns

Rotating

On the axis

Of the balls of her feet

As she rubs moisturizer

Into the skin 

Of her toned 

Well-maintained body.

She revolves

Without hurry

In her own time

Paying no attention to me.

Palms lathered

Smoothing her 

Solid flesh.

She looks up coyly

And catches me watching her.

She knows

I’m unpredictable in so many things.

But when there is music

And a naked woman

Performing in front of me...

I will watch

Until the very end

Forseen.

Until the springs loosen

Of all their tension

And she stops

Suddenly

With the last 

Faltering chimes

Of a soft song.

Phosphorescent Bay

We watched in awe

As if it was the first magic trick

That we had ever seen performed

Live

While the fish swam

Just below the surface

Of the midnight water

Creating black-light rainbows

Rippling out across

The lagoon 

Fading into the twisted roots

Of the mangrove trees

Of Puerto Mosquito.

Sleight of hand

By a 

Master Magician.

Cherry

Pink petals

Fall like snow

In seventy degree weather

In my back yard.

It’s going to be a monster of a storm.

Bar Argument

I stood my ground 

That the Flying Nun

Was indeed a superhero.

She had mystical powers

Enabling her to fly.

She had a costume

And a somewhat secret identity.

She was for the cause

Of ‘Good’ vs ‘Evil’.

Three grown boy nerds

Against 

My three drink idiot self.

Before I left

The Flying Nun

Was deemed a superhero

And three grown boy nerds

Had bought me more drinks

And I was left wondering

Why I gave a fuck

In the first place.

I settled into the victory

Of libations.

Spidora (The Spider Woman)

“Friends!”

“She lives!”

“Alive on the inside you will witness the beautiful head of a woman born to the body

  of a spider.”

“Men feared her and it took them three years to capture her in the jungles of Sumatra!”

“Several parties never to return...feared to have been devoured by the Magnificent

  Spidora!”

“She’s a sight you’ll not soon forget and she’s inside once you pay your admission.”

“Alive on a web of her own making.”

“The show starts in just a few minutes folks!”

“For the first time on these shores...the Spectacular Spidora!”

“Once inside...please stand behind the barricade.  It is for your protection!”

“You do not want to chance an encounter with her venomous bite!  No matter how charming

  she might appear...and so it goes with most women...but please take my advice and

  stand behind the barricade!”

“Please avoid a call to your wife, the hospital, the morgue.”

“Though, if you are a returning customer, you may already know of her fondness of French

  silk stockings.  If you brought with you four matching pairs of these expensive articles of 

  lingerie to fit her eight legs...I can grant you free admission...and you, at your your own 

  risk and will, may present them to her.  Just sign the forms at the entrance to the tent.”

“Folks!  The Amazing Spidora can be yours to witness for a modest fee in just a few 

  moments!”

“Don’t miss this once in a lifetime opportunity!”

Shark Teeth

He wears a woven black leather necklace

With several rows of 

Sun-bleached, knife-sharp

White shark teeth

Attached with small silver rings.

They look pretty

Against his bronzed

Toned breastplate.

Talking to him

I learned that he buys

Sharks’ teeth 

“By the pound”

And grinds them up like 

Coffee beans

Adding them to his protein shake

Every morning.

He told me 

He procures exotic gelatin capsules

Of finely powdered

Great Hammerhead Sharks’ porcelain enamel

From the Chinese black market

Where they claim

The charms of masculine sexual virility

Along with the benefits of a prolonged, healthy life

And the added advantage

Of being aggressive

In prosperous business opportunities.

This all may very well be true.

But as sharks die in their own blood

In their natural waters

Giving up their fins

Flesh and teeth

I think of the over-population

Of sharks on land.

Aggressive

And simple minded.

No pills or tinctures.

No amulets.

Smelling blood

And going in for the kill

With no concience at all.

Natural predators

Absent

Of the bare human concience.

I told him

What he was doing

Wasn’t necessary

At all.

“You’re either born a shark

Or not.”

“Shark food.”

As far as the male virility

I told him

He was on his own.

But I did end our conversation with

“Swim before you get eaten.”

The Addiction

He’s an old brother

That creeps up on me

From time to time

In worn out biker boots

And fucked up hair.

Heavy belts around his waist.

I want to put my arms around him

Yet 

I want to stay the distance.

The addict speaks to me.

He is low in tone

And calm.

He seems quite rational.

“What’s up?”

He asks.

“Sameoh, sameoh.”

I reply without an ounce of sincerity.

Nothing is the sameoh

But I don’t feel like 

Getting into it

With him

Because it makes me

Appear vulnerable.

That’s what he’s fishing for.

I can see the lure bobbing

Red and yellow

Right there

On the surface.

“Long time.”

He spoke.

I could smell the leather

The stale sweat.

The days on end

Metallic chemical breath.

All too familiar to me.

“I’m riding on a different rocker.”

I told him.

“Tha’s cool.  I get it.  You could at least buy me a beer for old times sake.”

He jested.

“I can’t.”

I said

“And I won’t.”

“Damn!  I thought I was in friendly territory.”

He dissed

“No colors flying here.  It’s all good.  Nothing to worry about.”

He motioned for the bartender.

I lit a cigarette

And purposely didn’t offer.

He pulled his stool up closer.

I bit my lip

Because that’s what I do

When I’m feeling 

Anxious or bored.

“I’m not offering and I’m not taking.”

I told him.

“It’s good...really good...”

He slithered.

That got me.

The way he said it.

Like a snake

Those two words 

Whispered out of his 

Seven rows of teeth.

I was struggling.

“I don’t have cash on me and I’m not paying a motherfucking ATM fee.”

I laid it down

That he wasn’t getting

Anything from me.

But I blew any credibility I had a long time ago.

“No hard feelings, but I need to keep my distance.”

I said getting up from my seat

Feeling the tornado

Slowly

Sucking me in.

I needed to get out of there.

“No hard feelings.”

He returned.

“I take credit cards.”

He laughed.

We parted ways

Both of us knowing 

That we would

Meet up again

Sooner than later.

Pennsylvania Appalachian Route

We were like 

Two horny teenagers

Driving Eastbound

On Interstate 80

Through the distant rurals

Of Pennsylvania.

For the next 

150 miles

We were dizzy in delight

Half dressed

Skin exposed to

The wind and sun

Goosebumped

And rippling

With the touch 

Of fingers and lips.

Blue-green mountains loomed

In rich, strong hues

Cresting swells

Of high tide

Meeting us head on

Under vaulted cobalt skies.

We pulled over at any exit

That looked like it held the promise

Of an unused side road

Or abandoned parking lot

So that we could get our ‘fuck’ on

But after five

Ten minutes

We were thrown back 

To the highway

Determined even more

That the next one

Was

Going to be ‘it’.

If you were driving

Eastbound on Interstate 80

That Sunday

We were in the slate blue

Toyota Rav4

Blowing by you in the fast lane

At 85 mph

Windows down

Heads back

Huge gasping smiles on our faces

And lust in our hearts
Only slowing down

Determined

To find 

The right exit.

Photography

This is what I told her

While I held her in the tub

My arms wrapped around her

Left arm encircling her stomach

Right hand gripping

Her left breast...

The water halfway up

Our torsos.

“Someone should be taking a picture of us.”

“Up on a stepladder shooting down.”

“They would capture a moment of pure bliss.”

“Contentment.”

“Relaxation.”

“Ecstasy.”

“Religion.”

I rumbled this

In her ear.